That fifteenth of November was, for Nacha Regules, one of the
unforgettable days of her life; for it brought her intense happiness
and at the same time almost unbearable sorrow. She had not gone to the
house of the paralytic the day before, as she was occupied in moving
to another boarding house. Doña Lucía's had become distasteful to her
since she had discovered that one of the men there was accustomed to
spend the afternoon reading in one room while his wife received men in
another. She had made inquiries of the other boarders, expressed her
indignation, complained to Doña Lucía. The husband thereupon sought an
interview with her. He was a vigorous blond, with a yellow mustache,
prominent eyes, and a misshapen mouth.
"You have the wrong idea about me," he began. "I'm an honorable man;
I never owed a cent to anybody, and what's more, I don't owe anybody
a cent now; and what my wife does is her own business, a private
matter...."
Nacha did not care to talk with him; so she told him he was quite
right and put an end to the interview. However she left the house two
days later. On account of an unpleasant incident at Juanita's she
ceased going there also; and Julieta introduced her to her friend, the
paralytic.
She arrived at this woman's house early one afternoon, and found her
alone. The paralytic asked to be read to and Nacha began reading aloud
the interminable novel her employer was engaged upon. Nacha had felt
depressed and nervous when she arrived, although she had no special
reason for feeling so; but this narrative full of absurd adventures,
related in an even more absurd style, amused and diverted her. She read
for nearly an hour. The paralytic, by no means stupid nor illiterate,
had no very high opinion of such hair-raising stories; but she had
no other book on hand to entertain herself with. At three o'clock
the servant, with a suggestion of mystery in her manner, called her
mistress out of the room. The paralytic rolled herself down the hall to
the parlor. In a short time she returned and told Nacha someone wanted
to see her.
"Who is it? Tell me! If you don't I won't go--I can't--"
Her heart was pounding violently as if it were the clapper of a
swinging bell. Fear vibrated through her and an indefinable distress;
though she knew that Monsalvat was there ... and yet ... trembling, she
hesitated, not knowing whether to run away or throw herself into his
arms.
"It's a friend of yours. Why do you want to know who it is? I don't
know him. He looks all right, and that's enough for me. He's waiting
for you. Go along! I tell you he's a friend--but what's the matter with
you? Are you afraid of something? If there is anything wrong I won't
let you go--"
This put an end to Nacha's indecision. Fear of not seeing him took
possession of her, soul and body, and pushed her down the corridor
to the room where he was waiting. She was still trembling; she did
not know what she was going to say, nor how she was going to act,
and she wanted to cry. Even at the door she hesitated, and felt
faint; everything grew blurred around her. She heard the voice of the
paralytic following her down the hall, calling, "Go in! Go right in!"
She heard a voice clamoring from her heart commanding her to open the
door.--Then what happened she never knew. Someone must have opened the
door from within, and then closed it. She was trembling and weeping,
her hands pressed to her face. She could not see Monsalvat; but she
felt his presence beside her.
When she raised her eyes she saw what anguish was, an anguish made up
of torturing memories, and the presentiment of a fatality even then
rearing insuperable obstacles between them; yet this pain only added to
the intense joy of that moment.
"Nacha, why did you drive me away that afternoon? That was the
beginning of all the unhappiness I have had since. Perhaps I didn't act
as I should have done. Well, then, I ask you to forgive me. Since that
day I have thought only of you. The problem of your life has become
the problem of mine. I have searched for you in all the places I could
think of--and how it hurt, Nacha, not to find you...."
They stood there facing one another, her hands in his. Nacha, in her
emotion, lowered her head. She did not know how to act with this man
who was so simple and so good. She felt that she too must be frank
and straightforward. She had no right to conceal anything from him,
disguise her real thoughts, lie to him. She could not foresee what the
outcome of this meeting was to be. Should she let herself be carried
along by whatever happened? If Monsalvat should want her, why she was
his, body and soul! If not, what then?
And now she was beside him on the sofa, listening to what he was
saying; and while he told her of all the efforts he had made to find
her he wondered if the woman sitting beside him could be worthy of a
passion such as his. Fearful of analyzing his emotion, fearful that
his thoughts might dwell too long on this doubt, he tried to put all
his feeling and enthusiasm into his story. His words summoned before
Nacha, breathlessly listening, the long caravan of his dreams, his life
of other years, and his life now; he talked to her of the ideals which
tormented him, and without which he could not live; and he told her
that at last he had found out the purpose of a man's life: to work for
others, to live for those who have need of us.
