Historical Context

The time period in which this piece occurs is rich in history, as noted by Soledad Acosta de Samper. From  the  dissolution of colonies to coup d’etats, Acosta de Samper interlaces the turmoil in Colombia with her own personal experiences. Her position in high society allowed her to experience events and interact with some of the most influential people in mid 1800s Colombia and Ecuador. In Memorias íntimas, Acosta de Samper shares memories of time spent with the second president of Ecuador, Vicente Rocafuerte. As a child, she would receive attention and play with this prominent historical figure in Colombia. Her father was a Minister in Ecuador and was frequently visited by people within the upper echelons of government. Further revealing her position as a member of the upper class are her accounts of Jose Maria Melo’s coup d’etat (Referred to as a Revolution in the original spanish text but referred toas a coup in my translation) and her need to take shelter in a nunnery as the battles raged on. Acosta de Samper was the founder of five influential newspapers. She authored several celebrated books such as Los piratas en Cartagena, and Dolores. She helped translate historical documents into Spanish and she kept records of historical events that she observed first hand. She is renowned for her contributions toward the betterment of women in Colombian society; she lobbied for equal education opportunities and for women to work outside the home as a means of gaining independence for themselves.

Intimate Memories (Memorias íntimas) by Soledad Acosta de Samper, translated by Abel Guzmán. Copyright 2023.

English:

I. Infancy

I must’ve been about three years old in some of the first memories that I remember perfectly. For some reason, I was hidden in the corner of my room, when an idea came to me, “Who am I, where do I come from and where am I going?” This idea has stayed with me to this day and I still can’t answer it for myself. 

One night, when I was older, as I was leaning against a railing overlooking  a patio in my house, I suddenly saw the moon peak out from behind a laurel tree. It was as splendid, round, clear, and beautiful as I had ever seen it. Then I started thinking about the many generations before me that had existed in the world, those that had seen the same moon and had died after having lived (surely I’d heard something about this before). This filled me with great sadness. I sat down on the floor and started to cry bitterly because I didn’t understand immortality, and the mystery of death gave me unimaginable distress. 

My father was in the military and a lover of literature. One of my happiest moments was seeing him in uniform, along with the soldiers going through their exercises in the San Francisco Plaza where our family house was located. 

One of my first passions was a love of books. Although I didn’t know how to read, because I was much too small, I’d become engrossed while flipping through pages. And I’d lose track of time looking at and handling my books.

I am painting a portrait, titled “My Godmother,” and it accurately depicts the person and the home in which most of my childhood memories take place. 

I was just four years old when my parents set out on a trip to Ecuador by land, where my father had been named a Minister. They took me in a chair covered by a box with a small window cut out in the front. An indigenous man carried me. Since I was an only child, I found the isolation and solitude pleasant and never botheresome. I spoke with the trees, the rocks, the flowers, the hills, the animals that I passed. I even spoke to the man who carried me. Without a doubt, he was the quietest of everything in the natural landscape. In short, I believe that this trip greatly contributed to an awakening in my spirit of observation, which is one of my few good qualities. The constant changes in the horizon kept me entertained. 

I remember some small details about the city of Quito, such as the street we lived on, the roof of our house, and Mr. Rocafuerte (the president), who played with me. I remember a boy in the house who struggled with learning the alphabet. He’d soak his books in tears and I'd look down at him with disdain because I could spell. I also remember, with the utmost clarity, a black servant that they found burning the door of a room one night trying to get in to rob it. 

Upon my return, after some months of staying in Ecuador, I remember seeing the Guayaquil river. And later, when I saw the sea for the first time, it looked so beautiful. I was drawn to the cleanliness of the waves. I wanted to taste the water, but one of my first disappointments was the bitterness of that beautiful crystal clear ocean water. Man just can’t comprehend that something so beautiful could be so awful. 

Some parts of the Dagua river and its wild Iberian Nase covered in scales have stayed in my mind like photographs.

