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Madrid, February 17, 1905

My dear friend:

How dreadful your letter, and how I trembled as I read it! The paper still clutched in my hand, I saw you in my mind’s eye as if in a dream, dragged along in that awful tumult you rendered so eloquently. The lack of bread creates savage beasts. And equally savage and heedless was your decision to so expose yourself to danger! Tell me, would imperiling yourself make these letters arrive more quickly or make that terrible strike finish more rapidly? For a moment, before our very eyes, you became a full-blown anarchist. A modern-day Bakunin, with a lump and a bruise as your trophy. A fine bother you’ve given us! For once—though it will not serve as precedent—I must acknowledge that your father is not entirely wrong. Do not give me that look; I agree with him. You are a little girl who must be looked after and chided. Yes, chided! Does that provoke your indignation? But a falling-out and a friendship lost are inevitable when a person insists on risking her life for such a trifling thing as a handful of my letters. Instead, let’s make up and you tell me whether you are still in any pain from that injury you suffered, the thought of which causes me keen anguish! Are you sure you haven’t minimized the seriousness of the incident to protect the nerves of your friend, who is so concerned about your health and life?

Now that my heart has stopped racing, I reread your letter, which despite its horror is also quite beautiful. I pause several times, entranced, on these captivating lines: “From the breakwater they seemed to form a single body, as if they were a monstrous living thing spilling down the docks and wharves, its skin scaly with hats and faces.” Or this one, no less beautiful: “Above the agitated faces, the bodies of the first horsemen came into view. There aloft, they might have been at the bow of a ship that cut through the swell of workers, who shouted and scattered in all directions.” Ah! Do you realize that you, too, are a poet? Even if you do not write slim volumes of verse, there are many other ways to make poetry; one is a poet in the way one looks at things, and you—and I say this with all sincerity—truly have that quality. These letters are poetry! And I, who hope to continue to receive them for a long time to come, must beg of you to promise that you will never embark upon such madness again. Do so for your father, who loves you so much, or even—if you will forgive my boldness—do so for this humble servant who, here on the other side of the Atlantic, anxiously awaits swift news of your recovery and new examples of your poetry . . .