the shock of his mother's death, and quite as much the story of eugenia she had told, left monsalvat for some days in a veritable stupor. he just let himself live on, listlessly yielding to the stream of passing hours much as water-grasses in mid-river bend and curl to the current. his mind was a blank, incapable of thinking, unresponsive alike to memory and to hope. at intervals, indeed, in some chance moment of awakened introspection, it occurred to him that this present spiritual passivity must be very like nacha's habitual condition—a barely conscious drift down the course of events, thoughtless, will-less, purposeless.
but such spiritual torpor could not last long in a man of monsalvat's vigor. eventually he began to feel the need of action, and two immediate projects seemed to present themselves: he must find his sister, and he must attend to the restoration of his tenements.
one morning the broker he had commissioned to execute the mortgage announced that he had drawn up the necessary papers, and that they were ready for his signature. a bank was advancing forty thousand pesos on the security of the improved property. monsalvat gaily hurried to announce the news to his tenants. to his surprise he saw no results of the various measures toward cleaning up which he had suggested to the janitor.
"why didn't you carry out my orders?" he asked the latter, a lean, loose-jointed immigrant from aragón, whose arms bobbed up and down against his enormously wide hips as he talked with a slightly andalusian lisp that had the intention of humor in it.
"i have, sir, i have. but these people—why, sir, what can a fellow do with them? take a look at them! born pigs, pigs they will remain."
his labored jocularity failed, however, in quite concealing the uneasiness the man was feeling at this unexpected visit from his employer. as monsalvat started for the door of the tenement the janitor resumed:
"going to talk to them? what's the use? they'll only lie to you. what such folks need is the stick, i'm telling you, and not kind words, nor favors."
but brushing him aside, monsalvat went on into one of the apartments on the ground floor, the door of which was open. in it lived an italian, with his wife and two children. the man, a laborer on some municipal building job, was away at work. monsalvat asked the woman if the superintendent had conveyed his orders to her.
"there! didn't i tell you?" the janitor commented triumphantly, at the reply that he had not. and he added, with a burst of ill-natured laughter, "the people, the sovereign people—pah!"
monsalvat invited the fellow to leave him alone with the tenant.
"how much did you pay this month?" he inquired when the man was gone.
foreseeing a raise in her rent, the woman put her apron to her eyes and began wailing about the poverty, debts, and sickness in her family. monsalvat repeated his question.
"twenty pesos," she replied, trembling.
monsalvat had ordered his caretaker to reduce the rents by a half, and his face flashed with anger. the woman, however, misinterpreted her landlord's expression, which she thought due to surprise at the smallness of the sum. now, surely, he was going to raise the rent. oh, this america!
so from apartment to apartment monsalvat went on pushing his inquiries. some of the tenants were not in, but he managed to visit a dozen or more of them. it was the same story everywhere. he hurried down to the superintendent's quarters and ordered him to assemble all the tenants in the courtyard. when they had gathered there, he denounced the trickery of his agent and discharged him on the spot.
"your rents are reduced by one-half," he then explained to the crowd. "but this will not be for long, because i am going to make some expensive alterations. i want you to be comfortable in clean homes, with plenty of air and sunlight. i want you to live like human beings, and not like animals. when the contractors begin work here you will probably have to move to some other house; but later when this building has been made a fit and pleasant place to live in, you can return here."
to his astonishment, his words were welcomed with no enthusiasm whatever. instead of pleasing his listeners, indeed he seemed to have insulted them. some commented with a shrug of their shoulders; others began whispering together. one old woman burst out weeping. a man who talked with a galician accent voiced the protest that was in all their minds. they were being put out of the house, just as a pretext for higher rents afterwards. calling the man by name, monsalvat tried to explain.
"don't you understand? i am thinking only of your own good. if you live under hygienic conditions, with plenty of air and light, you will have less sickness, and lose less time from your work. life will be that much easier for you, anyway."
but the man did not understand. if they were satisfied, why force on them something they did not ask for? they lived like pigs? well, had they ever lived any other way? hygiene and air were all right for rich people. but poor folks had always gotten along without air; and as for hygiene,—what was hygiene anyway but some new fad of the white-collared crowd? anyway, if poor people had a hard life, the rich needn't try to improve it with their uplift. everybody knew only too well what rich people were like. if they were easy with you one moment, it was only to take it out on you at some other time. mr. landlord could leave them alone with his lower rents and his remodelled tenements. they wouldn't have the lower rents, and they wouldn't move a stick or stone out of there.
the galician looked defiantly at monsalvat as he talked. his auditors, evidently a majority of the tenants in the building, loudly applauded his concluding words.
