One afternoon in June, distressed by the oppressive humidity and
suffocating heat that precedes a storm, Monsalvat went out on the
balcony of his room, and from there he saw Nacha coming home. Her slow
dragging step startled him, seeming to announce a catastrophe.
He met her in the court and asked what had happened. Nacha, speechless,
held out her hand to him. She seemed crushed, defeated by life.
Monsalvat felt certain that something serious must have happened, or
Nacha, reserved as she always was, would never have clung in such
fashion to his hand in the presence of others. Heads were poked out of
the windows and the women and some of the men talking or working in the
_patio_ looked at one another and began to laugh. However, Monsalvat
and Nacha were too much preoccupied by their anxiety to separate.
Monsalvat took Nacha to her room, supporting her by an arm; and there
she told him what had happened.
She had for some days recently felt tired and ill, the result of
standing so many hours at a stretch, and so frequently climbing three
or four pairs of stairs, as the employees were not allowed to use the
elevators. That afternoon she had been ordered to carry a mannequin
down several flights. She demurred, saying that her strength would
give out; but the manager turned a deaf ear. Laden with the heavy
wooden figure, she reached the bottom of the first flight, staggering
and faint with the strain. She set it down resolved to go no further
with it; but a message reached her to the effect that if she did not
comply with her orders, she would be dismissed. So she attempted to go
down another flight, some of the employees laughing at the ridiculous
figure she presented, others silently pitying her. She tried to pull
herself together for a final effort, went down a few steps, and
then--she did not know how it happened--she fell, and rolled down
a half flight to the landing. When she regained consciousness, she
found herself surrounded by employees. The manager, watch in hand, was
observing her, and the mannequin lay in pieces near by. She asked to
go home and was told that she would forfeit her pay for the hours she
was absent, also for the time during which she had lain unconscious.
That explained the manager's presence with his watch! And somehow this
last cruelty, trifling as it was, took the heart out of her. What was
she but a slave, worth only so many hours work to her owner? Then she
was also told that she must pay for the mannequin.--Pay for it? Cold,
frightened, wide-eyed, she had scarcely understood what they were
saying. Pay, yes, pay so much every month, ten dollars a month knocked
off her salary. That was what they meant. "How was she going to live on
what was left?" "You can manage," they replied. "That's your business,
not ours." She had no strength to argue the matter. Money, tradition,
power were all against her. Probably they had right on their side too,
as they had everything else!
When Monsalvat left her, he found Mauli and some others of his
neighbors near the door. They grimaced at him. The caretaker, who had
just left the group, to avoid Fernando's seeing him, stepped into a
doorway and turned his back. Monsalvat passed by quite indifferent to
the manoeuvre.
But no sooner was he out of sight than the man turned around and went
to Nacha's door and knocked. Nacha, still crying, let him in. He was
a person of disagreeable aspect, due chiefly to his over-meek and
righteous expression, and his trick of keeping his eyes on the ground,
and never looking at anyone he was speaking to. He never laughed, and
walked very softly, with his arms close to his body. To his tenants he
was merciless. Should they perchance fall two weeks behind with their
rent, they were dispossessed even though sick in bed. A coward, he
could nevertheless always count on the protection of the police in case
of need.
"I have come ... Miss--(or would Madame, perhaps, be more appropriate?)
to say that I am obliged--to give you notice. I hope you understand.
Your conduct in this house cannot be allowed by any one who takes his
responsibilities--as I hope I take mine--seriously. My landlady has the
utmost confidence in me, and, under the circumstances...."
Nacha did not understand. She looked at the deceptive, hypocritical
face, trying to guess what words it was going to utter. She could not
imagine what this man wanted of her.
"There now--you're playing innocent. Well, I don't like to explain too
much in detail.... It would be better if you noticed for yourself that
this is a decent house, and it isn't a house where women--ah--women,
such as you.... Ha! Ha! In short, Miss, or Missus, no more calls from
gentlemen! If you want that kind of thing, you know, there are ...
well, there are places...."
"You are mistaken!" cried Nacha, suddenly springing to her feet.
The man lowered his eyes with an exaggeration of humility, and seemed
to shrink, as he replied: "Of course we are all human, and of course,
likely to make mistakes. Ha-ha! But we know something about you, Miss.
No, I'm not saying anything ... but.... Can you deny having lived in a
certain "house" on ---- Street, eh? Am I mistaken about that, eh? Ha
ha!"