Then there is a big lapse in my memory. There was talk of General Santander’s will (who I remember seeing one night at my house wrapped in a cape just before he died) and I got the idea to write my own. I started to learn to write and, with much difficulty, I found a way to hide out of sight, so I could write it in secret. 

One night I heard my mother playing some of the popular songs from Quito on the piano, remnants of the sad and strange music of the indigenous people from before the conquest. This filled me with an indescribable melancholy and it made me see my past with sadness. I remembered Quito, and the vacation home we called Chillo, where we had spent a season. I used to hide behind the piano and the window curtains to cry. 

I was a very mischievous girl full of excitement and energy, but I didn't like parties and such. Since I loved climbing trees, and onto roofs, and I really enjoyed books, I used to combine the two: I would climb trees to read in them. 

One of my earliest memories was going to the theatre for the first time. I really enjoyed the show and I still remember the piece. I was in poor health and my anxiety was so bad that I lost it. I had to leave before it was over and I missed the ending, which really bothered me.

One of my greatest joys was going to General Acevedo’s house, one of my father’s closest friends. There were no kids there. Kids caused me anguish. Having always been an only child, I disliked playing with others. I would do whatever I liked when I was in that house, in the patios, on the little garden, and the stone stairs where I'd jump around. Sometimes on Sundays, a student from Cauca would be at the General's house. He was much older, but I loved it when he would play with me, bring me pink flowers from the raque tree, and arrayán berries from the tree on the patio. He would climb onto the railing to get them. I thought this was heroic, since I wouldn't have dared to do such a thing, even though I was so mischievous. This memory is so vivid in my mind that I can’t look at arrayán trees without remembering those times with Teodoro Valenzuela. Now I can finally talk about what this young man meant to me, even though he passed over my life like a shadow and I and it's only recently that I have been in his company.

After that time I don’t seem to remember him much, and he’s most likely forgotten such simple things from childhood. We left for Europe shortly after (I’ll come back to this later) and I didn’t return to Bogota until I turned sixteen. One day, a friend of mine took one of my personal albums of  home (I don't like it when when people write flattery in my albums; it feels like they are begging me for compliments). After some days, she returned it to me and I found on a once blank page verses signed anonymous, directed at me . Although they meant nothing, the anonymity of the author caught my attention. My friend told me in confidence that the writer was a young man from Cauca named Teodoro Valenzuela but that he didn’t want me to find out that he had written them. After that, someone showed him to me on the street. I don't recall ever seeing him at a friend’s house during those years. 

I returned to Guaduas where I lived, and years passed. I heard people talk about him, praising his talent. I heard people talk about his future, but it was a long time before I saw him again. However during Melo’s coup d’etat , I was sheltered in a convent in Bogota with a couple other high society girls. All of us had fiancés that were engaged in the fight to bring down those who rose to power. We were frightened and distraught but we tried to hide our feelings. One day I saw that one of them was crying bitterly, tears streaming down her face. I asked another girl why she got so worked up. She told me that she feared for her fiancé who was missing and had, without a doubt, taken up arms. “Who is he?” I asked. “Teodoro Valenzuela” they told me. 

That same year, almost all of us got married, along with the crying girl. Surely we must have visited and seen each other but I don’t remember talking to Valenzuela, despite the fact that the arrayán always reminded me of  General Acevedo’s house and the student from Cauca. I suppose nothing is as rooted in me as my childhood memories. Though years have passed, this year, 1875,  I have had reason to talk to Valenzuela with some frequency due to recent political events, and I enjoy seeing him, because I am reminded of my childhood, one of the happiest times of my life.

I doubt others remember their early days with as much tenderness and recollection as I do. 

