During the ten days when Nacha lay ill in bed her story reached the
ears of everyone in the boarding house and aroused general interest.
The girls of this calling, who are not yet hardened by cynicism
and despair, are for the most part sentimental, even romantic, and
invariably sympathize with the hero or the heroine, as the case may
be, of a moving love story. Nacha was reported to be suffering from a
passion for a man who had spoken to her only once; it was asserted also
that she knew neither who he was, nor where he came from; but the fact
that she must needs be unfaithful to this platonic and strange love,
could not fail to arouse the liveliest sympathy among all these girls.
They pitied her from their hearts, and considered it quite natural that
she should be ill under the circumstances. When a girl loved a man as
much as this, it was a shame that she should have to live as Nacha was
living! What did this man look like, they wondered, and what could
he and Nacha have talked about in that one fatal conversation? Then
from trying to imagine what this love story must have been, they began
to recall others in which they had played a part. But none of them
was like Nacha's which, they agreed, surpassed even the "daily love
stories" of the newspapers. And they envied Nacha, and hoped for an
experience like hers, even though, like her, they might have to suffer
hunger and sickness.
The owner of the house, Doña Lucía, was a silent little old woman. She
kept two rooms, spotlessly clean, and entirely unattractive, for her
own use. She never ate with her boarders and was too timid to call on
them in their rooms or make any advances to them. Of a good provincial
family, she concealed her name, for she thought it discreditable to
have such lodgers in her house. Her family was little known in Buenos
Aires, and as a matter of fact, she had little affection for any of its
members; nevertheless she had a superstitious respect for "good blood"
and would have suffered anything rather than disgrace an old name. Poor
and alone, forgotten by her relatives, this widow of an officer who had
died insane, had taken up her quarters in a boarding house kept by a
friend. Even then lodgers of doubtful respectability were frequenting
it. Doña Lucía was aware of this fact but never dared mention it to her
friend, and when the latter died, she kept the house going. She had
resolved to take in no one without references, but she was too timid to
insist on this point. Moreover she always found it hard not to believe
what she was told. After awhile she grew accustomed to the class of
boarders who sought her house; and the girls had a genuine respect for
this old lady who went to church so often, and looked so severe.
When Nacha was well enough to get up, she went to call on Doña Lucía,
to thank her for kind attentions such as goblets of port wine, and the
paying of her medicines at the drug store during her illness. Doña
Lucía revealed that all this had been done at the expense of three of
the lodgers, Julieta, Sara and Ana María. These girls barely knew her
and Nacha was touched by their generosity. She was well aware that
Sara earned little having recently had difficulties with the police;
Julieta was a quiet little person who made barely enough to live on,
and Ana María's own bad health required a considerable expenditure for
medicines. Their care of Nacha must have been at the cost of their own
necessities.
Nacha could not but admit that she would have done as much for Julieta
and Sara, who were already her friends; but it surprised her very
much that Ana María should have shared in this expense. Ana María
had visited her only twice during her illness. The first time she
had come in with Julieta, and Nacha had been disagreeably affected
by her presence. She was painfully emaciated, her cheeks sunken and
yellow and her wide eyes looked frightened. Nacha decided she must be
consumptive. She noted that her features were fine, of an aristocratic
caste. During that first visit Nacha could not keep from staring at
Ana María's wasted form, her prominent shoulder blades, her sunken
chest, the transparent skin of her hands. The girl spoke slowly and
there was in her voice a haunting melancholy. No one knew much about
her. She claimed that her name was Ana María Gonzalez, but offered
nothing to prove it. She seemed destitute of plans, of desire to live,
of interests. Julieta had heard, from a friend, that Ana María had once
possessed every luxury. A success in the "profession," she had owned a
fine house, plenty of money, her own automobile; but quite recently,
and very suddenly had come the decay of fortune and health. There
was something mysterious about her which excited Nacha's curiosity.
The second time she saw her, Nacha was alone in her room. Ana María,
staring at her with her wide strange eyes, questioned her about her
life. Nacha's answer appeared to interest her but little; indeed, she
seemed at times not to be listening. When Nacha began to talk about
Monsalvat, however, Ana María suddenly became all attention. She seemed
to be absorbing this part of the story with all her senses, with all
her soul; yet, when Nacha had ended, she left the room without a word.
