Monsalvat wondered how, after the events of the previous night and
those of the afternoon, he could bring himself to dine that evening in
Ruiz de Castro's palatial residence, in company with various worldly
persons of the latter's selection. Was he not betraying his real self,
being unfaithful to the new Monsalvat, born of his recent struggles? As
he looked about him he could think only of the contrast between Nacha's
unhappy life and that of these pretty women; and how different was the
tragic dialogue which had occurred between him and that poor child,
from the gay conversation buzzing about this aristocratic table!
Strange that contact with reality should have made him forget the
occurrences of the afternoon! At this moment he had only a vague notion
of the things he had so recently been feeling, of the things he had so
recently been doing. He knew simply that he had just been living hours
of intense spiritual excitement--an exhilaration approaching delirium,
dominated by an obsession which had severed every connection between
him and his material surroundings, and left him completely indifferent
to whatever lay outside of his own inner preoccupations.
After leaving Nacha's apartment he had wandered about the streets for
a time. Then, a little quieted, he had called at the Ministry, less to
inquire about the position promised him than to give himself something
to do. There he met Ruiz de Castro, who had a few days before invited
him to dinner, and who now insisted on his acceptance for that evening.
He did not refuse. Why should he? Was he, perhaps intending to withdraw
from society altogether? At any rate, here he was now, surrounded by
elegant women, and by fashionable men of the world.
Ruiz de Castro, a classmate of Monsalvat's, was a likable fellow. His
principal occupation was making himself agreeable to everyone, old
or young, man or woman. He was a tall man and held himself extremely
well, though his carefully nursed mustache, the height of his collars,
the variety and splendor of his cravats, the profusion of jewelry on
his fingers, left a faint suggestion of the Don Juan and of the fop in
the total impression he made. Never had anyone seen Ruiz de Castro in
clothes which did not look fresh from the tailor's; and he never failed
to wear gloves even on the most terrible of summer's days. To a small
fortune of his own he had added that of a millionaire's widow. His
principal social hobby was the giving of suppers and small receptions
to persons chosen from the most select circles of Buenos Aires. A
lawyer by profession, he had read a great deal on all sorts of subjects
and could talk entertainingly on art, and letters in particular; indeed
by virtue of this intellectual pose, he considered himself superior
to his surroundings. His guests were always men of recognized talent;
doctors, distinguished lawyers, university professors, men prominent
in politics or literature. At such intimate parties these "highbrows"
and their wives, all of whom were art enthusiasts, talked painting
and sculpture, music and verse. Of course, for this élite, nothing
done in Argentina was of any account. To Monsalvat the women seemed to
be better informed on the whole, more sensitive and discerning than
the men. Of the ten there assembled, all of them elegant, beautiful,
and witty--were they not Argentine?--one wrote with real talent,
though not for the public; another knew the art and literature of
France better than a majority of Argentine novelists of much more
serious pretentions to learning; still another, a young woman who was
seated near Monsalvat, had studied philosophy diligently and had even
attended Bergson's seminars in Paris. On this particular evening they
were discussing Rodin, Debussy, Strauss and Zuloaga whose pictures at
the Exposition had aroused general enthusiasm among the artists and
amateurs of the capital.
Monsalvat felt out of place in this atmosphere. Most of the young
women he had not met until then, though he had some acquaintance with
their husbands. His being there at all was due to Ruiz de Castro's
affection for him. De Castro, a good Argentine and a good _porteño_,
instinctively admired success; and from his law school days had been
wont to see in this young fellow, who always came out highest in
examinations, and delivered the most impressive dissertations in class,
a quite exceptional being, destined to social and public recognition.
Monsalvat, for that matter, possessed a genuine distinction of his own
in Castro's eyes. His natural and simple manners were a delight to the
more sophisticated attorney, as were his quiet and correct conduct,
his way of never calling attention to himself even by his clothes, his
manner of speaking--which was not the fruit of careful premeditation,
but the spontaneous expression of a real preference for simplicity. It
was Ruiz de Castro who had done most to draw Monsalvat towards society,
literally dragging him into the Jockey Club, and then prompting various
of his invitations to society functions; for the ambitious lawyer felt
certain that a man of Monsalvat's promise would never fail to do honor
to his sponsor; and he was ingenuously eager out of sincere friendship
to have his friend's personal worth recognized by his own particular
set.
