At the first street corner he paused. People were leaving theatres and cafés, whirling away into the dark in taxis and automobiles2. The trams were crowded. The cross-streets, of unpretentious apartment houses and second-rate shops, all darkened and asleep, were poorly lighted; but at its southern end, the center of the capital's night life dusted the sky with a golden sheen. Monsalvat turned in that direction, walking on mechanically till he came out on the brilliantly illuminated4 avenue. Through the immense plate glass windows of the cafés he could see the multitudes of little tables, and topping them, hundreds of human torsos gesticulating under thick waves of cigarette smoke, pierced with colored lights; while through the opening and closing doors, tango music broke in irregular surges, now strong, now weak. The street corners were sprinkled with men stragglers or survivors5 from larger groups of joy-seekers. Automobile3 horns, conversations in every tongue, the bells of blocked street-cars, rent the lurid6 glow with resounding7, impatient clangor. But in spite of all the animation8 and illumination of the theatre district, the merry-making had not the enthusiasm of the earlier hours. Only that irreducible minimum of vitality9 remained, that residue10 of joy-thirst, which survives evenings of revelry, clinging tenaciously11 to the later hours, and scattering12 over the after-midnight streets a pervading13 sense of weariness.
Indifferent to the animation of these glittering thoroughfares, concentrated on his own inner misery14, bewildered in the maze15 of conflicting emotions within him, Monsalvat went on his way, but walking more and more slowly now. He tried to analyze16 the thoughts and sensations that were tormenting17 him; but the effort served only to exasperate18 his distress19. He had never suffered like this. All he knew for the moment was that his heart, with an impulsiveness20 which he felt certain was quite disinterested21, had gone out to a girl he saw doomed22, the victim of her own will to live and of the evil nature of others. How cowardly, futile23, he had felt himself in the presence of her helplessness and humiliation24! And then something overwhelming, imperious, had seemed to stir in his being, filling him with a courage strangely unfamiliar25 to him, lifting him from his chair, and throwing him forward against the girl's tormentors. But had he not played the simple fool—in public? Had not even Nacha joined in the mockery as he left the room, proving incapable26 of loyalty27 even toward the man who had defended her? Then that final thrust of the bully28: "Take a good look at me! I am Dalmacio Arnedo! Pampa Arnedo!" In the days of his thoughtless prosperity as a student and man of promise, Fernando had thought little of the sister, Eugenia Monsalvat, who shared his own position in his father's family. A touch of shame and sorrow had come to him when he learned that she had left her—and his—mother's home—disappearing from even that penumbra29 of respectability, to live as the mistress of a man named Arnedo. So this was the man, thus crossing his path a second time, rising before him leering and insulting, and pronouncing his own name as a symbol of redoubled scorn for the name of Monsalvat! And that sister, again! Had he done anything to prevent her fall, in the first place, or to redeem30 her, now that she had fallen?
He was still walking slowly down the avenue of white lights when he felt a touch on his arm. It was Hamilcar Torres, one of the most intimate of his few intimate acquaintances.
"Give me a few moments, Monsalvat. Let's go in here, shall we?"
They entered one of the large cafés. The orchestra here, composed of girls, was playing a languid gypsy waltz, the music and the musicians, in combination, evoking31 expressions of melting languor32 on the faces of the males who were assembled there, most of them, at this advanced hour, gazing about in stupid rapture33 over wine glasses that were being filled and filled again.
"It was I who sent for the police," said Torres, when they had taken a table. He brought out the words very deliberately34, marking the syllables35, and in a tone calculated to emphasize the allusion36, though his manner at once changed from a mood of reproving seriousness to one of amusement, and bantering37 knowingness.
Torres was a physician; his strikingly white teeth, crisp curly hair, eyebrows38 prominent over deep-set black eyes, suggested a trace of African blood in his veins39. Under a thick black mustache, rather handsomely set against rosy40, smooth-shaven cheeks, he smiled continuously, sometimes sadly, sometimes ironically, sometimes with affected41 malevolence42 and shrewdness.
Monsalvat did not reply. The doctor, turning sideways to the table, crossed his long legs, and, thrusting them far beyond the limits of the space which might reasonably be allowed to each patron of the café, obstructed43 all passage near him.
"I followed along after you," he said, shifting uneasily on his chair and turning his head so as to face Monsalvat, "because I wanted to put you on your guard. You've got to be careful with these people, old man! I know them—they won't stop at anything—and I saw that you ... and the girl ... well ... er ... eh?"
