One afternoon as Torres was lunching with Ruiz de Castro in a
restaurant on the Esmeralda he thought he caught a glimpse of Nacha.
As a matter of fact it was Nacha. She was returning to the store where
she had been employed some six years earlier, and with her were a
number of other girl employees, for it was nearly two o'clock, the end
of the lunch hour. Torres would have gone up to speak to her if he
had been alone; but Ruiz was relating his adventures with that plump
lady who had carried on so persistent a discussion with Monsalvat at
de Castro's dinner party, and had so eloquently defended established
institutions.
"You don't say!" murmured Torres, absently; for all his attention was
fixed on the slender figure hovering in front of the huge shop door
which was about to open and swallow her up.
"She's a wonder, my friend," proclaimed Ruiz, who was given to
committing indiscretions in words as well as actions. "What passion!
and how she can sob!"
When Torres reached his house he went at once to talk to Monsalvat who
was now living with him. After the serious illness that had followed
close upon his interview with Nacha, Torres had taken him in hand, and
when he discovered that his patient was paying no attention to doctor's
orders, had carried him off to his own home where he could insist on
obedience. He persuaded Monsalvat to ask for a two months' leave, for
there was no doubt that he was suffering from brain-fag and serious
nervous derangement.
Torres had a theory that Monsalvat's condition was not entirely due
to his passion for Nacha. He knew the history of his friend's moral
struggles, and he believed that the causes of Monsalvat's illness were
numerous and complex. The latter's abrupt change of attitude towards
life could not but profoundly affect his whole nature. Following this,
had come several months of constant self-reproach, and self-disgust for
the uselessness and selfishness of his life up to that time. He went
as far as to blame himself for his inability to transform the world.
Torres had tried, vainly, to prove to him that he was far from useless,
and that no one could have called him selfish. His conduct compared
surprisingly well with that of other men of his generation; and his
reputation indicated general recognition of that fact. Monsalvat
protested that all this might be true from a superficial and worldly
view of his life, but it only proved how false were society's standards.
"Useless and selfish," Monsalvat repeated. "Not less so than prominent
politicians or ranch owners, lawyers, and men in society. We are all
selfish. I do not condemn myself only. I condemn all the rest as well.
The world is full of evil, selfishness, meanness--and I have shared in
it all. That is why I despise myself, and abhor my past life."
Torres wisely kept silent, for fear of exciting his patient.
It was clear also that the knowledge of his sister's mode of life, and
of the degradation his mother had fallen into before her death, had
seriously injured Monsalvat's nervous system. The scene with Irene, his
worrying about the tenement, the anxieties of that search through the
world of fallen women, the sight of so many horrors, had all left their
mark on him; and finally the shock of Eugenia's death, intensified
by the manner in which he had learned of it, had played its part in
undermining his health. Obviously his love for Nacha, his unsuccessful
attempt to save her, the knowledge that she was leading a vicious life,
perhaps because of him, were the principal causes of his breakdown, but
all these other matters played an important part in bringing about his
present condition.
Now, however, after two months of rest and quiet, Monsalvat was
beginning to be himself. The companionship of Torres had done him a
great deal of good. The doctor made him eat, gave him stimulants when
he needed them, encouraged him to spend most of his time out of doors
and even stayed up with him on the nights when he was unable to sleep.
Torres might have accomplished a complete cure, had not the evil that
flourishes in certain human hearts prevented. Monsalvat had recently
received some anonymous letters, four in all. One of them insulted
him by insulting his mother, another called him to account for living
on women, and being an anarchist! The other two were content with
intimating that he belonged in a lunatic asylum, and would soon be
put there. The effect of these letters was to excite him so that he
could neither sleep nor eat. The first especially reawakened in him
his life-long obsession, cruelly reminding him of what was, in his
estimation, the reason for his moral bankruptcy.
The doctor wondered who could have sent these letters, for Monsalvat's
position was not such as to excite envy. At the Ministry his new
ideas had become known, and Monsalvat was looked upon with hostility
or contempt. Even the Minister mistrusted him now. In the social
circles where he was once respected, he had lost all consideration.
Ercasty was methodically discrediting him, with admirable persistence
and thoroughness. Informed by mutual acquaintances of Monsalvat's
views with respect to Nacha and other girls of her sort, and of that
frantic search through houses of ill-fame, he confirmed the rumor that
Monsalvat had fallen very low indeed. At first he was content with
making insinuations; but finally he came out with the bald statement
that Monsalvat was a vulgar exploiter of women. Of course there were
not lacking those who accused him of participating in frightful
anarchist plots, and preparing bombs for wholesale assassinations.
Financially too he was ruined. The forty thousand of the mortgage
raised on his property had melted away. His mother's debts, the
mulatto's blackmail, Moreno's incessant appeals, had taken several
thousand. His excursion through the city's public houses had cost him
four thousand _pesos_. Ten thousand _pesos_ had gone for improvements
on the tenement. Monsalvat decided he would have to sell the building,
for his salary was barely enough for his own expenses, and his tenants
either paid no rent or paid very little.
