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, do?a 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. do?a 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 do?a 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. do?a 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. do?a 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 do?a 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.
do?a 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. do?a 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 do?a 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. do?a 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 do?a 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.