Monsalvat, however, was too modest for the rôle assigned him: he had an
exaggerated fear of appearing ridiculous. Dread of standing awkwardly
in the limelight, of doing the wrong thing there, always made him keep
his opinions to himself, no matter how much to the point they might
have been. Timid, lacking confidence in himself and in others, he
never gave anyone a glimpse of his real nature. Only a few intimate
friends, among them the women who loved him, knew and appreciated his
qualities. For them his was a deep, a noble, a generous spirit, modest
and simple, without ambitions; a man who lived a satisfying inner life,
and possessed an unusually rich culture. For others he was a colorless
uninteresting individual, a bore and a nonentity.
The subjects touched upon in the conversation at the dinner-table
developed nothing in common between Monsalvat and his neighbors. Art
had never attracted him; and he knew little about literature. He had
read voraciously, but rarely a novel or a volume of verse, or of
literary criticism. Thus it was that when the ladies around him talked
in dithyrambic ecstasies of Chabas or Loti, the conviction that he did
not belong in these surroundings, bore in upon him not without a twinge
of shame.
Monsalvat was not then thinking, nor did he wish to think, of what
had so profoundly absorbed him during the afternoon and the preceding
evening. Nacha's final attitude towards him, the manner of his
dismissal, had deeply humiliated him, and made him long for the
seclusion of his customary mode of living. What a fool to have believed
it possible to regenerate such a woman! But his dinner-coat helped him
to forget all this, clothing him for the moment with self-importance,
and inclination toward frivolity. He put his sister, Pampa Arnedo, his
conversation with Torres, all out of his mind.
One of the only two bachelors present among all these married people,
Monsalvat had been seated between two _niñas_, "girls," as unmarried
women, of whatever age, are chivalrously called in the Argentine. The
one on his right, Elsa, was a delightful creature, blond, virginal,
with the unspoiled, however mature, freshness of her twenty-five years.
The rather angelic slenderness of her shoulders gave her something
of the ingenuously innocent appearance of Botticelli's maidens, with
which the burning roses of her cheeks and lips scarcely harmonized.
But she differed from the paintings of the early masters in not
having a line that was either angular or rigid. Roundness, indeed,
was the conspicuous trait in the lines of her figure, the slope of
her shoulders, the modelling of her cheeks and chin. She spoke with
a certain ingenuous and charming candor, turning to full account her
acquaintance with books and authors, which was remarkably varied.
Monsalvat had known her in Paris five years before, and had called
at her rooms there. He had observed with astonishment that this
Botticellian virgin had among her favorite volumes the _Satiricon_ of
Petronius, Willy's latest novels, and other productions of the same
outlook on life. Elsa's main sport was playing with men and their
foibles. Her wide blue eyes, of a surpassing beauty, gazed out at the
world in such fashion that no male could long resist their spell.
She would smile maliciously at her victim and assail him on the side
of vanity, praising his talents, or whatever claim to distinction he
might have. She would listen to the frankest allusions--provoked, of
course, by her--without a trace of embarrassment or annoyance, though
she herself always avoided improprieties in speech, indeed every word
that came from her lips seemed the very breath of youthful innocence
itself. Nevertheless there were hostile tongues to criticise Elsa. When
an unfavorable comment reached her ears she would evince a discreet
amount of alarm, and then smile to show how little importance she
attached to such matters after all. As to love and marriage she had
no illusions. How could she, when every husband who came her way, no
matter how exemplary by reputation, made love to her at the slightest
provocation? Looking at the world through _fin de siècle_ French novels
and the anecdotes of her friends, she judged it even worse than it
is, seeing in it only the play of gross or perverted instincts. Never
having felt or inspired love, she could not recognize it in the world
about her. As to her women friends, they interested her so little that
she never thought of inquiring what women were really like. In her
heart she despised them and thought them poor fools to be talking of
the love their sweethearts and husbands had for them. She "knew!" On
more than one occasion, when she had heard a husband praised for his
faithfulness, she found a way of having a few moments' conversation
alone with him; and infallibly the model of fidelity soon was a model
no more. Monsalvat had had with her several diverting and flirtatious
conversations. But now, in his present critical state of conscience,
at the awakening within him of far different desires, he could not
possibly talk with her in the same tone. The young woman on his left,
addressed as Isabel, had a lively intelligence but few physical charms.
Nevertheless she displayed a certain attractiveness that evening. She
knew how to make the most of her few good points, chief among which
were her eyes, eager, sympathetic, trusting, questioning, quick to show
embarrassment. Her face was too long, her mouth too large. Though her
teeth were not pretty, she knew how to laugh--the clear, happy laughter
of youth--and she showed them constantly. Her temperament and ideas
were the exact opposites of Elsa's. Coming from a family of the old
Spanish stock, and of devout catholicism, Isabel was always talking
"tradition"; while Elsa, from one of the newer families, typified the
modern pagan and cosmopolitan spirit of Buenos Aires. Isabel was all
prejudices and enthusiasms. She talked excitedly, with passion. She
was incapable even of suspecting the true nature of Elsa's cynical
temperament. To her the world seemed better than it is. Only unmarried
men interested her, though the idea of marrying frightened her. Some
of the world's injustices were quite beyond her ken; but she believed
that whatever they might be, one should practise resignation. For
priests, whose words on any theme were pure gospel for her, she had a
superstitious reverence; she believed them pure and saintly all.
