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Oriente by Vicente Blasco Ibá?ez

Chapter 1 No.1

La peregrinación cosmopolita

Recuerdo que en cierta ocasión tuve en mis manos un ejemplar de la Gaceta Imperial de Pekín, y al revolver sus finas hojas de papel de arroz, entre las apretadas columnas de misteriosos caracteres, sólo encontré dos anuncios comprensibles por sus grabados: el que llaman vulgarmente tío del bacalao, ó sea el marinero que lleva á sus espaldas un enorme pez, pregonando las excelencias de la Emulsión Scott, y una botella de largo cuello con la etiqueta ?Vichy-état?.

Pocas empresas en el mundo habrán hecho la propaganda que la Compa?ía Arrendataria de las aguas de Vichy.

Circulan por las calles de la peque?a y elegante ciudad francesa los pesados carromatos cargados de cajones, camino de la estación del ferrocarril. Marchan las botellas alineadas en apretadas filas al salir de Vichy, para luego esparcirse como una esperanza de salud. ?Adonde van?... La fama de su nombre les asegura el dominio del mundo entero. Una botella irá á morir, derramando el líquido gaseoso de sus entra?as, en una aldea obscura de las monta?as espa?olas, y la que cabecea junto á ella no se detendrá hasta llegar á alguna población sueca, cubierta de nieve, vecina al Polo; y la otra irá á Australia; y la de más allá arrojará su burbujeante contenido, bajo el sol del áfrica, en un campamento de europeos, de estómago quebrantado por las escaseces de la colonización.

Y así como el agua de Vichy se esparce por el mundo, para llevar á remotos países sus virtudes curativas, los médicos de toda la tierra por un lado, y la moda por otro, empujan hacia aquí á las gentes más diversas de aspecto y de lengua.

París, con ser la más cosmopolita de las ciudades, por la atracción que ejercen sus placeres y sus elegancias, no ofrece el aspecto mundial que el peque?o Vichy, con sus miles de extranjeros. En las primeras horas de la ma?ana, la muchedumbre que llena el Parque y se agolpa en torno de las fuentes, hace recordar los muelles de Gibraltar ó ciertos puertos de Asia, que son como encrucijadas marítimas, en los que se tropiezan y confunden todos los pueblos y todas las lenguas.

La gente europea, igual y monótona al primer golpe de vista, muestra su infinita variedad de trajes, gestos y actitudes bajo los paseos cubiertos del Parque. Desfilan los ingleses con la cara impasible bajo su peque?a gorra, moviendo al andar sus anchos calzones cortos sobre las pantorrillas enfundadas en medias escocesas; pasan los alemanes con sombrerillos tiroleses rematados por enhiesta pluma; los espa?oles y americanos, de corbatas vistosas y conversación á gritos; los italianos, que copian con exagerado servilismo las modas británicas; los franceses, todos con una roseta ó una cinta en la solapa. Las mujeres se exhiben envueltas en velos como odaliscas, con el rostro sombreado por el panamá ó el sombrero enorme, de alas caídas y cargado de flores, copiado de los retratos de los pintores ingleses. Las blusas de encajes transparentan en su trama sutil rosadas desnudeces; las faldas, cortas y blancas, dejan en su revoloteo una estela de perfumes. Confundidos en esta avalancha de tonos uniformes, pasan los egipcios y turcos, de levita clara y elevado fez; los chinos, de túnica azul y bonete negro con rojo botón sobre el trenzado pelo de rata; los malayos, de blancos calzones, con femeniles trenzas arrolladas en torno de su rostro amarillo y simiesco; los persas, vestidos á la europea, pero coronando su bigotuda cara con un gorro de astrakán; dos ó tres rajahs indios, de albas vestiduras, graves, hermosos y perfumados, como sacerdotes de una religión poética que tuviese por deidades á las flores; judíos sórdidos, cubiertos de sedas tan brillantes como sucias, y moros ricos de Argel y Túnez, jeiques de tribu, que ostentan sobre el nítido albornoz la mancha roja de la Legión de Honor y unen á su arrogancia tradicional la satisfacción de hallarse en su propia casa, como súbditos de la República francesa. Y juntos con estas gentes extra?as se muestran los franceses exóticos, los militares venidos de lejanas Francias, los oficiales del ejército colonial, que llegan á reponerse de las fiebres de los pantanos tonkineses, del sol que devora á los hombres en las casas de tierra de Tombouctu, en los puestos avanzados del Sahara ó en las factorías del Senegal y del Congo; spahis y cazadores de áfrica, de teatrales uniformes; marinos y coloniales con traje blanco y casco ligero de lienzo y corcho.