Nacha, in a fury, drew near him. She was impelled to strike him and
drive him out of there by main force; but she thought of the scandal
it would cause, and of Monsalvat; and she remembered that the odious
creature in front of her had certain powers, as representing the
landlady: he was the figurehead for a multi-millionairess, ruling for
her, collecting her rents.... To prevent her losing thirty or forty
dollars he put the hungry or the sick out on the street, or widows with
their broods of children. It was his function to turn over the entire
amount of monthly rent to the fine lady, his employer, so that she
could eventually distribute handsome sums to convents and sisterhoods!
"For all of me, Miss, you could stay. I don't interfere with people's
business. But the landlady--ha-ha!--doesn't want women of your kind...."
Nacha was losing her self-possession, and with a scream of anger,
she broke out, "Shut up, you devil! What kind? Get out of here this
instant, you coward!"
He opened the door and from the threshold shouted so that every one
could hear him, but all the while keeping his appearance of humility:
"What kind? Your kind, Missus, and we don't want none of your kind
here!"
Nacha threw herself on the floor, trembling, and with no strength left;
and she heard a laugh, cruel and startling, coming up from the _patio_.
It went through her like a knife. Her whole being rebelled. She wanted
to shout out in protest; but she could only be vanquished. Then a chill
crept in through her body to her very heart and soul. She shook for
hours in its grip.
Monsalvat knew nothing of what had happened; for it chanced that he
had lessons to give that evening and during the moment when he stopped
at Nacha's room on his return from supper, she did not let him see how
ill she was. He was still concerned about her accident at the store,
and urged her not to take it too much to heart. He was going to sell
his tenement very soon, and whatever money he received from it would be
hers.
Three nights a week Monsalvat held classes for some of the workmen in
the district. He had begun with three or four pupils, but they had
increased in numbers until now he had a class of twenty or thirty.
They all knew how to read. He talked to them about history, about the
different countries he had travelled in, about ethics. His simple
eloquence attracted these simple workers. As he commented upon some of
the day's occurrences, or a passage in some book, he summoned before
them a vision of a new society, of an era of love, and justice. At such
times his voice rang with human sympathy and a strange mystic fervor.
But on that night Monsalvat could not speak to his class in this
strain; for there was hate in his heart. The cruel treatment Nacha
had suffered in the store had stirred him to the depths of his
consciousness, and a multitude of details accumulated there and
forgotten, had risen to the surface, looming large with sudden
significance.
As the workmen filed into the room they shook hands with Monsalvat and
exchanged a few words with him. He always asked after their children,
or their wives and mothers. Then most of them sat down. A few preferred
to stand, leaning against the wall.
"Today," he was saying, "I came to understand something which I have
never understood before, though it is something true, something
fundamental! I have been talking to you about love's power to change
the world. Well, I was wrong! Love cannot transform the world. It
is nineteen hundred years since the world heard the most sublime
definition of love. None since has surpassed it, for none can. Yet
this love, in spite of the example given us with its definition,
has accomplished nothing. What then can we accomplish? If the words
that were spoken those many years ago have never been understood by
mankind, that must mean that men will never understand any words of
love. So then, we must preach hate. For to preach love is to become
the accomplice of injustice. To preach love is to work for the
preservation of things as they are, to wait for the advent of a day
that will never come! Love is almost always passive, inert. Hate is
action. Hate will give us strength; and with this strength we shall
succeed in winning the world to love. This then is what we must do.
Through hate, move on to love. Through violence, the instrument of
hate, impose peace, fraternity, justice! Moreover, when we use hate and
violence, we who are the underdogs, you and I, my friends, will only
be using the methods used toward us. Those who control, despise and
hate us, and use violence against us every moment of their lives. They
have organized hate and violence. They use force not only in secret,
but in broad daylight. I have seen how they use it on the human body,
its life and health, imposing monstrous and destructive tasks on human
beings! I have seen how they use it on human minds, condemning them to
eternal ignorance! I have seen them use it on women, and on children.
Even those who come to us with gentle words, hate us and only want
our servitude to continue. No, my friends. Love will not set us free.
Will the British shareholder who receives enormous dividends for his
capital invested in our railroads, in our large stores, in our packing
houses, listen to the voice of love? Will the tenement landlords who
throw women and sick children out on the street listen to the voice of
love? Do you believe they will? Will they listen to any language other
than that of check and bank note? But there is another language which
they can understand even though they don't want to, the language of our
violence!"