His right finger pointed44, on the query45, to his own right eye, then he waggled it at Monsalvat. Again his face varied46 from a rather exaggerated severity to a knowing smile; and turning his head so that it was once more in line with his body, and he had to look sideways at Monsalvat, he added:
"No need to deny it, my boy! After all, the girl is pretty enough! But—be careful.... When women like that get a hold of a fellow...!"
"Aren't you putting it rather strongly, Torres? I have a feeling that this particular girl is not of just the kind that...."
"Just the kind that what?" snapped the doctor, still eyeing Fernando sidewise, and with a mocking smile. "You don't know her!"
Then facing Monsalvat, and mustering47 a choleric48 frown for the occasion, he added impressively in a mysterious and earnest tone of voice, as if revealing something from a transcendental source:
"More than one man has gone to the dogs on that girl's account!"
Whereupon, with an air of philosophical49 indifference50, he settled back to his former comfortable position.
Monsalvat was not convinced. Nacha's gentle eyes seemed to refute the miserable51 innuendos52 Torres was making. And yet, supposing it were all true? What then? A wave of passionate53 curiosity swept over Monsalvat. He wanted to know more. He must know more! Yet he said nothing. He could not bring out the question that was hanging on his lips. Torres divined what his friend was thinking, and pleased to be able to show how intimately he knew the ins and outs of life in Buenos Aires, he began:
"This Arnedo fellow—Pampa, as they call him—is real low-life, the kind who wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through your body, or forge your name. Two or three times he has come near going to jail. And you saw how he treats the girl! An out and out bully!"
"What's her name? Who is she?" interrupted Monsalvat, with ill-concealed eagerness.
"She's known as Lila about town; but her real name is Ignacia Regules—Nacha, as most people call her for short. Her mother kept a student's boarding house—still does, for that matter. I knew her mother ... because once...."
"Keep to Nacha, won't you?"
"I see; you want to hear all about the girl! That's the important subject!" The doctor looked slyly at Monsalvat, enjoying the latter's confusion at this sudden self-betrayal. "I'll tell you something of what I know—not all, of course. I'm obliged to keep the most interesting parts to myself. Well, this Nacha, while still living in her mother's boarding house, fell in love with a student and ran away with him. He kept her a couple of years or so; then he left her, and at a very critical juncture—she was in the hospital, with a child that, fortunately, did not live. When she came out she took a job in a store. Probably she was willing enough to live a decent life, but the bad example of some of her girl friends was too much for her. She began to earn ten times more than what she got in the store—in a different way."
"And how do you know all this?" the latter inquired.
"My dear fellow, that is something I don't tell."
The doctor did not wish to modify the effect of his story by simply stating that Nacha had known a friend of his, and once, when she was ill and Torres had been attending her, she had given him her whole story. Torres enjoyed mystification for its own sake, and preferred, just for the fun of it, to keep Monsalvat on edge a little longer.
And this game, for that matter, was working well. In utter distress, Monsalvat stared fixedly55, now at his friend, now at the orchestra, now at the unknown faces about the great hall. But he did not see what was before his eyes. His mind was filled with the image of his own sister, abandoned to misfortune, perhaps now a common woman of the streets; of his mother weeping her life out over her own and her daughter's shame; of Nacha Regules, caught in the brutal56 clutches of Pampa Arnedo; and finally of his own past self, happy, free to travel, flirting57 with handsome women, courting literary fame, lounging at his club, or attending fashionable parties! While he had been idling thoughtlessly along in this relative but still gilded58 luxury, Eugenia Monsalvat was falling lower and lower in the social scale! His sister! But not his sister, only! Millions of women were enduring a misery like hers! And a world of well-nourished, "successful" men and women went gaily59 on its way, indifferent to the ceaseless suffering of these other women, proud of its money, and its easy virtue60, robbing the poor of sisters and daughters, buying them, corrupting61 them, enjoying life.
"And then?" asked Monsalvat, noticing that Torres was studying him, and eager to learn everything he could about the life of this girl, who seemed to him at that moment to represent all the unfortunate women of the earth in her person.
"Well, she left the store—you would never guess why! She wanted to be 'respectable'! She took up some kind of work, I forget what; but eventually she drifted into a café, as a waitress. Can you imagine 'respectable'—and a café waitress!"