Monsalvat and his neighbors had maintained the most trifling of
conversations. Elsa, as was her way, tried to give it a suggestion of
intimacy, to which Monsalvat did not lend himself very cordially. He
would have preferred to talk to Isabel. But was even this pious woman,
with her dogmatic education, her habit of never doubting anything,
likely to understand the complex anxieties besetting him? He reached
the conclusion that he had nothing in common with his neighbors on
either side, addressed them only when courtesy required, and directed
his attention to the plump young woman opposite him, a rather amusing
person, well-read, talkative, and critical of things and persons. At
the moment she was running on about the theatres.
"You simply can't go to the _Odéon_! At least not on subscription
nights! It's scandalous, the plays those French writers give the
public! There's never a decent character in them. What right have they
to oblige the people who really support the theatres to listen to plays
full of workmen, strikers, thieves--all the rabble! I'm sure I don't
understand why the managers present such stuff!"
Isabel, and nearly everyone else who was listening, approved the
speaker's view of the matter. Elsa looked at Monsalvat out of the
corner of her eye, and smiled at him. For his part, he felt hot
indignation against this woman who mentioned working men and thieves in
the same breath, and would have nothing to do with humanity's troubles.
A reply rose to his lips; but he was afraid of appearing ridiculous,
and kept it to himself.
"Tell her what you think--you ought to!" said Elsa.
This half mischievous encouragement seemed suddenly to re-enforce the
imperative of Monsalvat's own conscience. He felt somehow that he could
no longer avoid speaking. With a smile at the plump lady, he said in a
good-natured tone:
"But, dear madame, it is for people like you that just such plays are
given. How else could elegant and distinguished ladies of your world
know anything at all about human suffering?"
"But," said the devout Isabel, "one goes to the theatre to be amused!"
"If the show or the book is not to your liking...." Monsalvat began;
but he was interrupted by several voices, among them that of Dr.
Ercasty, who was sputtering about and exchanging knowing winks with his
neighbors at the table. Dr. Ercasty had long had his doubts about that
fellow, Monsalvat!
The plump lady's voice rose above the others:
"And why should we be bored with that sort of thing, Mr. Monsalvat? I
don't think I need to. Of course everyone is free to do as he likes. I
have my own troubles, and I believe everyone has at some time or other;
but I don't go about unloading them on everybody; so why should I be
made to listen to other people's tales of woe? Anyway, they don't ever
show us moral struggle, but just hatred, crime, and insults to society.
If there are people who are hungry, why don't they work? But I don't
care to go to the theatre to hear about things that don't interest
me, and that I can't help; and I care even less to hear myself being
blamed for all sorts of things I never heard of. The other day I saw
an impossible thing called "Élise of the Underworld." I never was more
disgusted! What on earth have we to do with that kind of women? No,
Monsalvat, you are defending ideas that I know you can't really believe
in."
Ercasty nodded congratulations to the plump lady and good humoredly
suggested that Monsalvat had better throw up the sponge in the argument.
Ercasty was a physician, though he had abandoned practice to fill an
important government position. In addition to a prominent paunch, and
forty years of experience in this world, his chief distinction was
his bland adeptness in the use of weapons little known in Argentine
society--paradox, irony, sarcasm. In spite of his smoothness, however,
Ercasty was a dangerous foe. When wounded he could fight back like a
lion at bay. Reactionary in everything, he would make no terms with
democracy, liberalism, or even individualism. "Society" was his god.
"Society" provided him with the ideas and sentiments he lived by. To
express an opinion contrary to those approved in the best society,
seemed to him a breach of good form, an offense as obnoxious as a
crime. Years before, when Monsalvat was writing for the _Patria_, the
articles which "Society" had so much applauded, wherein, with talent
and learning, he justified all the iniquities usually defended by daily
newspapers, distinguished persons, fashionable writers, and all good
Christians who interpret the teachings of Christ to the advantage of
their own worldly self-seeking, Ercasty had been a good friend of his.
Now the doctor would have enjoyed seeing him come to a violent end.
"Don't plead the cause of those people, Monsalvat, for Heaven's sake!"
exclaimed the plump lady.