Since that afternoon Nacha had not seen her, but she spoke of her to
Julieta and Sara. Julieta, plump and gentle, with velvety eyes and red
lips, still retained a great deal of girlish modesty. She cherished
the dream that a grand passion would come to her rescue. At times
she became melancholy, even pessimistic, but she did not yet count
herself among the lost. One result of this was that the other girls
considered her "respectable." Among these others was Sara, who had
all the appearance of having fallen very low indeed, yet she had led
this life scarcely a year. Vice had, however, set its mark on her. She
liked coarse stories, and obscene words. When, in the dining-room,
some one of the men living in the house told a questionable anecdote,
Sara never failed to respond with something worse. She was tall, thin,
quick of movement with long arms and legs. Her face was sufficiently
pretty, but it was her mouth people noticed; a mouth that was large,
the lips mobile, and curving slightly upward, red as pomegranates, and
moist. When talking, she moved her head constantly, gesticulating with
her long arms. She rarely sat still, preferring to walk up and down,
and she could not say a sentence without covering a distance of two or
three yards, lifting her feet as though about to execute a dance step,
laughing and opening her mouth wide so that one could see her long
uneven teeth. There was not the slightest reserve nor modesty about
her and she sought her patrons in the street with an indifference to
appearances which distressed Julieta. Sara seemed oddly unaware of
her situation, and of the difference between her and decent women. As
to men, they were all the same to her. She liked them all, and never
attempted to claim any one of them. Doña Lucía could not bear her and
would have put her out had she dared, for Sara and her friends, when
they were in a merry mood, would sing, talk loud, and burst into roars
of laughter, all to the great distress of Doña Lucía, who implored
the saints to free her from this disgraceful boarder. Sara's one fear
was the police. She had only lately been arrested on the street and
since then had become very cautious. Ana María gave every evidence
of thoroughly disliking her; and several times when Sara indulged in
coarse speeches, she had left the table. This always seemed a good joke
to Sara, who, between bursts of laughter, would call Ana María "Madame
Pompadour," though no one knew where she found this name, nor why she
applied it to Ana María.
"Ana María must be half crazy," Nacha was saying. "I am afraid of her."
"You needn't be," Julieta replied. "She suffers a good deal. Nobody
knows what she's been through before coming to this. I'm sorry for her.
The poor girl has a kind heart."
"Yes, of course!" exclaimed Sara, with a laugh, walking up and down in
the room. "You always think they have 'kind hearts.' I think she's got
a lot of silly pride. She thinks herself better than the rest of us."
"Well, isn't she?" asked Julieta.
Nacha, now almost well, dreaded the moment of complete recovery. That
moment would exact her return to what she hated. She would have given
years from her life to be able to live as a decent girl. Moreover
she was afraid of having another attack of illness if she could not
have the decency she craved. But it was neither for fear of illness,
nor love of decency that she wanted to keep "straight." It was for
Monsalvat, who was in her thoughts night and day, whether she slept
or lay awake, when she talked with her companions, and when she read,
alone in her room.
One afternoon when Julieta came in Nacha said to her, "I want to be
good--on his account, you see, Julieta. I'd do anything, work in a
store, or whatever comes along. Do you think there's any chance--of my
being what I ought to be?"
Julieta, who had been listening with a woeful expression in her dark
eyes, smiled gently, and caressed Nacha's hand, but she did not look at
her friend.
"Why don't you answer me? Do you think it impossible that I--that any
woman--for love, and thinking all the time of him...? Is it impossible?
Tell me the truth. If you don't tell me what you really think you're
not my friend. Is it possible? Answer me!"
"It would be if it depended only on us. But people make it so hard for
us! They don't want us to be good, Nacha!"
Both girls knew how true that was, and remained silent a long time,
saddened, hurt, looking at one another like little children who have
lost their mother.
Nevertheless Nacha determined to make one more attempt to save herself.
She would find Monsalvat. She would seek him to the ends of the earth!
So she began questioning the two students who lived in the house, a
pair of lazy rascals, who took small interest in anything beyond their
immediate horizon. One of them, Grajera, a short dark youth, as ugly
as he was talkative, a chronic law-student, dissipated, incapable of
telling the truth, had tried every makeshift for raising money. He had
taught the art of skating, delivered lectures on tuberculosis, acted
in cheap theatres, written articles for small town newspapers, and
invented a system for never paying hotel or boarding house bills. Nacha
had known him years ago in her mother's boarding house, and, because
Grajera had made Riga's acquaintance there, was on friendly terms with
him. He was besides an amusing table companion. Nacha implored him
to find out where Monsalvat lived, and Grajera willingly promised to
do so. The only trouble was that he always forgot to attend to this
commission.
The other youth, also nominally a student, although it would have been
hard to discover of what, was of a family from Córdoba, the son of a
well-known judge, whose death after a laborious and austere life, had
been generally lamented. Panchito, who had been sent away from home on
account of early misbehavior, returned to Córdoba after his father's
death, but was now once more in Buenos Aires, incorrigible as ever,
always on the lookout for a chance to play a trick to his advantage,
always running after women and always lying to everybody. Nacha asked
him also to try to discover Monsalvat's whereabouts; but Panchito
never thought about anything except the next races, handicaps, betting
favorites and other topics of the turf. He always jotted down in a note
book the wind velocity, the weight of each horse, the condition of the
track, and other highly significant details. Yet, notwithstanding all
this care, and the scientific accuracy of the data on which Panchito
based his calculations, he invariably lost.
