Prevod

In those days of anguish and dread, pierced by flashes of enthusiasm followed by the black horror of darkness and the ominous vision of overwhelming disaster; in those days which, despite their slow succession, seemed apocalyptic, I had to make a journey to Andalusia, where business matters called me. Getting off at a station for lunch, I heard a noisy commotion behind me in the inn’s dining room. I turned and, beside one of the little bare tables where breakfast was served, saw a woman standing while two or three young louts hurled insults at her, and the waiter, a napkin over his shoulder, roared with laughter. I understood at once; the traveller’s distinctly foreign appearance explained everything. Without realizing what I was doing, I rushed to the insulted woman’s side and cried out firmly:

“What have you to say to this lady? You may address yourselves to me.” Two withdrew, stammering; another angrily retorted, “You’d do better, damn it, to defend your country than the spies who go about it making drawings and taking notes.”

My bearing and expression must have been formidable as I flung myself upon the fellow who had thus abused me. Indignation doubled my strength, and with a rain of slaps I drove him to the far end of the dining room. I have no clear notion of what happened next: I remember that we were pulled apart, that the train bell rang urgently to announce its departure, that I ran so as not to be left behind, and that, once on the platform, I caught sight of the traveller amid a tight knot of people who seemed hostile; that I elbowed my way through them, offered her my arm, and helped her into my compartment; that the train was already swaying, and that as it pulled briskly away I heard two or three derisive whistles from the group...

Only then did I stop to reflect; yet I did not regret my boldness, and merely asked myself why I had brought the traveller, the cause of the trouble, into my compartment. To protect her better, perhaps?... Perhaps to speak with her at my leisure and resolve my doubts by discovering whether she really was a treacherous enemy? The first thing I did was examine her carefully as she settled herself and placed her threadbare little bag in the luggage rack. Anglo-Saxon, plainly enough: there was no mistaking the stamp of her race. She had no beauty: her faded features, her yellowish eyes, her ungainly figure and flat waist deprived her of any disquieting charm. And to make her still less seductive, there was the movement with which she turned towards me and manfully held out a bony, reddish hand, clasping mine and shaking it. In a voice, however, that was wonderfully resonant and sweet, the foreigner said:

“Thank you, sir; a thousand thanks.” Embarrassed, I made light of my action: “I could not stand by and allow such barbarity. Surely you are no spy, madam; perhaps you are not even American. English, are you not?”

“Ah! No, sir. I am indeed a Yankee.” And, noticing my start, she added, reaching up and taking down her little bag, “But I am not a spy. Look at my album and my drawings.”

I leafed through the album. It was crammed with architectural studies and sketches of picturesque characters: a flower-decked window, a grille with twisted columns, a little donkey, a country bumpkin...

“Are you an artist?” “Hardly... merely an amateur... By trade I am a typesetter. I work... that is, I used to work at a printing house in Boston... Now I do not know what I shall do.”

My curiosity caught fire. I sensed a mystery and resolved to unravel it. The voice of the woman I had taken under my protection had such gentle inflections, her eyes were so moist with gratitude when they met mine, that I thought: “For a moment this woman is in your power. Seize the moment and catch her soul unawares, disdaining the clay that clothes it; a conquest of the spirit is always more glorious.” With the utmost diplomacy, I leaned towards her and murmured:

“No. I fear you may think I mean to claim payment for so trifling a service as I was fortunate enough to render you...” The foreign woman said nothing; but a vivid, flowing blush spread over her faded face, making it beautiful... It was a flush of joy, of hope, of passionate gratitude at words of gallant respect such as she was perhaps hearing for the first time in her life. I saw her raise her hand to her heart and, pretending to be distracted, noticed that she was looking at me with an eager, expressive gaze. Her silvery voice rose with emotion:

“Then I would rather tell you what has happened to me, if you do not mind... Perhaps, after you have heard me, you will never again take me for a spy.” Attentive and showing every sign of devotion, I drew closer, first throwing away the cigar I had only just lit.

“I am not a spy,” she declared slowly, “and I cannot be one, because I detest patriotic sentiment, which runs counter to universal brotherhood. War between nations... I condemn it. The poor fighting and dying... the powerful reaping the honour and the rewards...! And yet, sir... those people who insulted me, I forgive them; I understand their blindness; I almost admire their fury... What would they think if they knew...?”

Here she stopped and, laying one of her bony fingers upon her lips, urged discretion about what she was about to reveal. “If they knew... that I have come bearing an olive branch across the Atlantic... to propose an alliance between the oppressed and wretched over there and those here! My knowledge of Spanish, acquired during the years I spent in Mexico as a child, led them to choose me for this mission... I have explored the ground in the industrial and mining districts...”

After a brief pause, she went on: “You are about to hear something strange... In Spain I have almost lost faith, my faith... I do not see the urgency of certain measures which we shall apply immediately over there, before the monster of militarism grows and force brings us into subjection. Here there are none of those dreadful inequalities, those colossal disparities between one person’s lot and another’s. Here I do not perceive the tyranny of money, nor that madness for spending and pleasure founded on the blind brutality of a million millions. Here there are no Croesuses who, like our Rockfeller... you know? the oil king... or Astor, the king of the mines... sweat gold and mock God... In our country the abomination of wealth holds sway... the metal idol towers above us... and there, not here, is where justice must do its work... And we shall do justice! I promise you that! And soon! Ah! Spain! I adore it... It is so poor, so noble, so lovable, so simple... Nothing against Spain! That will be my advice, sir... Here I have found no grinding destitution... I feel no urge to destroy... and I am so happy, so happy! If only you knew...!”

The zealot’s eyes shone, and her flat, unfleshed breast heaved and throbbed with enthusiasm. I understood the mistake that had confused a fanatic for humanity with a fanatic for patriotism, a malcontent with a spy. Meanwhile the train sped on, swallowing up stations, and the beautiful May evening was sinking voluptuously towards night; the scent of grasses and flowering shrubs came through the open window, and already the moon, tracing its slender silver axe against the delicate green and muted gold of the sky, added a poetic touch to the delicious peace of Nature, indifferent to our turmoil and our struggles, to the great sorrows of nations or individuals... My companion had fallen silent and turned to contemplate the landscape: we were nearing the junction; we were almost at a standstill... She turned to face me and, exalted, already on her feet to get out, repeated:

“Spain! How beautiful! To live here... to live here!” In a sudden, unforeseen impulse, she pressed her face to mine, and I felt the warmth of her cheeks caressing my temple... Then she pushed open the carriage door and, as she jumped onto the platform, still clutching her threadbare little bag, called back to me once more, with the solemnity of a mysterious promise and her brow furrowed by a sombre threat:

“Goodbye... I am going back there... back to my own country!”