Juan and Pedro reached the age in which it is necessary to work in order to live. Sons of workers, they had no opportunities to acquire a regular culture that could free them from the chain of salary. But Juan had brio. He had read in the newspapers how men like himself had become, through work and thrift, the kings of finance, and how with the power of money they had dominated not only the markets, but nations themselves. He had read thousands of anecdotes about the Vanderbilts, the Rockefellers, the Rothschilds, the Carnegies—about all those who, according to the press and even according to the textbooks, are at the forefront of worldwide finances purely on account—crass lie!—of their dedication and good sense.
Juan gave himself completely to the task. He worked for a year and found that he was as poor as the first day. After another year, he was in the same circumstances. But he kept steadfast, without dismay, without despair. Five years elapsed and, purely by sacrifice, he managed to save a few coins. To do so he had to eat less, which affected his energies; he wore rags, which allowed the torments of heat and cold, further weakening his constitution; he lived in miserable hovels, whose insalubrity sealed his enfeeblement. But Juan continued saving at the expense of his health. Each cent cost strength. He bought a plot and built a house, so as not to pay rent to any landlord. Later, he married a young woman. The civil registry and the priest snatched off a good part of his savings. More years went by: work was unsteady, and debts became a regular affliction. One of his children fell ill; the doctor wouldn't help without money; in the public dispensary, the little boy died owing to neglect. Juan, however, remained undaunted. He remembered his readings extolling the virtues of thrift. He would become rich eventually. Hadn't that been the case with Rockefeller, Carnegie, and countless more, whose millions keep humanity mesmerized? Meanwhile, basic necessities skyrocketed. Back home, food was stringently handled; even so, debts increased, and saving was now out of the question. To top it all off, Juan's boss decided it was time to hire a new workforce for less, and our hero, alongside many others, was fired—their place filled by fresh dreamers. Juan had to pawn his house, hoping to keep the sinking ship of his dreams afloat. He couldn't pay the debt and was forced to leave his little amassed goods to the loaners. Obstinate, Juan still wanted to work and save, but in vain. Privations exacted during his best years had crushed any remnant of vigor. Everywhere he asked for employment, the answer was no. He was too worn-out a money-making machine for the masters. Old machines are held in contempt. At the same time, his family starved. In the black hovel, there were no coats, no fire; his children asked furiously for bread. Juan went out every morning looking for work, but who would rent aged arms? After traversing the city and the fields, he arrived home, where the loved ones for whom he dreamt the fortunes of Rockefeller and Carnegie waited, wretched and hungry.
One afternoon, Juan stopped to contemplate the passing of luxurious cars occupied by rotund people, in whose faces could be read the satisfactions of a careless life. Women chattered amiably; men, oversweet and insignificant, lavished them with mellifluous words that would have bored women from any other class.
It was cold. Juan shuddered thinking of his people, which waited in the mansion of hardship. How they must have been shivering, tortured by hunger, bitterly crying. The elegant pageantry continued. It was the hour of the affluent, of those who, according to Juan, had known how to "work" and "save" like the Rothschilds, the Carnegies, the Rockefellers. A great gentleman approached in an imposing carriage. His bearing was magnificent. He had gray hair, but his countenance was young. Juan believed himself prey to a mirage. But no, his old and opaque eyes weren't deceiving him: that great gentleman was Pedro, his childhood comrade. "I can't imagine how much he must have sacrificed," thought Juan, "to escape misery and achieve such elevation and distinction."
Alas, poor Juan! He couldn't forget the imbecile stories spouted by the great vampires of humanity; he couldn't forget what he read in the school textbooks, tools through which the people are consciously coarsened.
Pedro hadn't worked. Man without scruples and gifted with malice, he early understood that integrity isn't a source of riches, and so duped his fellows at once. As soon as he gathered the money, he set up a repair shop and hired cheap labor; thus he climbed. He expanded his business, hired more and more and more for less, and became a millionaire, a great man—all thanks to the innumerable "Juanes," who fall for the advice of the bourgeoisie.
Juan continued to witness the brilliant pageantry of loafers. In a nearby corner, a man addressed the public. Scarcely anyone paid attention. Who was he? What did he preach? Juan went to listen.
—Comrades, the time to think everything over has come. Capitalists are nothing but thieves. It is through cunning only that one becomes a millionaire. We, the poor, wear ourselves out working, and when we can no longer go on, the bourgeois discard us like they do horses prematurely aged in service. Let us take arms to conquer our well-being and that of our families!
Juan sent a scornful look to the orator, spit the ground in anger, and marched on to his black hovel, where his loved ones remained afflicted. He could not let die the idea of work and thrift as paths to the affluence of the virtuous man. Not even the undeserved misfortune that surrounded him could shake his soul, now consummately educated for slavery.
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