When she saw that her friends were not going to help her much, Nacha
had recourse to a woman who told fortunes from cards. She had been
recommended by Sara, who asserted that she never failed to foretell
exactly what was going to happen. Nacha sent for her, and watched
breathlessly, in tense excitement, while the dirty, yellow-skinned old
sybil prepared to read her fate from a greasy pack of cards, which had
been shuffled by Nacha, and cut with her left hand.
"The ace of diamonds and the four of clubs mean recovery from sickness.
But here's the four of hearts; that means successful love; completely
successful; because here's the two of hearts, do you see, which means a
proposal! Then--here's a dark woman, and serious illness!"
"Yes. It's a woman. But there's nothing here that means love. It's
certainly a woman, Miss."
Nacha tried to find an interpretation that would fit all of this. Could
Monsalvat be ill? or in love with another woman? Such an idea was
unbearable. Then she asked the question that was uppermost in her mind.
"Where did Monsalvat live?"
"Here's the king of hearts! That means a dark man, of strong character,
and generous."
"That's it, of course! Well, where is he?"
"This doesn't say. But here's the two of spades. That means a letter,
or news, or an arrival. Either the dark man is going to write to you;
or he is coming here at any moment."
Nacha gladly paid the old woman the five _pesos_ she charged for her
services. This left her penniless, but she was happy! Everything looked
hopeful now. Several times during the day she thought Monsalvat was
about to arrive on the scene. The following day, she felt so certain
that someone was coming that she waited in the courtyard; and she was
immensely surprised when some newcomers turned out to be a man and wife
with their twelve year old daughter, relatives of Panchito's, and just
landed from Córdoba. No sooner were they installed in their rooms than
there was a general rush to Panchito's quarters for an explanation.
Panchito, still half asleep, was forced to receive his callers in bed.
Grajera, in the bedroom opposite, was snoring and Sara tried to rouse
him with ticklings, slaps, and cold water, until there was a general
protest. Meanwhile Panchito tried desperately to piece together an
explanation of his relatives' arrival at his boarding house.
"Just like that donkey to come here," he was saying. "I told him what
kind of a house this was, and what made him bring his family here, I
don't know! Oh, I've got it! I didn't see through it before! This is
some of my old woman's work, that's what it is! Of course! I wrote her
that I was living in a very respectable house, with a highly religious
family, and that they made me go to confession twice a month--and the
old woman must have repeated all this to that bumpkin uncle of mine who
lives out in the country, in Saint Joseph's Sleepy Hollow--and he took
it into his head to come here...."
"Where did you say he lived?" inquired Sara, her mouth open from ear to
ear.
"Saint Joseph's Sleepy Hollow--a little village over toward...."
But the name called forth a series of witticisms at which Sara was
nearly beside herself with mirth. Panchito implored the girls to behave
properly. He didn't want his relatives to become aware of their mistake
if it could be prevented. Then he drove all his visitors out, and went
back to bed.
That afternoon Grajera and Panchito presented themselves, in throes of
laughter, at Nacha's door. They had just beheld Sara reclining on a
couch, her long legs waving in the air, while she lent an obliging ear
to a detailed account of all the troubles, sicknesses and operations of
the lady from Córdoba, who had evidently taken a great fancy to this
sympathetic listener.
Doña Lucía was delighted with her new boarders, though somewhat
astonished when they informed her that they had selected her house
because it had been recommended to them for its atmosphere. Doña Lucía
could only nod and curtsey, and turn every color of the rainbow. She
perceived, however, that her guests from Córdoba would require her to
set a good table; and, against her will, she found herself forced to
ask Nacha for her board.
This was what Nacha had been dreading. She could not blame Doña Lucía,
who was well within her right. All night long she tried to devise some
means of escaping the inevitable. Should she try a hand at a gambling
table, buy a lottery ticket, ask someone to lend her money...? But at
two o'clock the next day she put on her street clothes and started off
for the house of Signora Sanmartino, avoiding Julieta's clear eyes as
she did so; for she was ashamed, not so much because of the act itself
as because of what it signified, the betrayal of a feeling which had
ennobled her and purified her in the eyes of her companions.
Nacha knew Juanita Sanmartino of old. Although Juanita was an Italian
she might have been Queen Victoria's own sister. The same complexion,
the same downward curving nose, the same odd and rather ridiculous way
of wearing her hair. Like Mme. Annette, she had a daughter, and for her
daughter's sake traded in the misfortunes of other women. Her daughter,
a pretty girl of fourteen, lived in the house; and her pristine
innocence seemed quite untouched by her surroundings.