That afternoon Monsalvat was reading as he lay in bed. The book beside
him was the New Testament. On his face was reflected something of the
serenity of late afternoon. When Torres opened the window to let in air
and sunshine, everything in the room seemed to draw a breath, and grow
animate. A bar of light like a luminous golden coverlet spread over the
bed.
"Look at that!" exclaimed the doctor. "And you spend your time shut up
here almost in the dark. You'll never get well that way. You ought to
go to Palermo, stay out in the sun--and not read or write a line."
"I know what I need," replied his friend quietly.
"What do you need? You are always mysterious."
Monsalvat went on reading. Torres remained with him for a few moments
and then withdrew without a word.
The doctor had been observing his friend for over a month, with
constantly growing curiosity. Monsalvat's intelligence seemed to have
grown sharper and deeper. He was still weak in body but his mind was
keener than ever. He reasoned with irrefutable logic, and divined his
opponent's arguments at a word. Torres attributed this mental fitness
to mental exercise. His patient talked with no one but his host, did
not go out, read very little; but all day long he was occupied in
thinking and remembering, trying to interpret his past life, trying
to understand the significance of the life he was then experiencing.
He spent hours analyzing the persons he knew, and with extraordinary
penetration. Torres was more than once overcome with amazement when
Monsalvat guessed his thoughts.
"Why should you be startled?" Monsalvat asked him on a certain
occasion. "What has happened is simply this. I am living from within
now. Up to six months ago I lived from without, superficially; and
the life I lived seemed to be the life of other people rather than my
own. It was an objective, a false, a lying kind of life. Just like
your own and that of nearly everyone. A materialistic kind of life,
never transcending the commonplace, devoid of mystery, and of genuinely
spiritual anxiety. But now my eyes are open and I begin to understand.
I have analyzed myself, I have looked within; and I have discovered a
great many things there that I knew nothing of. I know now what there
is in me, and what parts of it are worth something, and what I must
give to others. And I even begin to suspect why I am alive!"
"I knew before that...."
Torres stopped abruptly, not caring to end his sentence. He pretended
to have forgotten what he wanted to say.
"Why don't you go on? Have you really forgotten what was on the tip
of your tongue? Well, I know what it was. You were going to say that
all that happened this past year, and the love I found, would lead me
straight to ... mysticism!"
"What? No, no, not that, exactly."
But that was exactly what he had been thinking. Monsalvat knew how
abhorrent to a man as orderly and normal, as submissive to society's
dicta, as Torres, the word "mysticism" must be. The doctor had come
to admit society's responsibility for much of the unhappiness in the
world; but he had no sympathy for those heroic acts necessary to drive
out injustice. He admired Monsalvat but at the same time considered his
passion for redeeming others a form of insanity. According to Torres
a normal man should accept things as they are. The rebel, he who at
sight of the suffering of life's victims, breaks out into indignant
accusations or takes up some useless but heroic work, was, in his
estimation, a madman.
Since his recent glimpse of Nacha, Torres had been anxious to talk to
her. Once or twice he watched the girls coming out of the shop. He saw
Nacha again, but it was very evident that she avoided him. Convinced
that Nacha did not care to hear any news of Monsalvat, whose friendship
with him she must have known, he gave up his attempt to communicate
with her.
The days went by. Monsalvat never spoke of Nacha and little by little
Torres came to the conclusion that he had forgotten her.
One morning, in March, Torres went to his guest's room at a very early
hour, to dissuade him from going away.
"Why leave me, Monsalvat? Stay here a couple of months longer, until
you are quite all right again. The kind of breakdown you're just
getting over is no joke, my dear boy. And where are you going without
a cent to your name, eh? Back to your quixotic notions about righting
all humanity's wrongs, and redeeming people who have nothing to redeem
about them? That's all nonsense, and leads nowhere. One man alone can't
accomplish anything. All you can do is harm, filling the heads of those
poor people with wild ideas. No, my son. The world is full of evil.
Well, what's to be done? You have to take it as it is, and get what
good you can out of it, and--'forward, march!' Eh?"
Monsalvat did not reply. He lay on his side, his elbow resting on the
pillow, his hand on his breast, and his eyes turned towards the window.
But he was not looking at what was out there beyond him: he was looking
within, searching his own heart and the hearts of a multitude of other
human beings whom he saw there standing between him and his friend. The
doctor's words reached him from far, far away--so far that he scarcely
understood them. Meanwhile the window seemed to be catching fire,
making its offering of light to Monsalvat as from a golden, quivering
sheet of flame!
The doorbell rang. Without moving, Monsalvat said:
"That's the postman. He is bringing a letter from Nacha--for you."