"Of what people?"
"Oh, the rabble, the bad people, 'the people,' in short!"
"The sovereign people!" offered Ercasty contemptuously.
"Don't defend them!" continued the lady. "See what they tried to do
last May, just when we had a lot of very distinguished foreigners here,
ambassadors and their wives, representatives of European nobility
even! They wanted to make someone pay for their own laziness! So they
tried to cast discredit on their own country, and spoil the Centennial
celebration--a disgusting performance if ever there was one! What can
our distinguished visitors have thought? And to take advantage of such
an occasion to gain their ends! There's no name for such conduct,
Monsalvat!"
"And if I had been the government," said the doctor venomously, "I
would have taken all these gringo organizers, soap boxers, agitators
and strikers, and the bad Argentines who followed their example, stood
them in a row on the Plaza de Mayo and shot them down. That would have
been a number on the Centennial program, and example to the rabble!"
Monsalvat could listen no longer. He was quivering with indignation.
Usually serene, quiet, and incapable of hating anybody, he would at
this moment have enjoyed strangling the individual who was taunting
him so flippantly. Now he realized that all the men and women around
him were his enemies, representatives of his old out-worn ideas, of
prejudices which he had come to abhor. On their faces he could see
only insolent satisfaction with good living, a proclamation of inhuman
selfishness, a spirit of evil, hypocrisy, pride, an absence of all
human sympathy. What were their lives but one continuous lie? These
men and women had no real existence. They were insipid creatures of
something they called public opinion, thinking the thoughts of their
crowd, following the morals, the standards, the tastes, the fads of
their crowd! Their opinions were but a false semblance of opinion,
their feelings but imitations of other people's feelings, their tastes,
even their loves and their hates, mere aping pretense! Life for them
was a gigantic farce. Had any of them ever thought of living sincerely,
of seeking any meaning in all they were doing? And these people with
their accommodating philosophy, their pretentious political economy,
their hypocritical charity, were responsible for the poverty in the
world, for the misery of girls like Nacha, for the sufferings which
social injustice was heaping up on every hand! Why had he had to live
forty years before understanding this? How could he have sat at this
table a whole hour, forgetting all he had been through that afternoon?
But no! he was not sorry he had come! Henceforth he could have no
doubts as to his place in the general scheme of things: he belonged in
the front line of the attack on pride and falsehood and evil! All these
individuals around him were so many tools in the hands of Injustice;
and someone must put an end to their privileges, their ideas, their
unfeeling self-approval! At any cost, even at the cost of blood and
fire, brotherly love must be made to prevail over brute force! These
men who called themselves Christians must be taught what Christian love
really meant!
And the young ladies, the one on his left and the one on his right? To
him they seemed instruments of Wrong, monsters of selfishness, beings
without hearts. One represented the selfishness of pleasure, the other,
the selfishness of class. They could think only of themselves, of their
amusements, their clothes, their reading, their suitors, their pet
vices, or of their religious and social practices. To them the world
seemed quite satisfactory as it was; and everything could go on in the
same way to the end of time. In them there was no strong, spontaneous
desire for the happiness of others. They were innocent of any attempt
to relieve the pain of those who writhed in anguish in the world's
black depths. They were little china figures, fashioned to adorn the
society in which they lived, interested in knowing only the pleasant
aspects of life. Now and then, from a play or a book, they received
tidings of some one of life's tragedies; but always they turned away
with disgust: such things were not for their fragile and aristocratic
souls! Monsalvat was amazed at the ignorance, the unconscious cruelty
their attitude toward life brought with it; and he could not help
thinking of the outcry rising from the great city's multitudes who
might some day clamor for vengeance as well as for justice!
But at the same time Monsalvat wondered if his present views might
not perhaps be due to an attitude toward society engendered by his
illegitimacy. His enemies would say so at any rate. They would
attribute his bitterness to consciousness of his shameful birth,
suspect him of trying to avenge his mother's disgrace on society at
large. With how much truth? With none, whatever! Of that he was sure.
For beyond all such considerations, the question of justice itself
remained; and this justice, unaffected by personal wrongs, superior to
any mean satisfactions, condemned Evil as Evil, and indeed,--it could
not be otherwise--had decreed already the death of all that Monsalvat
so intensely hated.
At last, when he could no longer contain the indignation burning
within him, he began to speak; and the consternation was general.