Nacha returned crushed. She paid for a few days' board; then went to
her room, and threw herself on her bed, weeping.
Suddenly she felt a presence in the room and sat up. More skeleton-like
than ever, Ana María stood looking at her. Nacha gave a little scream.
The girl tried to take her hand, but Nacha drew away, shuddering, from
the touch of her skin.
"Why ... are you afraid ... of me?"
Ana María's words struck her ear like a voice from beyond the grave.
It was growing dark; but Nacha had not the courage to get up and turn
on the light, nor did she know what to reply. So she waited, hoping
Julieta would come in.
"Tell me again about Monsalvat," commanded Ana María feverishly.
"I think he must have loved me very much, don't you? Who else would
have done what he did for me? And yet sometimes I think it was not for
me at all, but for his sister who was betrayed, and who is lost, as I
am lost. I think he did for me what he wanted to do for her."
Ana María's expression was very strange, her eyes wild as though she
saw something as ghastly as death. Nacha, terrified, was about to cry
out; but Ana María sat silent, her wasted body scarcely able any longer
to hold the unhappy spirit that was trying desperately to tear itself
out of it. Finally she stood up and went out of the room, but with
an unsteady step, leaning on the articles of furniture she passed.
When Julieta and Sara came in, Nacha told them about Ana María's
unaccountable behavior.
"Perhaps she knew Monsalvat. Perhaps he was a lover of hers," suggested
Sara.
"Oh," cried Nacha, with a start. "I see what it is. I see! His sister!"
Julieta rushed to the girl's room to discover if this were true. She
found Ana María lying on her bed, motionless, apparently asleep.
While Julieta stood looking at her, she opened her eyes once or twice
but apparently saw nothing. Julieta spoke to her, but received no
reply. She knew this was all very strange, but stood hesitating, not
knowing what to do, until Ana María grew restless and began to murmur
unintelligibly. Then Julieta called Sara and Nacha. It occurred to them
to give the sick girl some brandy; but she grew worse, and began to
moan. Then she became delirious. They sent for the doctor. The whole
house was curious, now, to see what was going on. Some of the boarders
crowded into the room, others stood around the door asking questions.
Doña Lucía, full of scruples, did not venture to come in.
When the doctor arrived, Ana María was dying. He was not long in
discovering what had happened, for a morphine syringe lay on the floor,
and on the table by the bed there was a bottle of the drug.
Julieta and Nacha searched through the dead girl's belongings for a
clue to her name; and they soon came upon some old letters tied up
in blue ribbon. Almost everyone began "Dear Eugenia" and ended "Your
brother" or "Fernando." Among them were three photographs, one of an
elderly man, one of a woman, and one of Fernando Monsalvat. Nacha
took possession of this last. There could no longer be any doubt. The
unfortunate morphine addict was Eugenia Monsalvat....
Nacha had never seen death at close hand before. Obsessed by the
scene she had just witnessed, she imagined herself dying, forsaken by
everyone she knew. The horrible pictures Monsalvat had painted of what
lay in store for her rose threateningly in her memory; and she was so
terrified by her imaginings that she could not bear to be alone for a
single moment, nor could she bring herself to go to bed. Once when she
tried to sleep fully dressed, she awoke suddenly, uttering a shriek
which startled the entire household. In her dream she had been locked
in a coffin....
Panchito's aunt, and Doña Lucía set the room in order, and performed
the last services for poor Ana María. Sara, whose custom it was to go
out to the streets every night after dinner, remained in the room,
silent, and full of grotesque fears. As the women sat watching the
dead girl one of them began to pray, and the girls joined in, shaken
and weeping. The rough pine coffin, the two yellow tapers, the tearful
prayers for the unhappy creature who had died in poverty, and far
from any of her kin, the grief of these other girls, who wept as if
repentent of all the tawdry weakness of their lives, formed a scene
impressive even to the three or four men looking on. It seemed as
though Ana María's long days of suffering, and short hours of joy, her
caresses and her laughter, the goblets of champagne that those dead
hands had raised to then living lips, and the soft silks that had once
touched that cold body, were transformed into tears now, blinding the
eyes of these girls, who wept for her past, for her death, for her
suffering, but above all, for her despair.
At a certain moment, when the women began to pray, the two students,
empty-headed and irreligious as they were, had the same impulse. They
too wished to offer something to the dead; and at precisely the same
moment, hastily, and each trying to hide the gesture from the other,
they crossed themselves. At any other time this would have been the
occasion of ridicule; but now each turned away with a smile that had
in it more of pity than anything else; for even they felt that there
was in that room something more than a tragic death; to cross ones-self
in the presence of these even more tragic lives seemed indeed a small
thing.