Nacha was listening in silence. Sometimes she had dreamed of what this
meeting of theirs would be like; and she had imagined that nothing
at such a moment could serve their emotion but abandonment--kisses,
caresses more than humanly sweet. For such, to her then, was love;
but now she understood that there was a love greater than that. She
was undaunted, but surprised. She did not know whether to delight in
it or be saddened by it. The man she was listening to was not of her
world; to her he was an enigma, something perhaps too far above her
for her groping comprehension. She could not hope ever to understand
him. How could she, poor fallen woman that she was, destitute of every
possession, rise to the world of a being such as he? And sadness cast
a beautifying shadow over her face. Monsalvat noticed the distress
in her eyes and asked why she was troubled. She made a great effort
not to burst into tears, using all her strength of will to master her
weakness. And she won. Suddenly she perceived that she too was strong,
for her will had made its decision.
"I am sad ... because ... I do not love you. And I know that I never
shall!"
Monsalvat, in complete stupefaction, looked at her. He could not
understand. He had always believed this woman loved him. He had felt,
as one feels a human presence that can neither be heard nor seen, the
presence of a great love between them. And now ... it was impossible!
What was the secret of this baffling mystery? Could Nacha be once more
under Arnedo's control? He tried to prove to her that it was himself
she loved; and as do all lovers, he presented arguments that sober
sense would have declared absurd. The whole strength of his case lay in
the tone of his voice, and the sincerity of his emotion.
"No, I do not love.... It's no use. I can never love you. You have been
very kind to me, very generous, and loyal. I love you as a friend ...
but that is all."
Her words seemed only to show Monsalvat to what extent this passion
possessed him. At times he had believed that the feeling animating
him was simply a desire to regenerate this girl who was worthy of
a better fate than the one he saw her struggling with, a desire to
save another human being from falling to the lowest depths of evil, a
desire to accomplish something for the sake of good; since, up to that
time he had lived only for himself. At the same time he believed that
he loved her; but this love of his seemed to mingle with all these
other feelings and desires. Now, with genuine terror, he saw that all
his ideals, all his desires of regeneration for her and for himself,
were either disappearing, or retreating to the background of his
consciousness. At that moment he was nothing but a man in love, and she
the adored woman! Nacha was no longer a wanton needing to be saved. All
that had not the slightest importance. It was blotted out of his mind,
in fact; and there remained only the body and soul of a woman for whom
he would have given his life. In his absorption in this tremendous fact
he quite forgot himself; and he was shaken by a convulsion that rose
from the depths of his soul.
"Yes, you love me, Nacha, and you must belong to me--for life. I
promise to make you happy. Whatever tenderness, whatever good there is
in me is all for you, Nacha. I'll do whatever you want, whatever you
command...."
He was suddenly startled and he checked himself. How far was he going?
The idea of offering himself as a husband passed through his mind. He
grew red, and was deeply distressed. The idea seemed absurd. Then, as
it occurred to him that this was the only means of winning Nacha, he
clung to the idea desperately. She could not refuse such an offer. It
would make her understand the extent of this affection. A man of his
position, a man of talent, respected in the community, marrying a girl
who had offended against its code! Nacha would be thankful; she would
know how to value such a sacrifice.
"Nacha," he began solemnly, "I shall make you my wife. You must marry
me...."
Nacha was profoundly stirred. She tried to speak and could not, so hard
was she fighting for self control. She only could know what a ghastly
struggle that was because she knew how she loved him. She had loved him
too much before. It was worse now, after hearing his generous words.
A voice whispered to her to throw herself into his arms. Something in
the very centre of her being was impelling her towards him; but another
voice told her she had no right, outcast as she was, to marry this man;
that such an act would make her guilty forever of having destroyed him
as a part of society. A sacrifice was demanded of her! She must be more
generous even than he, subdue herself, suffer, submit to her fate,
refrain from dragging him down with her! She did not know where the
voice came from. It may have been crying out to her from that afternoon
when she first listened to Monsalvat telling her to suffer in order to
find redemption; but it was a voice that awed her tormented soul even
while it bade her speak and leave this man. Then the strange serenity
of sacrifice came to her rescue. She was pale as death, and smiled so
as not to weep. She summoned all the love within her not to let her
yield.
"Yes, you must marry me," Monsalvat was insisting desperately.
"No."
"What is it, Nacha? Why are you so strange? I love you, you love me...."
Her will triumphed. She called to mind other moments of her life and
made one supreme effort. Then she began to laugh.