It’s as if, back then, all those feelings and thoughts were being planted in my soul, the enthusiasm, the sadness, the regrets, the disappointments, the heartaches and the few happy moments that I felt later. My childhood explains my life, it was a premonition of what would come. That’s why I remember it almost with reverence, like the nobles do with scrolls in which their family trees are written. Where they see the cradle of their ancestors, I see the cradle of my best thoughts. For that reason, the people that I saw, that I met, and that were in my life in those years are sacred to me and I could never look at them with indifference. 

There’s another person who I sometimes see on the street, who probably doesn’t even know me. It’s Amalia Mosquera, who in my childhood, represented one of those spontaneous affections that enter the heart with no apparent cause. It was like one of those mysterious connections that never take shape and never mature but if our spirits were more open maybe we’d understand it. At the time, I thought Amalia was the ideal young lady. I forced myself to imitate her by imagining myself grown and pretending to live the life she was living. And it was with great regret that I learned that she would be getting married to General Herrán. He was an excellent man, and a friend of my father, but he was already old. He could do anything, except marry my friend; this wasn’t the romantic partner that I had imagined for someone I considered both physically and morally perfect. 

Around that time,  the young son of an older women, and friend of the family,  died on the coast. This is something that made a strong impression on me, and I have referred to it in a painting titled Federico.

Another memory of my childhood: Carolina Elbers. She lived in San Francisco Plaza, a short distance from my house. I remember secretly admiring her proverbial craziness, her horseback riding dressed like a man, and her complete independence. She was for me an object of admiration and scandal. I was crazy but not independent, I loved mischief, but only alone. And if I climbed trees and onto the roof of my house, I never did it like her: dressed like a man, lifting myself onto a balcony railing, or riding a horse while being chased by all the boys who wanted to escort her. Suddenly, Carolina disapears from my memory.  Her mother died and she had to move in with a distant relative. When I returned from Europe, I found her older and the queen of the parties she attended, but I was still a reserved and shy girl. As always happens, I was enchanted by Carolina and when I took a trip with her to her aunt’s vacation home, she captivated me so much that upon my return I thought of her with all the tenderness and admiration of a lover. I remember that the book I was reading during those times was so populated with thoughts of her that even now I think of her when I see it. After that day the circumstances of life separated us entirely. More than 20 years passed before I talked to her again. Recently, due to the circumstances,  I’ve been able to see her again. In my mind, I see the Carolina from the past is reborn, as are all the others who seem to have had some influence on my childhood soul.

ESPAÑOL:

I. Infancia

Tendría yo tres años cuando por primera vez, - lo recuerdo perfectamente,- estando, no sé por qué oculta en el rincón de una alcoba, me asaltó esta idea “¿Y quién soy yo de dónde vengo y a dónde voy?” La idea me hizo una impresión tan grande que aún me dura y no he podido todavía darme á mí misma una respuesta.

Otra vez, ya más grande, estando una noche de recostada sobre la varanda que daba sobre un patio de mi casa, -  vi salir repentinamente, detrás de un laurel, que allí había, la luna, espléndida, redonda, clara y hermosísima como jamás la había visto.- Vínome entonces al pensamiento (seguramente algo había oído acerca de esto) de las muchas generaciones que se habían sucedido en el mundo, las que como yo habían visto esa misma luna para morir después de haber vivido. Aquello me llenó de una grande melancolía y sentándome en el suelo lloré amargamente, porque no entendía lo que era la immortalidad, y el misterio de la muerte me causaba indecible impresión.

Mi padre era militar y amigo de las letras y una de mis primeras impresiones agradables era verle vestido con su uniforme, así como me encantaba con la vista del ejercicio que hacían los soldados en la plaza de San Francisco en donde estaba [situada] la casa de mis padres.

El amor a los libros fue una de mis primeras pasiones y aunque no sabía leer estando enteramente pequeña me embebía hojeando los libros, y pasaba las horas sin sentirlas mirándolos y manoseándolos. 

En un cuadro llamado “Mi madrina,”- pinto con exactitud la casa y la persona que más campo tiene en mis recuerdos infantiles.

