Heretofore he had lived without criticizing the world of which he was a part—which means that he had been fairly happy. But during the past few months he had come to view life and himself from a critical point of view, and he had reached the conclusion that as human beings go, he was one of the unfortunates.
He and his sister Eugenia were illegitimate children. His father, of the aristocracy, and rich with many millions, had, some five years before, died suddenly without leaving a will. Fernando was intelligent and had something of his father's manner and bearing; and as the legitimate2 heirs of the Monsalvat fortune were all girls, Fernando was given a good education while his father was still alive. In order to keep him away from his mother, an ignorant, irresponsible woman of the immigrant class, the boy was sent to a boarding school. It was only during vacations that he saw her. Fernando remembered his father's visits, the discussions with his mother, the admonitions he himself always received. Once his father had taken the boy to one of his ranches3 near Buenos Aires, a piece of property as big as an entire state, on which were marvelous forests, a house as magnificent as a palace, and paddocks full of splendid bulls and woolly sheep. More clearly than anything else, he remembered how his father took him along almost stealthily, and replied evasively when a friend, on the train, asked who the child with him was. Later, at boarding school, some boys who knew his father's legitimate family, enlightened him as to his own birth.
When he left college he took up law. He was an excellent student; and even before any regular admission to the bar, he was filling a place in the office of a well-known lawyer. Later he became this man's partner, made money, and won recognition. For a scruple4 he left the law office and went to Europe, remaining there two years. When he returned he was thirty-two. No longer wishing to continue in his profession, he finally obtained a consulship5 to an Italian city. It was now six months since he had returned, after seven years' absence, to settle permanently7 in his own country.
Fernando's mother was still living. She was ill, and aged8; indeed, although not yet seventy, she seemed quite decrepit9. Her son saw little of her. She lived with a mulatto servant in a rather poor neighborhood, in an apartment house facing Lezama Park. Of his own sister he had seen little.
Monsalvat had lived as do most decent men of his social position. He had worked hard in his law office, and as consul6 had rendered services of distinction. From boyhood, books had been his chief companions. He had taken up sociology, and from time to time he got an article published. His opinions were respected and discussed in certain intellectual circles. Though not socially inclined, and in spite of his timidity and lack of confidence, he frequented the clubs and theatres and race courses of Buenos Aires. He was not often present at more private social affairs, for the circumstances of his birth prevented his receiving invitations from certain quarters. While a student he lived on an allowance from his father. Now, on his return from Europe, he found himself possessed10 of no other income than three hundred pesos monthly from a piece of property which his father had given him upon his passing his law examinations.
The knowledge of his illegitimacy had exercised an incalculable influence on his character and general outlook on life. When he was a student certain youths of good family had made it plain that they did not desire his friendship; and later he had been socially snubbed on several occasions. He was, however, inclined to exaggerate the number of these slights. If an acquaintance failed to notice him, as he passed along the street, he believed the omission11 an intentional12 offense13. If, at a dance, a girl chanced to refuse his proffered14 arm, he was beset15 always with the same thought.... "She does not dare to be seen with me.... She knows!..." If he received in his examinations a lower mark than the one he thought he must have earned, he did not for a moment doubt that it was the stigma16 of his birth which was to blame. Not a day passed that he did not at some moment revert17 to this preoccupation. He bore society no grudge18; on the contrary, it seemed to him quite natural that, dominant19 ideas being what they are, he should be thought less of. Nevertheless he felt humiliated20, with a vague consciousness that his value as a social being was diminished by a misfortune beyond his control.
All this, of course, tended to isolate21 him, and confirmed his tendencies toward bookishness. He had no real friends. He felt himself to be quite alone in life—alone spiritually, that is; for social relations in abundance could not fail a man of his intellect and professional position, whose character, moreover, was above reproach, and who, in spite of an outward coldness and an almost savage22 shyness that frequently took possession of him, was a kind and likeable sort of fellow.
This sense of solitude23 was tempered, if at all, by one or two experiences in love. His dealings with women were not those current among the young men of his generation. Gossip attributed, nevertheless, sentimental24 affairs to him, some of them with women of prominence25 in the life of the Capital. For Monsalvat, as his acquaintances noted26, knew how to please. There was something that appealed to women in the soft inflections of his voice, and in the deep seriousness of his eyes. But the secret of his successes probably lay in the fact that he awakened27 in women that compassion28 which is so ruinous to them—so much so that Monsalvat was quite as often the pursued as the pursuer. Two or three times he had thought himself in love—mistakenly, as he soon discovered; and women for their part had loved him, and with passion. But these affairs were, after all, nothing but passing gratifications of the instinct of playfulness—little love episodes at best.