Monsalvat, more and more irritated at his companion's flippancy62, suggested that these attempts of Nacha to work and to be "respectable" were certainly nothing against her. She might be a good girl, after all!
"Good? Of course! These girls are all good—almost all, at least. We do judge them harshly, I realize. If they do wrong, it is without knowing exactly that it is wrong. And some of them really have a high moral code—for instance...."
Torres was not smiling now. Memories of the numberless poor creatures he had known, memories of extraordinary cases of generosity63, and loyalty, and even heroism64, for the moment drove his superficial cynicism from him.
Monsalvat was not interested however, obsessed65 as he was by the image of Nacha, who seemed to be appealing to him to rescue her. And rescue her he would! He would save her from her present tragic66 situation, from fearful hours awaiting her in the future, and from the memory of frightful67 hours of the past. An idea that he must see her, speak to her again, somehow, somewhere, took possession of him. But how? And where? And supposing he should meet her again? What would he say to her? He did not know; but his determination was not shaken on that account. He would see her—and save her; not for her own sake, nor because he was himself an "unfortunate" in society; nor because she was beautiful, and his eyes had dwelt upon her; but for love of his sister rather, for the sake of his own real self!
"These poor girls are simply victims of conditions, I suppose," continued Torres. "Nacha told me once that wherever she went, in shops, or workrooms, or business offices, the men were after her. And it's true, isn't it? We men, even the best of us, are a bad lot. I'd like to know how a girl who hasn't enough to eat, and who lives in the worst sort of surroundings, can resist temptation, especially when it comes in the form of a good-looking fellow who offers to take her out of the hell she is living in.... No, they are not to blame...."
Meanwhile the "Merry Widow" waltz floated languidly through the thick air of the café like a maze of shimmering68 diaphanous69 silk or impalpable tulle. But to Monsalvat it seemed that this music was winding70 itself about him, body and soul, a merciless bandage which bound him tighter and tighter, treacherously71 increasing the pain it promised to soothe72. The sadness dwelling73 at the core of all worldly pleasures fell from each musical phrase, each bar, each note, on the heavy air of the café. Music in such places as this always distressed74 Monsalvat. Tonight his whole being was an open wound, over which the ceaselessly moving grind of the music grated until he wondered that he did not scream with pain. Was his own record absolutely clean? Had he, too, not bought favors from women—be it, indeed, with flattery and favors returned? And where were those women now?
Had they, too, by selling themselves, lost all right to the world's respect, the right to be treated as human beings, to be pitied? His fault? He despised himself utterly75. Only the violence of his self-reproach gave him the strength to bear his pain.
Torres, who had been silent for a time, now answered the question that came almost mechanically from Monsalvat's lips, and told all he knew of Nacha's history. Outstanding in her checkered77 career had been her love affair with the young poet, Carlos Riga. Together they had endured the most frightful poverty in the Argentine bohemia. Nacha had left him finally, driven away by sheer hunger—and the thought that perhaps her being always with him was an unjust burden on her penniless lover. In these circumstances she'd concluded that it was no use trying to be a "decent" girl; and she had gone off "on her own," taking up with a man—who was soon followed by another—better able to support her. One day the idea came into her head that exclusive devotion to any one protector meant a sort of unfaithfulness to Riga, whom she really adored. From that moment she gave herself up to the roving life of the cabarets and places of amusement. It was during this time that she met Arnedo. He found her pretty, intelligent, admired the ease of manner she had acquired in her mother's boarding house, was impressed by the smatterings of culture she had absorbed from Riga and other young writers she had known in Riga's company—in short, decided79 that Nacha was the jewel he was looking for—a girl he could "flash" on Capitol sportdom, and "show off" as his "woman" among people appreciative80 of such display.
"A horrible story!" exclaimed Monsalvat, gloomily. "Can there be many girls like that?"
"Thousands of them. And I really know something about it.... I have long been a police physician. My dissertation81 was on that very subject!" And he lectured at length on the theme, sparing no details of the traffic which has made Buenos Aires famous as a market of human flesh.
Monsalvat could not speak meanwhile. He was thinking of his sister, trying to picture to himself what her lot must be. He saw her in the abandonment that followed her disgrace, struggling not to lose her grip on life, failing, struggling again to evade82 the deeper degradations83 of the outcast she saw below her; and finally sinking in the loathsome84 mire78, dragged into its depths, by a trader's claws, perhaps, tortured, enslaved, and—who could say!—dead! He listened with speechless intentness. "What a ghastly nightmare this world is!" He stammered85 at last:
"And what is being done to remedy all this?"