"he's right! he's right!"
and monsalvat saw more than one hostile glance coming his way. disheartened now, he did not care to reply. what could he say that he had not said? merely assuring them again that the month's rent for each apartment would be ten pesos instead of twenty, he went away, leaving his tenants to continue discussing their grievances together.
as he walked toward his lodgings, he tried to convince himself that this incident was not a proper cause for discouragement; that, on the contrary, it emphasized the need of going on, of struggling with these people, even against their wills, for their own good. their ignorance was the natural consequence of such absorbing poverty. when had culture ever existed apart from a certain amount of material wellbeing? and how really poor in every sense were these unfortunate tenants of his; their minds dulled by the grind of daily toil, their vision blurred to the most obvious beauties of life. it was understandable, indeed, that they should mistrust everything, even the best intentions of people who really had their welfare at heart. but he was sure of his road now; all doubt and faltering had left him. the difficulties he encountered only spurred him to new energy and a light was shining in his heart.
he had reached the steps leading up to his house when someone, from a carriage window, beckoned to him to stop. it was ruiz de castro, smart, dapper, gloved and perfumed as usual, bearing himself with his customary correctness and as always looking quite the conqueror. and following him out of his conveyance came ercasty, who greeted monsalvat with an affected courtesy quite in contrast with his obvious annoyance at this encounter.
"my dear fellow," ruiz exclaimed, "you have no idea what an uproar you caused the other night. i have been busy apologizing for you ever since." and he laughed with his characteristic mannerliness, trying to appear amused as though it were all a joke. the doctor, however, eyed monsalvat with aggressive hauteur, gazing skyward with intentional rudeness, whenever fernando began to speak.
"certainly it would never have occurred to anyone but fernando monsalvat to defend those women seriously." castro continued: "all the ladies have decided you must be the wildest libertine in buenos aires. something of a reputation, eh?"
"the injustice of such an inference must be rather obvious," said monsalvat. "it offends me, however, only in the abstract, as something wrong, and therefore ugly. so far as i am concerned personally, it is nothing to me at all.
"i shall continue being what i am—regardless of what people think." the doctor, much annoyed, suddenly abandoned his passive attitude. it was incompatible with his veneration for "society" to admit that an individual could be other than what "society" declared him to be.
"that is sheer nonsense," he broke in aggressively. "what counts is public opinion. a man is, in any practical sense, exactly and only what people consider him to be."
monsalvat took no notice of the interruption.
"i am not sorry that i spoke up in defense of those poor women," he said, addressing his remarks to ruiz de castro alone. "i assure you, we do not know them. to us they seem like animals, things without souls, without personalities. well, we're wrong. they are human beings. they feel, and love, and hate, like any one of us. but even though it should not be so, granted they are virtually animals, whose fault is it?"
"it's idiotic to blame society for the manner of living of these people," the doctor asserted roundly. "they behave as they do because they are degenerates."
"no, not degenerates: victims! many of them try to work. pitiful salaries, with debts they can't avoid, drive them into the power of vice. a few of them may, indeed, be degenerates—off-spring of feeble-minded or alcoholic parents for whom, in a more roundabout way, we are perhaps just as much to blame. but, on the whole, the cause of the social evil, as of other evils, is in me, in ruiz, in you, in the man going by there in that automobile, in the factory owner, in the store proprietor, in the criminal laws which give a sanction to economic injustice, in our moral ideas, in our conceptions of life—in our civilization, in short. the fact is, we have no human sympathy, no sense of justice, no pity. countless numbers of these poor girls might still be saved, because they have not yet completely lost their self-respect. but what have we ever done to rehabilitate one of them? do we ever go into the places where they live with any purpose but a shameful one? do we ever extend the hand of christian fellowship to the outcast? can any one of us say that he has never, even by tacit complicity, helped to bring about the degradation of any woman? no, we are all the accomplices, witting and unwitting, of an infinitude of crimes. and yet those girls are our sisters; creatures, as people say, with souls to save, unfortunates feeling the same call to life that we all feel, and, like all of us, destined to the death that engulfs all our hopes and all our sorrows...."