Tenía apenas cuatro años cuando mis padres emprendieron viaje al Ecuador por tierra, en donde mi padre había sido nombrado Ministro. Me llevaron en una sillita tapada como un cajón pero con una ventana al frente; cargábame un indio. Recuerdo que como me había criado sola, aquel aislamiento y soledad me era grata y no me fastidiaba nunca. Conversaba con los árboles, las piedras, las flores, los cerros, los animales que veía y hasta con mi carguero, - el que sin duda me decía menos que la demás naturaleza salvaje. En resumen creo que aquel viaje contribuyó mucho a despertar en mí el espíritu de observación, que es una de mis pocas cualidades; el continuo cambio de horizonte me divertía y entretenía muchísimo.

De la ciudad de Quito recuerdo algunos menudos pormenores, como de la calle en que vivimos, la azoteca de la casa, del Señor Rocafuerte (el Presidente) que jugaba conmigo, de un niño que había en la casa que aprendía las letras con dificultad, empapaba el libro en lágrimas, y a quien yo miraba de lo alto de mi desprecio porque yo sabía deletrear. También recuerdo con la mayor lucidez un negro sirviente que le encontraron una noche quemando la puerta de un cuarto, en donde quería entrarse a robar. 

Al regreso, después de algunos meses de permanencia en el Ecuador, recuerdo el río Guayaquil, y después cuando vi el mar por primera vez, el que me pareció hermosísimo, y habiéndome llamado la atención la limpidez de las ondas, quise probar de esa agua, y aquel fue uno de mis primeros desengaños: la amargura de las aguas cristalinas del hermoso mar, pues el hombre no puede enseñarse a que lo bello puede ser malo.

Ciertos puntos del río Dagua y sus salvajes bogas cubiertas de escamas han quedado fotografiados en mi mente. 

Después hay una gran laguna en mi memoria. Se habló entonces del testamento del General Santander (a quien recuerdo haber visto poco antes de morir una noche en casa envuelto en una capa) - y tuve la idea de hacer el mío. Empezaba a aprender a escribir y con mucha dificultad hallé modo de ocultarme para hacerlo un secreto y sigilosamente.

Una noche oi a mi madre tocando en el piano ciertos cantos populares de Quito,- restos de la música triste y extraña de los indios antes de la Conquista. Aquello me causó una indecible melancolía, - pues ya empezaba a ver con tristeza mi pasado,- recordé a Quito y una Quinta llamada Chillo en que habíamos pasado una temporada y oculta detrás del piano y entre las cortinas de una ventana lloré mucho.

Yo era una niña muy traviesa, amiga de la agitación y el movimiento, pero no de las fiestas y la multitud. Como me gustaba subirme a los árboles y a los tejados, y me encantaban los libros confundía ambos placeres en uno: me subía a los árboles a leer. 

Casi de las primeras impresiones que recuerdo fue la primera vez que vi el teatro. Aquel espectáculo me encantó y aún recuerdo la pieza; pero mi salud era delicada y mi agitación fue tal que me trastorné enteramente, y fueme preciso abandonarlo antes de concluir la representación  y sin haber visto el fin,- cosa que me afligió mucho.

Una de mis mayores dichas era que me llevaran a casa del General Acevedo, amigo íntimo de mi padre, - ahí no había niños, los que eran para mí un tormento; - habiéndome criado siempre sola, y me disgustaban los juegos en que no estuviera yo nomás. Pasaba en aquella casa las horas a mi antojo: en los patios, el jardíncillo y en unas escaleras de piedra en que brincaba. Algunas veces pasaba los domingos en casa del general un estudiante caucano, bastante mayor que yo, pero a quien agradecía muchísimo que jugara conmigo y me bajara del árbol flores de raque y cogiera para mí rojos arrayánes del arbusto que había en el patio, para lo cual se subía por la parte exterior de la varanda, lo que me parecía un hecho heroico, pues yo, en medio de mis travesuras, no me atrevía a tanto. Este es un recuerdo tan vivo en mi memoria que jamás veo arrayánes sin acordarme del Teodoro Valenzuela de aquel tiempo. De una vez diré lo que aquel joven ha sido en mi vida, al través de la cual ha pasado solo como una sombra y solo últimamente le he tratado en realidad un poco.