"What is there to do, my dear fellow? We would have to destroy everything and construct society anew!"
At these words Monsalvat seized his friend's arm with violence; his eyes were moist with emotion and his voice rang with a strange solemnity, as he said slowly:
"Exactly! Exactly! Well, everything is being destroyed, and a new society is coming into being!"
Torres assented86, as far as his facial muscles were concerned, responding to the suggestiveness of Monsalvat's moral earnestness, to the emotion which his friend's vision of a great and approaching Good stirred in his own sluggish87 depths. He even went so far as to nod.... Then came reaction. His inner, his real self recovered from the momentary88 spell of Monsalvat's ingenuous89 and lyric90 optimism. One look about at the café's noisy and drunken hilarity91, and the man of generous instincts disappeared, giving place again to the man of the world, the man like any other man, stamped with all the ideas and sentiments of his kind. To Torres the words Monsalvat had spoken, his Quixotic theories, his grief over things that were not only irremediable and accepted, but even sanctioned, and necessary, began to appear ridiculous, and speaking as a doctor, trained to seek the origin of all human abnormalities in overstrung nerves and disturbed physical or mental equilibrium92, he replied lightly and skeptically as before:
"The problem, you see, is too complex ... there is no solution really...."
Monsalvat did not hear him. Another voice was filling his ears, a voice from a thousand throats, convicting him of his own responsibility, too, for the world's crimes. His heart seemed to him a mournful, hollow, and despairing bell; his eyes saw the world as a scene ready set for tragedy—the tragedy, first, of his mother, deceived, suffering all her life, and handing on suffering to her children; then his sister's; then Nacha's. In an eternal chorus of tears rose the lamentations of the lost women of the earth, the weeping of their parents, their brothers; the cries of the children they were driven to destroy; their own screams of shame, and clamorings of hunger.
"Why, man, what's the matter with you?" asked Torres finally. "Hadn't we better be going? It's three o'clock."
Monsalvat nodded and got up. He took leave of Torres at once, on the pretext93 he did not feel well, and started off for the South End, toward the Avenida de Mayo, where he lived.
He went to bed at once upon reaching his rooms. But he could not sleep. He did not know why it was; but the sound of the shots that had brought down some of the human creatures in the mob at Lavalle Square, and the song they had sung, became interwoven with one of the cabaret tangos he had just been hearing. This strange music haunted his ears and drove sleep far from him. Later, when he had fallen into a kind of half slumber94, there came towards him a procession of frightful figures, howling and groaning95 louder and louder as they approached; and he knew that this procession was Humanity. It was already dawn when he began to sleep—uneasily and for only a little while. But even this semblance96 of slumber brought with it a nightmare. A monstrous97 phantom98, covered with gold, silks, and precious stones, its jaws99 those of an apocalyptic100 beast, its claws, too, dripping blood, was there before him, in his room, although scarcely contained by it. The monster approached his bed, showing its fangs101, about to devour102 him; and this monster, with its charnel house of a belly103, where lay countless104 generations of the world's unfortunates, was Injustice105.
Monsalvat got up late. He was quiet now. At last there was new life within him. Everything had new life, new meaning. What this new life was he could not have said. But he knew that within him there was now a sense of clearness where before there had been nothing but confusion and obscurity.
He breakfasted and went out, thinking, rather vaguely106, that he would go to his mother's. But, as he walked on, he turned in another direction. Moving absent-mindedly, yielding to a new sweet sense of inner calm, he seemed not to notice the streets along which he passed. When he came to himself, he noted107 that he was within a few yards of Nacha's house. Without hesitating, certain now that he was doing the right thing, he went up the steps and rang the bell.
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1
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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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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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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exasperate
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| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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penumbra
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| n.（日蚀）半影部 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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48
choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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50
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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51
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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52
innuendos
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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53
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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54
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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62
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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checkered
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| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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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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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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degradations
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| 堕落( degradation的名词复数 )； 下降； 陵削； 毁坏 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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apocalyptic
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| adj.预示灾祸的，启示的 | |
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101
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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102
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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103
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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104
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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105
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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106
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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107
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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