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.
