I met him in Madrid a spring morning on my return from Argentina at the León Sánchez Cuesta’s bookshop. Luis Cernuda was there and León introduced us. I remember Luis as an elegantly dressed guy with a sort of Philippine look. I later learned that he was a poet from Andalusia. I could not even suspect that shortly afterward these two people would be among the 10 witnesses at my wedding. And much less than the young but prominent writer would become, from the time that Manuel Altolaguirre and I got married, like a brother whom we would see every day for years. Our relationship was so family-like that he found in my daughter Paloma and her children, say, the offspring that he did not have. He was a reserved withdrawn man, unable to reveal a sentimental feeling of any kind. However, he showed an almost inexplicable tenderness towards these small children.

The closeness and the impact of his death do not permit me to fully remember some aspects of his life. It is true that even when he was alive I could not see or understand some of his oddities. It is very difficult to talk about a person hidden in his hermitage and loneliness that he rarely managed to shake off. I would only mention as an example that throughout the years that I knew him, on his name day and on his birthday, and at Christmas, he fled to be alone, away from us. We could never understand, nor try to discover why, because to live with him one must fully accept his fierce independence. However, among the distant memories, like images from the past, that come to mind, I would also like to mention an event that has some historical significance. Scenario: Madrid, 1936. Cernuda had just received a tribute for the publication of his book, La realidad y el deseo, by our publishing house. A couple of days later — and it seems without previous agreement — people began to arrive at our house, among them poets García Lorca, Alberti, Aleixandre, Neruda, Hernández, and so on. The house was more crowded than other nights; it was like a second tribute to Cernuda, who lived with us most of the time. We ended up cooking a great dinner and every one was happy. I remember Luis and Federico standing face-to-face, in a corner of the dining room, the latter deservedly praising Cernuda. It was a cheerful but calm evening without the noisy conversations of other gatherings. As an aside, we noted, I remember that the light that night shined less than usual.

The next day Federico left Madrid.That was the last reunion of the young poets in Spain.

A few days later, war broke out.

For some eight or 10 years we did not see Luis or heard from him at all. I heard about him through common friends, until one day he showed up in Mexico City. Manolo Altolaguirre welcomed him again and, being so generous with all his friends, brought him to live in this house.

With the exception of two academic years when he taught literature, lavishly paid by the way, at American universities his last two years, Cernuda spent around 11 here with us. When he returned last June, he told us about a new contract he had signed in Los Angeles, but three months later when he had to fulfill the contract, he inexplicably annulled it and even considered bringing his books and other belongings back from the United States.

In his last days, he was acting like someone dominated by a premonition; he was not himself; he recalled his family nostalgically, showing us photos; he was affable, communicative. And it was at my daughter’s house, chatting after lunch on Monday, November 4, where we talked for the last time. We saw him leaving the table like every day, and going through the garden into my house, where he locked himself into his room for the rest of the day. It was about 6 a.m. the following morning, November 5, when death knocked on his bathroom door, wearing his pajamas, robe and slippers, trying to smoke, a pipe in one hand and matches in the other. This is how Paloma found him about two hours later.

He was laid on the bed and, as farewell, I put my hand on his forehead. The impression of all of this is indescribable. The children had been told he had to go to Veracruz to give some lectures; the kids would insist that he would be back for Christmas.

Ínsula, Vol. 207, Madrid, February 1964, pp. 13.