By Ivonne Bordelois


Within the realm of literary criticism it is common to first understand Victoria, in a classically feminine role, as inspiration to and encouragement for the group that worked with her on Sur, before even considering her own work and examining the curious and painful tension she bore between personal creation and being the muse behind the work of others. Though Victoria saw the height of the feminist movement —in which she was an active participant— grant women greater stature in society, in those years women were considered more suited to nutritive than creative functions, a notion which has persisted to the present day. Victoria could not escape the idea that women were meant to prepare the earth upon which writers sowed their creative seeds, but in no way aspire to be or to replace them. Even some of today’s most progressive critics persist with this reductionist interpretation of her character and of her work.

It is revealing that twenty-five years after her death not a single text relating to Victoria —both in her own oeuvre and in twentieth century Argentine writing— is graced with the renown of La Rama de Salzburgo, the account of her relationship with Julian Martinez. Victoria considers passion itself, treating the theme with a singular language and without admitting room for the usual romantic protagonists of the genre. It is interesting to note that when Bioy and Borges, both generally detractors of Victoria’s writing, met after her death the two were forced to admit the strength of this text that weaves together fire, light, and tears.

Victoria was known to say, with a touch of humor alluding to the limited regard paid by others to her work, that all of her books were posthumous. We are still in debt: so little ink has been dedicated to Victoria in Argentina, beyond the blurbs and praise on the jacket of her Testimonios. A tenacious strain of indifference buffers this woman’s work from the recognition implored by the words of Gabriela Mistral: “From the moment I read your first book, I knew that you approached the writing of literature with the force of your entire body.” It was Gabriela who understood Victoria’s wavering and her most profound mission. Her letters express a vision of a more collected and focused Victoria that the one she knew: the Victoria left vulnerable by her own generosity: “Continue what you have begun. My God, you have the power to feed the spirit of the people. You are so tremendously rich; but… don’t waver, never tire, don’t deny yourself, never back down.”

Victoria wrote prodigiously, never allowing herself to be pigeonholed by the images others held of her or of her supposed role: whether as muse or entrepreneur, as translator or arts patron, as interviewer or privileged listener, as a lover of lofty ideas or as a friend that could be called upon by the likes of Rabidranath Tagore and Paul Valéry to help with domestic chores or to provide a place to stay. She writes like a traveler who both dazzles and allows herself to be dazzled, like one who is both playwright and actress, as an indefatigable observer of nature and of the human insects who had, so often, stung her. Martínez Estrada succeeds in capturing the spirit of Victoria when he describes her as one who “like a golden bough, crosses the jungle inhabited by panthers and leopards.”

Beyond her articles, books, and memoirs, Victoria penned a huge number of letters, the volume of which exceeds the rest of her written work put together. Her correspondence was written in silence, with her notable tenacity and a headstrong determination. As generous as Victoria was, her words often stung, and in her letters can be found a number of biting finales vis-à-vis the brilliant figures that encircled her:

“Lacan struck me as a small Napoleon,” she writes, or “Ravel seemed to pay no heed to Ravel,” “Borges doesn’t deserve the talent he has,” “Noailles was a hybrid of swan and snake,” “Simone de Beauvoir, who went on about Virginia Woolf’s feminism, had never heard of Tres Guineas.” In lines that reveal the nature of her relationship with Caillois, Victoria writes: “Perhaps you do not even know the extend of the dominion we have built. You have given me certain things, as well. Maybe not the ones I had hoped for. The gods have protected me.”

If these memorable quips have faded from recollection, it is only because they reduce Victoria to the role of the perpetual admirer, of the unequaled consolidator, of the woman who offered unconditional and at times unreciprocated friendship. All of these virtues, which never dimmed Victoria’s powerful critic’s eye, challenge the image of a Victoria who was loyal to the point of ingenuity. Fortunately, the time has come to recognize the talent for criticism of a woman who chose literature over literary theory, and generosity over deconstruction.