Después de aquella época no le vuelvo a recordar y probablemente él ha olvidado aquellas futilidades de la primera edad. Habiéndonos ido para Europa, poco después (lo referiré más allá) no volví sino cuando tenía diez y seis años a Bogotá. Un día una amiga mía se llevó a su casa un álbum de gra[b]ados que yo tenía (pues nunca he gustado de que me escriban elogios en álbums que solo sirven para pedir limosna de alabanza) al cabo de algunos días me lo devolvió, y yo encontré en una página en blanco unos versos firmados anónimo, dirigidos a mí, y aunque nada significaba en realidad, el mismo misterio de ocultar el nombre del autor me llamó la atención, y mi amiga me confió en secreto que eran de un joven caucano Teodoro Valenzuela, pero que él no quería que yo supiese que los había escrito. Después de aquello me lo señalaron en la calle y no recuerdo si le encontré en alguna casa amiga en aquella época.

Yo me volví a Guaduas en dónde vivía, y pasaron años - oía hablar de él como joven de talento, de porvenir, pero no le volví a ver en mucho tiempo. Durante la revolución de Melo, sin embargo estuve asilada en un convento de Bogotá con algunas otras señoritas de la sociedad. Todas teníamos nuestros novios comprometidos en la revolución para echar abajo a los alzados con el mando, y aunque sobresaltadas y afligidas, tratábamos de ocultar nuestros sentimientos. Un día vi que una de ellas lloraba amargamente derramando torrentes de lágrimas. Pregunté a otra por qué se afligia tanto, - me contestó que temía por la suerte de su novio que estaba ausente y que sin duda había tomado las armas.”¿Quién es él?” pregunté, “Teodoro Valenzuela,” me contestaron.

En el mismo año nos casamos casi todas las novias - y entre otras la afligida- Seguramente nos visitabamos y veíamos sin que yo recuerde haberle hablado a Valenzuela nunca - a pesar de que él arrayán me ponía de manifiesto la casa del General Acevedo y el estudiante caucano - pues nada está tan arraigado en mí como los recuerdos de mi infancia - Pasaron años y solo hasta este año de [18]75, con motivo de los acontecimientos políticos es que he tenido ocasión de tratar a Valenzuela con alguna frecuencia, y le veo con gusto porque me recuerdo las horas más felices de mi vida: las de la infancia. 

No sé si todos recordarán sus primeros años con el recogimiento y temura que yo.

Siento que entonces germinaban en embrión en mi espíritu todos los pensamientos, los entusiasmos, las melancolías, los pesares, las desillusiones, los dolores del alma y las pocas alegrías que he sentido después. Mi infancia explica mi vida, - fue un presentimiento de lo que sería después, - así la recuerdo casi con respeto, como hacen los nobles con los pergaminos en que están escritas las genologías de sus familias: ellos ven allí la cuna de sus antepasados, yo veo la cuna de mis mejores pensamientos. Por eso las personas que vi, que traté y que pasaron por mi vida en aquellos tiempos, son para mí sagradas y nunca podré mirarlas con indiferencia.