Ruiz de Castro, who knew that his friend was an exceptionally timid
person, loath to attract any attention whatever, stared at Monsalvat in
astonishment. The doctor kept executing fidgety gestures of annoyance
and tried a number of times to interrupt. Isabel seemed to be agreeing
with Monsalvat's tirade, but refrained from committing herself since
she was unable to decide whether what she was hearing was for or
against religion. Elsa was enjoying the whole situation as if this
outburst were a new kind of lark. She sat looking at Monsalvat with
smiling delight.
What was he talking about? Of social inequalities; of the fact that
some of us have millions while others cannot buy even bread: that some
of us live in great palaces set in handsome parks; while others, in
dank, filthy, tenements, exist in a monstrous promiscuity which pens
ten and twelve human beings in one room; that some have a superfluity
of everything--property, comfort, pleasure, culture, education--and
that this superabundance does no one any good, since it does not go to
those who lack everything; that some women possess dozens of costumes
and necklaces worth thousands of dollars--every kind of luxury and
ornament--while other women have to sell their bodies, give up life,
health, their very souls, barely to clothe their nakedness, to have
just enough bread to keep alive!
"Well, why don't they work?" the plump lady who had been listening
horror-struck angrily inquired.
"Because they can't get work, madame! Because work, as things are now
organized, is another privilege which we selfishly keep for our own
purposes. I don't know how it happens that all the masses we trample on
have not risen to exterminate us!"
Indignant protests greeted this explosion. Elsa, vastly entertained,
laughed and applauded. Isabel became definitely hostile. All he was
saying she had finally concluded, was contrary to the views of the
Church Fathers. How frightful! The plump lady was quite frankly calling
Monsalvat an anarchist, an assassin, and an enemy of the established
order.
The guests had risen from the table and gathered into small groups. The
plump lady seemed determined to argue with Monsalvat. Ruiz de Castro
approached them, smiling.
"Are you two bent on rearranging the whole universe?" he asked in a
tone of conciliating banter.
"Do you know, this Monsalvat has become a dangerous anarchist!" the
woman replied.
"Yes! Nothing is so dangerous as telling the truth!" was Fernando's
rejoinder.
"But some individuals are even more dangerous than the truth--the
dreamers, I mean. Isn't that so?" Ruiz de Castro addressed the remark
to the plump lady.
"Certainly! And just consider what Monsalvat was saying about those
women! Why, he was practically blaming me for the fact that--that
they--well, you understand. Indeed you understand these matters only
too well! I believe that what is wrong with all those creatures is that
they lack the fear of God. Before giving themselves up to such a life
they ought to beg, take places as servants, go to houses of charity,
bestir themselves at any rate! There's no lack of work...! Let them do
like the men; but instead of turning into anarchists or socialists and
going about from strike to strike, they ought to submit to the will of
God, and resign themselves to their lot! As we all have to!"
"Yes, that is true," exclaimed Isabel, emphasizing the last word as if
she were impressed in advance by what she was going to say, and with
all the conviction of a person who has found a clinching argument.
"That is very, very true! Why stir up strikes? It's so wrong, so wrong!"
The plump lady added with a sigh of melancholy resignation: "Everyone
must accept his lot in life!"
"When it is yours," said Ruiz de Castro, smiling, "one can well afford
to think so. But I, instead of your lot, would choose your husband's!"
"Mine?" she exclaimed, passing over this gallantry. "But we are
almost poor! I can't say we are actually hard up; but aside from my
husband's salary as deputy, we have nothing but the rents from a few
insignificant pieces of property and a farm near Buenos Aires. Still, I
don't complain. Others have millions--Very well! I don't envy them: I
accept God's will."
Monsalvat began to wonder why he was lingering among these people, the
object of their general contempt. For that matter, he had no right to
be there. He took leave of his hosts and went away.
The night air cleared his brain; but how tired he was, how sick! As he
walked on, he began to feel in better spirits. He would have no more to
do with what he called organized Injustice. He saw now the road he must
henceforth follow. Good dwelt with the oppressed; and the only work
worthy of a man was to fight for the down-trodden. He would give his
life and the little money he had to the poor of the earth. People said
he wanted vengeance? Very well! That would be his vengeance!
It was midnight when he reached his rooms; there dissatisfaction with
himself came over him again. He took off his evening clothes, and
tossed them carelessly aside. His thoughts reverted to Nacha. Why had
she dismissed him after listening so long to him, after confiding her
own history so intimately? Could he have fallen in love with her? Was
this the explanation of his actions that evening? Oh, Nacha, Nacha!
What would he not give to see her, for even the hundredth part of a
second!
As his eye wandered about the room, he saw a letter lying on the table.
It was from his mother. She was asking him to come to her for she was
very ill, and believed death near. A few seconds later Monsalvat was
hurrying in a taxi toward Lezama Park.