El agua turbia y burbujeante que salta en las fuentes, bajo una gran cúpula de cristal, es la que realiza el milagro de reunir gentes tan diversas y de origen tan lejano en esta peque?a ciudad del centro de Francia, que hace menos de tres siglos dió á conocer la pluma de Mad. Sévigné.

Nada hay nuevo en el mundo. Lo mismo que la gente viene ahora á las estaciones termales de las que es reina Vichy, iba hace tres mil a?os, con un fin religioso y de curación al mismo tiempo, á peque?as ciudades de Grecia, famosas por sus aguas y sus profetisas, buscando á la vez la salud del cuerpo y la certeza del porvenir.

No hay aquí ninguna Pitonisa que, montada en un trípode sobre la fuente de la Grand Grille ó de los Celestinos, profetice nuestra vida futura; pero diarios y prospectos anuncian la presencia en Vichy de acreditadas profesoras de cartomancia y magia, venidas de París para rasgar los sombríos misterios de lo futuro, á razón de veinte francos por consulta.

No se encuentra una Friné que se muestre desnuda en medio del Parque, como la irresistible cortesana griega, despojándose de sus velos ante los peregrinos enfermos de Delfos para alegrar su miseria con la regia limosna de la exhibición de sus gracias; pero las Frinés vestidas son legión; se cuentan á centenares: unas hablan francés, otras espa?ol, otras ruso; son ortodoxas, heterodoxas, hebreas ó simplemente impías; las hay rubias, morenas, amarillas y hasta negras, y repitiendo á puerta cerrada la suerte de la bella ateniense, ahorran para la campa?a de invierno en París ó Marsella, Argel ó Madrid.

Los graves sacerdotes, majestuosos y sibilinos, de este moderno santuario de la salud universal, son los médicos. Ochenta y cuatro he contado en la lista que figura por todos lados, en las esquinas, en los programas de los conciertos, en las cartas de cafés y restaurants, y hasta en las paredes de los mingitorios, para recordar á todas horas al olvidadizo viajero que estos imponentes personajes son los verdaderos soberanos de Vichy, y no debe nadie beber una gota de agua sin previa consulta.

Siendo á modo de grandes sacerdotes, inútil es decir que ocupan las mejores casas de la ciudad, lujosos hoteles, sonrientes villas rodeadas de flores, cuyos salones de espera están siempre llenos de clientes.

Con las aguas de Vichy no se puede jugar. Los graves hombres de la ciencia hablan de ellas como si fuesen terribles venenos. Cada vez que hay que aumentar la dosis en un sorbo, conviene consultarles previamente, con un luis de oro en la mano. Causa admiración la sabiduría, el tino con que estos respetables arúspices de la ciencia combinan la toma de las aguas de las diversas fuentes, armonizando unas con otras.

-Un vaso de la Grand Grille á tal hora; luego uno de Celestinos á tal otra. Más adelante variaremos y serán Chomet y H?pital. Sobre todo, nada de prisas. La curación debe seguir su marcha.

?Nada de prisas!... Lo mismo que los graves doctores piensan los hoteleros de Vichy, los due?os de cafés, los empresarios de teatros, hasta las Frinés del Parque, y esta unanimidad de pareceres convence al viajero, que no sabe cómo agradecer el interés que todos muestran por retenerle á su lado.

En torno de las fuentes, los bebedores de agua, apurando lentamente sus vasos, se preguntan á veces por sus dolencias. Uno tiene enfermo el hígado, otro la garganta, el de más allá sufre diabetes; una se?ora calla y enrojece, pensando en la tristeza de los árboles, que mueven sus copas sin llegar nunca á dar fruto... ?Y todos beben lo mismo!

La humanidad, que desprecia la salud mientras la posee, guarda su fe más ciega para los que la consuelan y entretienen en la gran cobardía de la dolencia.

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