In other respects his life might have been considered a model and an exception. He was courteous29 and simple in manner, with no violent dislikes for anyone. Kind, always ready to do a good turn, he pushed considerateness even to extremes. He lived scrupulously30 within his means. He never paid court to those in whose power it was to further his advancement31. He never indulged in petty disloyalties toward his friends nor paid off injury with injury. His relations with people were always sincere and free from intrigue32. A useful and an honest fellow Fernando Monsalvat might have been considered by anyone. Yet, these several months past, he had been coming to the conclusion that he had lived in a useless sort of way, that his life had been selfish, mediocre33, barren of any good. He was most of all ashamed of his articles on moral and social subjects, all of them colored with "class" prejudice, mere34 reflections of the conventional, insincere, and rankly individualistic standards which pervaded35 the University, and which never failed of approval from climbing politicians as well as from the cultured élite. Monsalvat despised himself for having lived and thought like any other man of his social group. What real good had he ever accomplished36? He had lived for himself alone; worked for the money that work might bring him; written to gratify an instinct of vanity, a desire for prominence, for applause. Now he endured a hidden torment37: he was disgusted with himself, with society, and even with life, repenting38, in his soul's secret, of so many wasted years.
To generous spirits, such moral crises are natural; moments are sure to come when they must view their own conduct critically; and at such junctures39 they loathe40 their sterile41 past. But how many ever succeed in changing the direction of their lives? Most of us stifle42 this moral unrest in the depths of our consciousness; discontented and pessimistic, we go on living a life we hate, tempering the noble impulses that beset our guilty consciences with considerations of personal, even petty, interests that bid us take things as we find them. This latter was the case with Monsalvat.
Convinced that he ought to put an end to his solitude, he decided44 to marry; and he paid court to a girl of good family with whom he had been on pleasantly cordial terms in Rome. But no sooner did the family and the girl herself become aware of Monsalvat's intentions, than all friendliness45 on their part vanished. An officious friend intimated to Monsalvat—he never knew whether at the girl's own request, or that of her parents—that his attentions were not desired.
Later, at the hotel where he was stopping, he made the acquaintance of another fellow countrywoman. Friendship and flirtation46 followed. Monsalvat became interested to the point of believing himself in love. He made an offer of marriage and was contemptuously rejected, as though such an idea on his part were in itself an insult. In situations of this kind Monsalvat did not suffer so much on his own account; it was not shame of being what he was that hurt him, but a deepening sense of the injustice47 inherent in people and in things.
He had given barely a thought to the imperfection, the inequalities, of the world he was living in. Full of his own thoughts, his own books, his own pleasures, he had paid no attention to the cry of anguish48 rising from the depths of the social order—as an established, an immutable49 order he had accepted it all along.
The fact that not till he had felt them himself had he opened his eyes to the flagrant injustices50 of society aroused a deep self-reproach in Monsalvat. It seemed to him that at the bottom of his new opinions purely51 selfish motives52 lay. On the other hand, it was to the universal, the human aspects of his own case that he gave his attention. Besides, does not selfishness play a little part in our striving toward the greatest ends?
It was some six months before the scenes in the cabaret, that Fernando Monsalvat, disheartened and disillusioned53, had arrived in Buenos Aires. At first it startled him to find himself judging people and institutions so mercilessly. Why did he see everything in its darkest colors? Had he become an incorrigible54 cynic? Eventually he came to understand that the severe judgments55 he was formulating56 were the natural consequence of the critical spirit now aroused within him. In the complex motivation of the finest, noblest, most heroic gestures of men, how many small, unconfessable impulses always have their play?
One afternoon chance revealed to him in vivid colors the degree to which his life had been self-centered. The taxi in which he happened to be riding came to a standstill at a turning in Lavalle Square. A crowd was coming toward him, singing. It was a Sunday afternoon. He noticed that all the doors of the neighborhood were closed. The singing came nearer, swelling57 up from the street, rising above the tree tops. It was an irritated, exasperated58, tumultuous mob which was approaching; and a song which both alarmed and attracted him was resounding59 from hundreds of mouths, its spirit typified in the red flag waving above the multitude. He got out of the taxi, and at that moment a bugle60 sounded. The mob fell in on itself like a punctured61 balloon. There was a volley of rifle shots, and in the confusion he could see the police charging blindly with their swords. The song continued, however, for a time; then the regimented violence of the Law was stronger than the impulsive62 violence of the Internationale. The rabble63 broke into the side streets and dispersed64. The swords of the police eagerly sought out the wretches65 crouching66 for shelter in the doorways67. Other wretches were in headlong flight, their eyes wide with terror. No one was paying any attention to the dead or wounded. Doors and windows remained closed and silent. To Monsalvat, sick with indignation, his soul flaming in outrage68, this very silence seemed a horrible complicity in a crime.
His transformation, however, was purely an inner one. To be sure, he had somewhat changed his manner of living: he no longer went to his club nor to parties; he avoided most of his former friends. But, after all, what had he actually done these six months past? Had he perchance even discovered the road he really wanted to take? He was ceaselessly tormented69 by these questions, which plunged70 him for hours at a time into inconclusive meditations71.
On one point he was resolved: he would not resume his practice of law. What need had he to earn money? To save it up? To spend it on amusements? At any rate, he might give it away. But to whom, and how? A friend, a successful lawyer, who had a high opinion of Monsalvat's judicial72 learning, proposed making him a partner in his firm; but Monsalvat did not accept the offer. He thought, finally, he would prefer a clerkship in the Department of Foreign Relations, where his seven years as consul would count, and where, too, he was already looked upon with great favor. The Minister had promised him a post and the appointment would be coming along almost any day.