ruiz de castro, from temper of mind, and in spite of the circumstances in which life placed him, was not insensible to an idealistic appeal. his face showed the impression monsalvat's words made on him. not so his companion, however, who in this case, as in all others, was quite indifferent as to whether monsalvat was right or not. for him the important point was that the whole discussion annoyed him, as something improper, in bad taste. it was ercasty's belief that an educated man like monsalvat, a "gentleman" in other words, ought to have the ideas and sentiments of his class. in defending workmen and prostitutes, and other kinds of low people, monsalvat, in his opinion, was behaving like a vulgar plebeia. the doctor would have conceded to anyone the right to defend fend such unfortunates in the conventional way—with condescending charitableness, or with witty paradoxes; but this fellow was talking like a social agitator; attacking society, insulting class, ignoring tradition. what were policemen's clubs for except to use on such dangerous lunatics? as ruiz and his companion bowed him a cold "good day," monsalvat went up toward his front door. chancing to turn around before going in, he caught a glimpse of the doctor still sputtering abuse in his direction. for his own part he pitied the man, with that exultant sense of superiority which a new vision brings.
as it was still only eleven o'clock, he decided to go at once to the house where his mother had lived, for a further talk with moreno. at the door he met the latter's daughter. monsalvat had first noticed irene moreno the night of his mother's death, and he had taken a liking to her. she had been so gentle, so affectionate towards aquilina severin, so skillful in tending her, so ready to do anything she could. the sight of the poor child now caused him a most painful impression: slight of frame, but graceful, nervous, agile, under a shock of almost blonde hair, she seemed a pretty little flower that was being trampled upon, bruised and soiled in that life of the tenements. to atone for the utter incompetence of the father, she and her mother sewed, embroidered, and in other ways made frantic efforts to assemble the pennies needed for the daily bread of that household. to irene fell the care of her six younger brothers and sisters; and it was she who delivered her mother's and her own needle work at the stores.
"i am going next door for a moment," the girl replied to a question from monsalvat, looking up at him shyly out of her dark, steel blue eyes. "there is a woman there who has just lost her little boy. he was only two years old. the poor thing is a widow and has no work."
"won't you take her something from me—from us both?"
"i have something already," irene answered. knowing the circumstances of the moreno family, monsalvat wondered how much such alms could amount to; and irene, though much embarrassed by his insistence, could not evade confessing that she was taking the woman one peso, the total of her ready cash. monsalvat put into her hand all the money he had in his pocket, not daring, however, to suggest that she keep that poor little peso for herself. then he followed her back into the moreno apartment. moreno was out, as usual. that systematic ne'er-do-well was scarcely ever at home if he were sober enough to be elsewhere. his wife, too, was absent, for the moment, trying, as irene explained, to place her eldest son as an errand boy somewhere. with the children running in and out, hungry, squawling, half-naked, the rooms were in a disorder, which irene, visibly troubled at being taken thus unawares, kept trying to excuse, betraying her uneasiness further by a constant fluttering of the eyelids which, to monsalvat, somehow seemed particularly appealing.
monsalvat turned the conversation, as soon as possible, upon the subject of his sister, whom irene said she also had known. "eugenia was such a generous girl," she added. "i grew to be very, very fond of her. and she dressed so wonderfully! people said she had piles of money. but she was always doing something for somebody. she never forgot to bring us some little present whenever she called on aquilina; and i remember, too, that she never went away without telling me to be a good girl. that always amused me. but eugenia was so pretty!"
"and did she ever mention me?" monsalvat asked anxiously.
"yes," said irene, "often! though she seemed to feel you did not much approve of her."
"and where is she now? do you think your father will really find her?"
irene reddened, and seemed reluctant to answer. when fernando repeated his question she replied that her father certainly did not know where eugenia was. no one did, for that matter, as eugenia never would tell her address. moreno was just trying to get money out of monsalvat. "and please don't give him any more," she begged. "he only drinks it up, and he always makes a lot of trouble for us here in the house when he gets drunk."
in irene's opinion, it was useless to look for eugenia. no one had any idea as to where she was living. it would be better just to wait. she would turn up sooner or later to see her mother. then they would tell her about the poor woman's death, and let her know that her brother was anxious to see her.
"and tell her, too, as simply as you can, irene, that i hold nothing against her; and that i want her to come and live with me."
monsalvat spoke with an emotion which, without his being aware of it, found a responsive chord in irene's starved little heart. as their eyes chanced to meet, monsalvat divined that this poor child was in love with him.
