DOI article:
Scott, Samuel Mathewson: La Goya: a passion of the Peruvian desert
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.26393#0162
158 La Goya
seen in the village before. It was a great pity that I myself had
not been able to go.
I tried to be patient, but his voice irritated me. One grows so
tired of seeing these people fingering their hats and patroning and
senoring every three words. As kindly, but as hurriedly, as I
could I sent them away.
And now the huaco, with its incongruous blue ribbon, adorns
my desk, while outside in its cage the blackbird is singing the
folly of regret.
December.
•
More than a year has passed since she died. Sometimes I have
to cross the river ; there are the same little scenes at the ferry, the
same early clouds hang over the valley, and there is the little house
half way up the hill towards which I used to look so anxiously to
see the light in her room. Why do such visits make me feel sad
and restless, I wonder ? Did I really love her, or did she only
stir my imagination ? Who can say ?
On my desk is the huaco with its wilted ribbon still untouched.
Now and then, as I rummage among drawers and pigeon-holes, I
find one of her old letters. Always, even in the days of our
deepest intimacy, they began with the same stiff, copy-book
formula : “ Esteemed Seiior,—I take my pen in my hand to write
you these four words,” although there were sure to be as many
pages. Some of them coax me to come and bring her back from
one of her innumerable visits ; some of them tell me of approach-
ing fandangos in such terms that I might almost fancy that my
happiness alone was being considered ; some of them beg irresistibly
for something without which existence might become impossible ;
others thank me rapturously for a present that has made her joy
complete. Poor little Goya, how she gloried in the externals !
A new
seen in the village before. It was a great pity that I myself had
not been able to go.
I tried to be patient, but his voice irritated me. One grows so
tired of seeing these people fingering their hats and patroning and
senoring every three words. As kindly, but as hurriedly, as I
could I sent them away.
And now the huaco, with its incongruous blue ribbon, adorns
my desk, while outside in its cage the blackbird is singing the
folly of regret.
December.
•
More than a year has passed since she died. Sometimes I have
to cross the river ; there are the same little scenes at the ferry, the
same early clouds hang over the valley, and there is the little house
half way up the hill towards which I used to look so anxiously to
see the light in her room. Why do such visits make me feel sad
and restless, I wonder ? Did I really love her, or did she only
stir my imagination ? Who can say ?
On my desk is the huaco with its wilted ribbon still untouched.
Now and then, as I rummage among drawers and pigeon-holes, I
find one of her old letters. Always, even in the days of our
deepest intimacy, they began with the same stiff, copy-book
formula : “ Esteemed Seiior,—I take my pen in my hand to write
you these four words,” although there were sure to be as many
pages. Some of them coax me to come and bring her back from
one of her innumerable visits ; some of them tell me of approach-
ing fandangos in such terms that I might almost fancy that my
happiness alone was being considered ; some of them beg irresistibly
for something without which existence might become impossible ;
others thank me rapturously for a present that has made her joy
complete. Poor little Goya, how she gloried in the externals !
A new