Prevod

Fourteen years of unbroken toil could Peludo enter on his record of service; fourteen years in which not a day had passed without its ration of blows and hunger. The hunger above all! What torment!

To summon strength from weakness for his wretched little trot, driven on by the jabs of the stout goad; to endure the bites of horseflies and donkey flies, fierce and maddened by sun and dust, in the fresh sores rubbed by his harness; to suffer kicks from his rider’s heels and watch the cutting of the hazel or tamarisk switch that would whistle, supple, about his hide and raise its welts; to feel the spur’s sharp bite and the violent wrench of the bit; to receive punches on his soft muzzle and in his eyes, those great, gentle eyes whose gaze always spoke of meekness; to bend beneath an excessive load; to drag himself along, battered, struggling not to fall before the end of a journey three times more exhausting than any donkey’s strength could bear—all this, much though it was, seemed a trifling misery to Peludo beside passing within reach of a meadow green as hope, soft and velvety as a silken carpet, and being unable to fill his empty belly, round out his sunken, shrunken flanks and his gut, hollow as an organ pipe. So powerfully did the sight of the tempting, dewy, downy grass, the golden haystacks and the ripened grain affect Peludo; so great was his rage at hearing the murmur of a spring when the panting of his labour and the clinging dust of the highway parched his throat; so violent was his ravenous appetite, so fierce his colossal hunger, that more than once he—the meek, the resigned, the hardworking, the obedient—thought of doing something truly outrageous: sounding a warlike bray and assailing with kicks and bites his merciless rider, his driver, his master, his tyrant... What bliss to fling to the ground those sacks of flour, heavy as lead, to trample them, burst them open; to see the flour scattered over the road; to thrust his muzzle into it, toss it up, send it flying in clouds of dazzling white! And if his longing to eat was great, his longing to roll was no less. To roll! How long it had been since Peludo had rolled, all four legs beating the air and his grey belly turned to the sun—not since his tender infancy, his days as an innocent, frolicsome little foal!

These gusts of emancipation swept through the slave’s downtrodden brain, but never took hold; they were fleeting flutterings, instantly quelled by the conviction that his servitude was eternal, ordained by destiny, the fate that governs a donkey’s existence. Yes, the worst of it was that misfortune had made Peludo a fatalist; he expected nothing from Providence, nor dared believe that even a moment of relative happiness could ever shine upon him. Whatever he did, things would be the same... Hunger and blows, blows and hunger... Up with the load; onward along the path—and no protests, no chimerical dreams.

Patient Peludo had good reason to distrust his luck and look forward to still greater misfortunes; far from showing him any affection, any scrap of consideration, his master treated him more harshly as his strength, agility and spirit declined, assigning him the roughest, most menial tasks, the most backbreaking loads, and days of work with nothing to sustain him but blows. And so the freezing, rainy night of December 24 found poor Peludo enduring the weather with stoic patience, tethered to an iron ring outside the door of the well-known Pellejón tavern, one of several dotted along the road from Marineda to Brigos. On other occasions that temple of Bacchus had always afforded Peludo shelter in a stable or a midden, or at least beneath a shed roof near the hayloft; but this was a night of revelry and carousing, of merrymaking and brimming jugs of wine and brandy, and by the time Peludo approached the tavern at the faltering trot of his aged legs, neither room nor roof remained for him. With two sharp kicks his master drove him against the wall, tied him to the ring, and there the donkey stayed, with no roof but a vine trellis stripped of leaves, whose branches dripped threads of rainwater, forming a pool beneath his hooves.

Through the windowpanes Peludo could see the bright, cheerful tavern room, full of men playing cards, arguing, devouring cod stews and draining glasses of cane spirit and red wine. While the rational creatures celebrated Christmas in this fashion, the donkey, chilled and soaked to the bone, exhausted with fatigue and faint with want, had not even the strength to utter a mournful, pleading bray for food and warmth. A cloud veiled his eyes; his hocks gave way. He was about to fall into the liquid mud when he noticed a soft light, very different from the glow shed by the tavern’s foul-smelling little lamps, and, to his profound surprise, made out another donkey beside him: a silvery donkey, sleek-coated, lively and friendly. What welcome company! “Hee-haw!” fluted the decrepit, careworn beast softly. The newcomer began gnawing through the rope that held Peludo and soon set him free. The little silver donkey started off, and Peludo followed, asking no further questions, already joyful and strong. As they advanced, the night grew clear, starry and warm; the road easy, dry, level and lovely. To right and left, meadows of vivid green plush, enamelled with violets and buttercups, invited Peludo to satisfy his appetite; crystal streams offered to quench his thirst. And Peludo, falling upon this bounty, carefree and free, gave himself up to the succulent grass; the mill-like grinding of his old teeth as he chewed could be heard far away. He drank his fill at the springs; he stuffed himself with clover and tender grass, and as he devoured it his belly rounded like an inflating balloon, until suddenly the girths securing his packsaddle snapped, leaving him stark naked and happy as a king. Peludo certainly felt no fatalist now! So fortunate an adventure had made him the staunchest believer in Providence in the universe. In the distance a golden, smiling dawn was beginning to break; the meadow violets smelled of heaven; everything invited a delicious roll, and down went Peludo, swimming in that sea of green, steeping himself in floral scents, gathering chamomile leaves in his shaggy coat. The donkey felt triumphant, bathed in the light of glory. And somewhere in the air, far away, high above, mysterious voices repeated the prophetic words: “Unto us a child is born, and his name is Emmanuel...” The silver donkey, Peludo’s saviour, gazed at him with mingled pity and friendship, and brayed kindly: “Hee-haw! Don’t you know me? I am the one who warmed Jesus with his breath in the stable... and carried Mary of Nazareth into Egypt...”

At the tavern door, Peludo’s master, coming out at daybreak with the fumes of drunkenness still thick about him, saw his mount stretched out in the pool, his eyes glassy, his legs stiff. “The rope broke,” observed the tavern keeper. “Don’t kick him,” he added. “There’s little use in that; his ear’s cold; he’s dead.” But the master, with the obstinacy peculiar to drunkards, went on kicking the animal, swearing, blaspheming and cursing. At last, convinced that his efforts were useless, he let out a dull guffaw. “For all the use he was...” he grunted. “He couldn’t even carry me any more...”