The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1920–1923 by Anaïs Nin

Author:Anaïs Nin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

August 22. I have heard from Hugo! I have heard from Hugo! It is almost like a fairy tale, that I should close my Diary hoping for something and that it should come true. He sends me post cards and writes: “Dear Anaïs: I thought I could just follow this lovely road forever but have found ‘compañia de Dios.’ So I am going back to get my two friends and resume the journey with them. Hugo.”.He alludes to the Spanish proverb “Compañia de uno, compañia ninguna; compañia de dos, compañia de Dios; compañia de tres, compañia es! Compañia de cuatro, compañia del Diablo.”1

And besides this to gladden the day, I had a thousand things. They were chiefly memories of the weekend, which turned into the most pleasant and amusing little house party imaginable. Thorvald was bewitched by Dorothy, and they became great friends. Homer [Eddins], although only fifteen, but tall, witty, talkative and flirtatious, made quite a charming partner for me. The four of us danced at the inn Saturday night, took long walks, and chatted from daybreak till daybreak, almost. Sunday afternoon, Mr. Eddins came to see Mother, and we finally accompanied them all to the station in the evening. And then today I spent the afternoon with Antolinita, so that my head is quite empty and my heart light. This is the price you pay for so many frivolous hours. After such a long absence from my books, I feel like one who has traveled for long in foreign lands and is eager to return to his cozy home and hearth.

Homer put flowers in my hair, drew my profile, showered compliments and insisted that he had never given them to anyone else (I did not believe him!) and finally kissed my hand when we parted—but tell me, is not all this a waste of time? I might have read three books meanwhile. But of course you cannot do the same thing continually, and I must learn to resign myself to the destiny of woman, which makes her a victim of compliments and impossible, unbelievable and worn-out tricks, which might succeed with some, but with Mimi—oh, well, Mimi is a skeptic.

In this first bit of writing from Hugo I find many characteristic traits. It gives the impression of frankness and “squareness” and simplicity, with an undefinable thing which might be called “matter-of-fact” without too much emphasis on “fact.” Hugo betrays little of the fanciful—I should say none—in his writing; the capital letters are attached so directly and briefly. Compare them with mine. Oh, I hope the contrast does not mean that I am not fit to make him a good friend. We could not very well be exactly the same. I would not want him to be like me at all; how could he be without being impossible and full of faults? No, Hugo is himself. That is why he is a thousand times better.

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