Meanwhile he roamed the streets, gloomy and preoccupied73, fleeing from his acquaintances and the Centennial festivities of the fashionable quarters to wander through the tenement74 districts and the slums. Sometimes he would join the spectators of some street entertainment; and as he listened to the talk of those about him, or spoke75 to them, men and women, it surprised him to feel suddenly so much at home with these poor people, so at one with them; till he remembered that through his mother—born of laborers76 who had worked their way up to the shopkeeping class—he, too, was pueblo77, very much pueblo, a true child of the proletariat.
One day he went to see the building—a small tenement—on the income from which he was living. The house was a loathsome78 plague-spot in which some fifteen wretched families lodged79. How was it that it had never before occurred to him to look this house up, he wondered, disgusted with himself. And why had his agent never reported such conditions? Then he remembered that he had visited the property in person several times before his second trip to Europe; save that then all this poverty and squalor seemed to him a natural, even an excellent, thing! Was it not just this sort of surroundings which pricked80 the ambition of these laboring81 people, spurred them to work their way up to the comfort they had learned through hard experience to appreciate? Was not this very misery82 the first rung on the ladder of progress in this blessed country of opportunity, where "no one need be poor unless he chooses to be"? Monsalvat thought with shame of his earlier adherence83 to "economic liberalism," a toothless theory, surely invented by the rich that they might continue to exploit the poor! How much he would have given now never to have written those fine articles of his! He went away resolved to mortgage the tenement, and put the money into improvements which would make the building sanitary84 at least.
The people of his old world, his men friends especially, made fun of his new views. He had not been talking much of his recent mental struggles; but his aloofness85, coupled with a few articles of his giving voice to the protest within him, annoyed not a few of the distinguished86 persons who had been wont87 to applaud him. Something had gone wrong inside this man; and society commented on the change without forbearance. Some said he was crazy, others thought there was something off with his liver or his spleen. More than one of his old admirers looked at him with a kind of fear. What was he going to do next? Perhaps break with all established institutions.
Monsalvat, however, was nobody's enemy. Feelings of revolt could not live long in his heart, but became transformed, soon after birth, into a nameless anguish, a physical and moral uneasiness. He hated only himself. His rebellion was a rebellion only against his own selfish years.
What was it he wanted now? What was he looking for? What road was he going to choose? He did not know. Around him he felt a great emptiness that was ever growing greater. Wherever he went a sense of infinite loneliness accompanied him. He spent hours pondering the future. Meanwhile he had grown strangely sensitive emotionally; and it seemed as though the moment had come when his outward life, as well, must undergo its transformation.
One night idle curiosity led him to a cabaret. He knew little of this form of diversion. The "show" entertained him; the tangos and the orchestra stirred his emotions. This place of amusement seemed to be a note of color in the bleak88 immensity of Buenos Aires. On the other hand, he felt more alone than ever before. In all that dancing, in all that music, he found, he scarcely knew why, the same sadness which was in his soul. At times when the mandola wailed89 in a crescendo90 from the depth of some vulgar popular tune—fraught with all the coarseness and abjections of the tenements91 of the city—he seemed to hear in it a cry of loneliness, despair, and bitterness rising from the dregs of life itself.
It was on that night that his eyes first met Nacha's. They looked at one another with surprise, and with a shade of embarrassment92, as though they knew one another. The girl lost her composure, lowered her eyes, twisted her fingers nervously93. For two hours Monsalvat lingered in the cabaret, persisting in this flirtation. He did not understand why he had never liked loose women; indeed, it all seemed to him rather absurd—though the girl did have pretty eyes! Perhaps she was not what she seemed! Perhaps she might some day love him, chance permitting. Perhaps his loneliness would be more bearable if a woman like her were there to sympathize with him. When she left the cabaret, he followed in a taxi. With her companion, she went into a house. Monsalvat concluded that she lived there. He got out of the taxi, and loitered about in the middle of the dark street. She came out on the balcony for a moment, casting two or three rapid glances in his direction.
A few nights later Monsalvat returned to the cabaret. He did not find her there. His loneliness again became unbearably94 acute, and his restlessness intolerable. It seemed to him more than ever imperative95 that he find some purpose in life again, some clear comprehension of his mission and destiny.
A few days later the scene in the cabaret occurred.
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1
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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ranches
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| 大农场， （兼种果树，养鸡等的）大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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consulship
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| 领事的职位或任期 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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junctures
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| n.时刻，关键时刻( juncture的名词复数 )；接合点 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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45
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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46
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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47
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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48
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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50
injustices
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| 不公平( injustice的名词复数 )； 非正义； 待…不公正； 冤枉 | |
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51
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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53
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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54
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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55
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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formulating
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| v.构想出( formulate的现在分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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57
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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60
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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61
punctured
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| v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的过去式和过去分词 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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68
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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71
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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pueblo
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| n.（美国西南部或墨西哥等）印第安人的村庄 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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