"No, I couldn't love you. All this is ridiculous anyway! Such
make-believe is unworthy of you. I put you out of my house once before,
and I'll do it again. You simply want to make fun of me, because I'm a
poor girl, and defenceless. You wanted to make a fool of me, getting me
to swallow all this stuff! But now it's my turn to laugh at you, just
as I did in the cabaret. I--married! And to you, a crazy man!"
She broke into a laugh that was loud and false and harsh.
Monsalvat remained seated, his hands clasped over his head; he was
dizzy with pain, and he could not understand....
"You are mad ... you have gone mad!" he exclaimed.
Was she really fainting? She saw Monsalvat cover his face with his
hands; she turned to the wall and leaned against it, letting herself
weep for a brief moment. There was relief in that. With renewed
strength, she sat down on a chair and waited. Soon Monsalvat stood up.
He too was pale as he came near her and, barely looking at her, held
out his hand.
"Some time ... you will ... let me see you?" he faltered.
"No. Why should I? I don't love you. Leave me. And if it's true that
you love me, forget me as soon as you can. Go, please! I am ill, and
want to be alone...."
Monsalvat did not insist. He could not have done so. He took his hat
and went away, stumbling like a man who has come to the end of his
strength. One might have thought him sick, or crazy, or perhaps drunk,
as he staggered out. Crossing that threshold was like wrenching his
soul from his body; and in the little parlor that knew only shabbiness
and shame, grief remained, lending it a dignity it had never known
before.
Nacha could no longer hold her anguish at bay. She snatched off her hat
with a frantic gesture, and tore it into bits. Moaning and weeping she
fled into one of the other rooms and threw herself down on the bed.
The cripple rolled her wheel chair to the door and looked in. Believing
that she understood Nacha's trouble, she did not disturb her, but went
away again. She talked to the girls awhile; but the tragedy she saw
close at hand saddened her; for it reminded her of old intimate griefs
of her own. She too, in her youth, had known love, in far away Italy;
and that love had been maimed and destroyed. After that, dishonor and
vice seemed a small matter; yet, at times, even now, she went back in
thought to the home of her childhood, so different in its simple beauty
from the wretchedness of her present surroundings. But here she was,
old, crippled, with no choice but to go on in the familiar rut. Why let
herself be saddened then? She had known life, and found that melancholy
had a bad effect on the liver! So she chatted with the girls, merrily,
as was her custom whenever she felt a touch of sadness.
But someone came in, and asked for Nacha. The cripple rolled her chair
into the bedroom where the girl was still weeping, her head almost
hidden by the pillow.
"Nacha child! Don't cry that way! Why let yourself suffer so? No man is
worth it. You know that. You are worth more than the best of them, you
have a good heart ... and they...."
She muttered an obscene word to herself and began to laugh.
"Come, Nacha, someone wants to see you. They are all alike! No one of
them is worth more than another. They're all rotten--just good to ruin
women and then desert them. Come, child, come--here's a friend!"
She patted Nacha on the shoulder, and told her she would send her
caller in. Nacha suddenly sat up. She wiped away her tears and said
quietly, "No, señora. Don't send him. I am going away for good."
"But, child, why? Are you angry with me?" the old cripple exclaimed,
astonished by Nacha's tone. "Aren't you ever coming back to my house?"
"Neither to your house nor to any other. I am not angry. You have been
very kind to me, and I shall never forget it."
"Well then...." The woman did not know what to make of the girl's words.
Nacha was silent while she smoothed her hair, and straightened her
dress. Then she kissed the cripple, took both her hands and said, her
lips quivering with pain:
"It's because ... I want to be worthy ... of that man's love...."
"Oh, I see. You want to be respectable for awhile, and then get
married...."
The cripple spoke with the certainty of a woman who understands what
she is talking about. Nacha's expression, however, indicated that her
purpose was not quite as the cripple supposed.
"What is it then? Tell me. You know I like you, child, and respect you.
And I'd do for you anything you ask. If you want to live decent, and
need money, I'll give it to you--I'll save so I can!"
Nacha was touched.
"You are good, señora. I thank you from my very heart; and because I
know how good you are, I'll tell you. No, I'm not going to get married.
I couldn't let him marry me. But he loves me--so much! And if he gives
me such great love, I want to be decent. Not to get married, no, just
to be worthy of living in his thoughts, and in his heart...."
The paralytic drew the girl's head down to her twisted old lips and
kissed her. Freeing herself from the woman's embrace, Nacha hastily
left the room.
As she fled down the stairs she realized that it was many years since
she had felt as happy as at that moment!