"and you," he exclaimed, "why haven't you some kind of work?"
"i've looked for work, outside, but without much success. we take in sewing, you see, mother and i. she knows how to embroider, and she is teaching me how to do it. but we make so little at it."
irene's eyes filled with tears, as memories of her hardships rose before her. while monsalvat sat silent, moved by what he heard, she told him that moreno sometimes beat her; but that was nothing to the agony she endured when the children cried with hunger.
"i can't bear it. it breaks my heart to hear them."
and she began to sob. monsalvat tried to comfort her, and talked to her awhile, as a brother might. suddenly he got up to leave. nacha's image, persistent and irresistible, was taking possession of him. irene gave a quick glance at him and saw that he was going. seizing his hand, she threw herself on the ground before him.
"take me with you!" she cried. "i will be your servant, your slave, anything you wish, because i know you will help mother and father—and the children. it will be your bread they eat. only take me away, please. i love you, i respect you. if you don't take me, what's to become of me? i'll go away with the first man who comes along. yes, i will! i'll be like eugenia—but at least the family won't starve."
"please get up," said monsalvat, embarrassed. they stood facing one another. saddened and silent, he looked at her.
"a year ago i would have taken you with me, irene. now it is impossible. but you don't need to humiliate yourself to persuade me to help your people. they shall have everything i can give them. now, promise me you will not do anything foolish. i shall be your friend, and come to see you."
irene, without replying, went into a corner of the room, and began to weep heart-rendingly. what could he do? profoundly distressed, monsalvat went away.
all day the thought of irene troubled him; but towards evening he decided he must make two calls: one upon nacha, the other upon torres. it was impossible to wait longer; he must see nacha, and as to torres, he needed his help in looking for eugenia.
he went to nacha's apartment. his jerk at the bell brought him suddenly face to face with arnedo. he turned cold.... the latter surveyed him from head to foot, in utter astonishment.
"so it's true she was carrying on with you, is it? what did you come here for? to find her? don't you know i threw her out ten days ago? she's probably running around the streets, like the rest of her kind."
he tried to make his tone scornful; he did not want to betray the anger monsalvat's presence aroused in him. but monsalvat had recovered his self-command. quite serenely he declared that he had had nothing to do with nacha. the proof of this was that he had not until that moment known that she had left. if there had been anything between them, wasn't it rather strange that ten days should pass without their seeing one another?
"just the same," said arnedo, yielding to this argument, "you have no business to come here. and you can get out at once. if you don't, i'll throw you down those stairs!"
monsalvat was unruffled. he looked into arnedo's eyes with so quiet and peaceable an expression that the latter could not but restrain his violence.
"why do you take things that way?" said monsalvat. "i wish you would listen to me with a little patience. i did come to see nacha, not with the intentions you may have supposed, but for her good. i know that she wants to lead a decent life. don't you think it is only just and human to encourage her? if you have ever cared for her, don't stand in her way now! at least let her save herself, if she can!"
arnedo listened, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. at first he wanted to laugh; for this all seemed so ridiculous, and sentimental. but suddenly he became serious, as though monsalvat's words were sinking in.
"but it isn't only on nacha's account that i came. i also wanted to talk with you. i wanted to ask you where eugenia monsalvat is."
he spoke gravely and in a tone which seemed to make an impression on the young patotero.
"my mother has died, and she asked me to look for her. i want to keep my promise that i would. no one knows where my sister is, arnedo. do me a kindness and tell me."
"i don't know where she is. if i find out...."
as they parted, they shook hands. arnedo was beginning to understand monsalvat. he knew that this man, who seemed to have forgotten the scene in the cabaret, was no coward; that there was in him something that he had known in no one else. he went with fernando to the elevator and again shook hands with him.
monsalvat found torres in his office. in order not to add to his friend's shame and grief, the doctor listened without looking up. monsalvat had found it easy enough to speak of his sister to arnedo; but to speak of her to torres—what an effort it cost him! and he had something even harder to do; he must tell him he was also looking for nacha. torres would think that he was in love with the girl, and perhaps laugh. yet, when monsalvat, with a tremendous effort, told him that there was need of finding nacha, too, torres gravely replied that nacha must be found.
for he, too, was beginning to understand monsalvat.