Torres smiled at this prophecy; a forced smile, however, for he feared
that it might be true. He got up and was about to leave the room when
the maid came in with a letter. The doctor signed the receipt for which
the messenger was waiting, placing it for that purpose on the table
near Monsalvat's bed. He did not notice that Monsalvat's eyes were
fixed intently on the small bit of paper. Then he opened the letter and
looked at its signature, disconcerted. Monsalvat laughed, enjoying his
friend's confusion.
"It's from Ruiz de Castro. He wants to see me ... some affair of his
... he doesn't say what ..." stammered Torres, thrusting the letter
into his pocket. Then he went out, embarrassed and perplexed, while
Monsalvat smiled to himself.
For the letter actually did come from Nacha! She wrote that she wanted
to see Torres, but not at the entrance to the shop. From her letter it
appeared that she did not know where Monsalvat was. She wanted to find
out--that was why she wrote about him. She had learned that he was ill;
"Was it true?" she asked; and "was she to blame?"
That evening Torres went to the lodgings at the address Nacha had sent
him. He found a respectable house, the tenants of which appeared to be
shop employees and their families.
"You don't know what I've been through," murmured Nacha. "We met one
afternoon, and I--"
Torres knew something of this meeting.
"But you don't know why I acted as I did," Nacha continued. "It was
because I loved him; because I didn't want to do him harm. So that he,
distinguished and fine as he is, shouldn't be ruined by associating his
life with that of a ... someone like myself.... You see? Since that day
I have lived straight; and somehow, I'm still alive, although really
I am dying ... with grief.... But this I accept, for his sake, and to
make up for the kind of life I led before. I accept it so that he may
not have to suffer, so that he will forget me, and be happy, and go on
with the kind of life he ought to have--even though I die of it. What
good am I?"
They were alone, facing each other over a small table, lit by a small
lamp which had been pushed to one side. Torres felt the shadows of
the room pressing around his throat, choking him. Nacha's face alone
stood out, catching the light. The doctor was thinking of the frightful
pranks Destiny can play.
But this emotion passed, and the man of the world, laden with
prejudices, falsehood, cruelties--and good, withal, replaced the plain
and honest man of feeling.
"You couldn't know what I've been through," Nacha repeated. "Since
that afternoon I have earned my living by work. First there were days
of discouragement, when I went hungry. Then I found employment in a
shop. Eleven hours a day and thirty dollars a month! I get a bonus
too. But there are fines for the slightest thing. Altogether I earn
about sixty dollars more or less--there's no rest during those eleven
hours. Sometimes they send me with a load of goods up to the fifth
floor. We aren't allowed to use the elevators. It isn't a gay life, you
see. But it's for him, so I don't mind! Not so that he'll love me--I'm
not worthy of living with him--just to deserve, even at a distance, a
little of the love he has for me!"
Torres looked away from her; it occurred to him that this change in
Nacha was a danger for Monsalvat. He believed he must save his friend
once for all, and to accomplish that required a lie. He reflected that
it was really too bad that deceit should at times be necessary, even
to accomplish good results. Something inquired of him if he really
believed that the purpose he had in view was "good." He hesitated a
moment; but he remembered the world's opinion, the world's morality,
the world's sentiments. He turned towards Nacha, and with a gesture as
if he was casting from him an unpleasant thought, and in a hard voice,
he said:
"You must not see him again, Nacha, ever. Anyway, he has forgotten
you. Yes! He is in love with another woman, and is thinking of getting
married. You don't want to wreck his plans, eh?"
She could not see. Everything was dark. She felt a "yes" come
mechanically from her throat, and she put out a hand, so inert, that
it barely felt the rapid pressure of another hand. Then came the noise
of a closing door, and the sound of retreating footsteps. But darkness
remained, empty ... and endless.
* * * * *
As she sat at the small table, her senses dull to everything, she did
not hear a knock at her door; nor was she aware that a man had come in
and was there, before her, waiting. A sudden leap of her heart, and a
flash of consciousness made her raise her eyes. She thought she must be
feverish, in a delirium! She would have cried out, but something within
her, that overpowered her, muffled her voice.
"Nacha!" he said.
"Is this true? It is not a dream? Not a dream?"
They were face to face, but they could not speak. No words could
express what shone in Monsalvat's eyes, and echoed in Nacha's
breathless weeping. The room seemed to fill with memories of the
distant past, scenes fraught with sorrow, and ancient longings, taking
on a strange, mysterious life, like an old temple that has heard the
prayers of centuries.
Nacha's tears were for what had been, and what ought to have been;
for what she had not wanted to be, and what the world had forced her
to become. Monsalvat sat at her side, caressing her hands; but he saw
facing him the two men he had been in his lifetime, and he demanded an
account of them for what his life had been, looking into their very
souls, cursing them; and before Nacha passed the different women who
had dwelt in her body, the bad woman, and the good, the victim and the
weakling.
And in that dim light, they understood one another, these two suffering
human beings. The light in the heart of each shone out to the other.
Their heads drew close together. Without knowing it, without seeking
it, they kissed gently, like children of one mother.