Hay otra persona que encuentro a veces por la calle, la que probablemente ni me conoce,  es Amalia Mosquera, la que fue en mi niñez uno de aquellos afectos espontáneos y entusiastas que surgen en el corazón del niño enteramente sin causa aparente: misteriosas simpatías que no toman nunca cuerpo y que jamás maduramos, pero que si nuestros espíritus estuvieran menos materializados quizás comprenderíamos. Amalia era para mí entonces el tipo ideal de la señorita y me esforzaba con la imaginación en figurarme a mí misma grande y haciendo en la sociedad el papel que yo pensaba que ella haría. Así fue con la mayor pena que yo supe que se casaría con el General Herran, - un hombre excelente, amigo de mi padre, pero ya ha entrado en edad y que todo podía ser menos el tipo romántico que yo había ideado para el esposo de la que yo creia un ser casi perfecto física y moralmente.

Por aquel tiempo murió en la costa un joven hijo de una señora vieja con quién mi familia tenía amistad, - cosa que me impresionó mucho - lo que he referido exactamente en un cuadrito llamado Federico.

 Otro recuerdo de mi primera infancia: Carolina Elbers. Vivía en la plazuela de San Francisco, a corta distancia de mi casa. Recuerdo que yo admiraba secretamente sus proverbiales locuras, - sus paseos a caballo vestida de hombre y su completa independencia - Era para mí objeto de escándalo y de admiración. Yo era loca pero no independiente, gustaba de travesuras pero a solas, - y si me subía a los árboles y los tejados en el interior de mi casa - jamás hubiera hecho lo que ella: vestirme de hombre y subirme a la varanda del balcon exterior y andar a caballo seguida de los chinos a los que se les ocurrió escoltarla. Repentinamente Carolina desaparece de mi memoria: su madre había muerto y ella había tenido que ir a vivir con una parienta lejana. A mi vuelta de Europa la encontré ya señorita y reina de las fiestas a que asistía, en tanto que yo era todavía una niña reservada y poco comunicativa. Como sucede siempre Carolina me encantó y durante un paseo que hice con ella a la quinta de Fucha de su tía, me cautivó tanto que a mi regreso pensaba en ella con tanta ternura y admiración como lo hubiera hecho un enamorado. Recuerdo que el libro que leía en aquellos [tiempos] se poblaba de tal manera con su recuerdo que aún hoy cuando lo veo está enlazado con Carolina. Después de aquel día las circunstancias de la vida nos separaron completamente y se pasaron más de veinte años sin volverle a hablar, - ultimamente con motivo de las circunstancias políticas la he vuelto a ver algunas veces y en mi mente veo renacer a las Carolinas de otras épocas como personas diferentes que alguna influencia deben de haber ejercido en la vida de mi espíritu infantil. 

Translator's Note - Abel Guzman

Reading this passage, I was amazed by the interesting events surrounding this important figure in Latin-American literature. Soledad Acosta de Samper’s writing is filled with the excitement and cadence one would expect from an adolecent, even though she wrote this piece at the age of forty two. I found myself  immersed in her story and the people she’d met, such as Teodoro Valenzuela, President Rocafuerte of Ecuador, General Santander, and Carolina Elbers. This allowed me to place Acosta de Samper's recollections in the larger historical context. It’s amazing to think that this woman of high society had such close relations with presidents and well-known generals of the time. What surprised me even more was the connection I made to an excerpt of Diarios íntimos, where she talked about Melo’s revolution. Following the dates that are known for her birth as well as what she recorded herself, I determined that what I translated had come after her Diarios íntimos. The memior is titled as if it were the beginning of a longer text, but there appears to be no continuation of it as of this year in the online database of the Biblioteca Nacional de Colombia. The timeline of her life is easily traced through the people she mentions. Events of particular importance featured in this text could be added to Acosta de Samper’s Wikipedia page, such as her relation to high ranking government officials and other events from her childhood and teenage years. I believe that, more time, and an even deeper dive into her work will reveal other obscure and intricate details of the time she grew up in.

Citation

Abel Guzman, translator, "Intimate Memories, (Memorias Intimas, 1875) by Soledad Acosta de Samper,” galleriahispana.omeka.net, Manifestos and Memoirs, Spanish and Hispanic Studies Digital Gallery at HWS, 2023.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.