His pupils listened, motionless, but stirred. Some of them seemed
uneasy, as at the memory of a wrong; others looked at their teacher
with pity and with pain; others appeared rapt in a vision of new
worlds. It was evident too that more than one of them had difficulty
in understanding, and that nearly all of them were trying to establish
a relation between their own past and the words they were listening
to. For they had led lives of suffering always. They knew squalor, and
hunger; but with the years they had grown accustomed to misery and
poverty.
There was a pause. No one moved. No one, not even Monsalvat, dared
to speak. Something impressive was there among those men, like a
visible presence, and they seemed all to be gazing at it; and it was
everywhere. It was in each one of them, and in their comrade's eyes, in
the echo of their teacher's words that haunted their ears, in the deep
stillness of the room, in the rapid beating of their hearts.
The silence continued. One man tried to speak, but he looked about him
at his listeners, and said no more. At last they understood that there
was nothing to say, and they all got up simultaneously. One by one they
shook hands with Monsalvat. Never had those hands of theirs seemed so
warm, so vibrant, so vigorous. Some of the men had tears in their eyes,
one could not have told whether from joy or sadness.
When his class had gone, Monsalvat felt that he had accomplished an
act of justice, that he had taken a step, at least, toward the world's
transformation. Living as he did on sentiment and imagination, with
little or no sense of reality, he believed in the efficacy of the
vague abstract formulas he preached. In his ardent desire for a better
world there was a deal of mysticism: he lacked concrete rules, plans
of action, the realization that discipline is the basis of progress.
In his individualistic and lyric exaltation, he imagined that by means
of the just and tragic emotions of revolt, such as he had that evening
preached, and only through such means, could a better society be
brought about.
The next day he received a summons from the police. He was not
disturbed; but he supposed that the secret-service had reported him.
On arriving at headquarters he was led to the chief's office, where
he found himself face to face with an official personage who affected
Napoleonic brusqueness and thoroughness, and tried hard, in spite of
a sharp, thin face, to look like that Conqueror. Monsalvat knew him,
which did not prevent the chief's adopting a condescending manner
towards him.
"It's a bad plan, my good fellow, to talk as you've been doing," the
officer said, slowly walking up and down, his hand on his sword-belt,
and putting a degree more of stiffness into his rigidly erect carriage.
"Dangerous theories.... It's incomprehensible to me that a man of
your station in life should plot against our government, against our
country--as if conditions here were not the best to be found anywhere!
As if anyone who wanted to couldn't become rich in this country! You
people get a few ideas out of anarchist literature, and lose your heads
over them. All that stuff comes from your old and rotting Europe. It
has no possible application in a country like this, where every man has
a chance, where no one need go hungry, where no one can complain of
injustice...."
Monsalvat, who was staring hard at the orator, started, then looked his
amazement. Surely the man was joking! But no, he was perfectly serious,
and perfectly convinced. Monsalvat then remembered having heard this
identical speech a hundred, a thousand times before. Worse than that,
he remembered having written those very words himself! It was not
likely that he would be convinced by all this, nor attempt an answer.
Even the Chief of Police was aware of that, and ended the interview.
Before dismissing Monsalvat, however, he made him read a social law
which he was formulating. Monsalvat glanced through it and took himself
off, honoring the officer with the slightest of bows.
Although the incident was trifling, it depressed Monsalvat. It made
clear to him what he had become in this last year he had lived through.
Standing in that room at Police Headquarters, observing the chief's
attitude towards him, interpreting the mere fact of his being thus
summoned, he saw clearly both what he had been, and what he had ceased
being. Before, he had had position, money, a flattering reputation,
friends. Now he had nothing; he was but a poor devil, at the mercy
of the police. And all for what? What had he accomplished in a year?
He had lifted three or four women out of the gutter, taught a few
men to read--but what did that signify in the infinite sea of human
misery and ignorance? Monsalvat was strong in his convictions and in
his moral health, strong with love of the good, strong in gentleness
and pity; but now doubt was for the moment stronger than he, and he
knew the all-permeating bitterness of temptation. In a moment of moral
weakness he thought of giving up this hopeless task, of returning to
his own world, and to his former station in it. A sadness, as vast as
the universe, chilled his heart, and soul, and mind. He was wandering
alone and forgotten in a ghastly wilderness; and this loneliness in the
death-like, icy solitude of the world was too frightful to endure. He
had sought out this life he was leading for the good of others; he had
given what he had to others; he had devoted himself to his task, with
joy and faith, with physical and moral courage; but now he broke down,
for his whole life seemed a failure; he wept for that Monsalvat of whom
he had hoped so much, not knowing that the strongest falter on their
way and that such weaknesses are but a respite, a halt, giving renewed
strength to go on with the day's march!