Roberto’s Christmas—Northern Folk. At this same hour Roberto Hasting, wrapped in his overcoat, was on his way to Bernardo Santín’s home. The night was cold; hardly a person was to be seen on the street; the tramcars glided hurriedly over the rails with a gentle drone.
Roberto entered the house, climbed to the top story and knocked. Esther opened the door and he walked in.
“Where’s Bernardo?” asked Roberto.
“He hasn’t appeared all day,” answered the ex-teacher.
“No?”
“No.”
Esther, huddled into a shawl, sat down before the table. The room, formerly the photographer’s gallery, was lighted by an oil lamp. Everything bore witness to the direst poverty.
“Have they taken away the camera?” asked Roberto.
“Yes. This morning. I have my money locked in this chest. What would you advise me to do, Roberto?”
Roberto strode up and down the room with his[164] eyes fixed upon the floor. All at once he drew up before Esther.
“Do you wish me to be perfectly frank with you?”
“Yes. Perfectly. Just as you’d speak to a good friend.”
“Very well, then. I believe that what you ought to do is—. I don’t know whether the advice will strike you as brutal....”
“Go on....”
“What I believe is that you ought to get a separation from your husband.”
Esther was silent.
“You’ve fallen into the hands, not of a knave nor of a beast, but of an unfortunate, a poor imbecile, without talent, without energy, incapable alike of living or of appreciating you.”
“What am I to do?”
“What? Return to your old life,—to your piano and English lessons. Would the separation grieve you?”
“No. Quite the contrary. Take my word for it: I haven’t the slightest affection for Bernardo. He fills me with pity and aversion. What’s more, I never cared for him.”
“Then why did you marry him?”
“How do I know? Fate, the treacherous advice of a friend, ignorance of his real character. It was one of those things that are done without knowing why. The very next day I was remorseful.”
“I can imagine. When I learned that Bernardo was to be married, I thought to myself: ‘It must[165] be some adventuress who wishes to legalize her situation with a man.’ Then, when I got to know you, I asked myself: ‘How could this woman have been deceived by so insignificant a creature as Bernardo? There’s no explanation. No money, no talent, no industry. Whatever could have impelled an educated woman, a woman of feeling, to marry such a dolt?’ I have never been able to explain it since. Could you possibly have divined an artist in him,—or a man who, though poor, was willing to work and struggle?”
“No. They put all that into my head. To understand my decision you’d have to let me tell you the story of my life, ever since I reached Madrid with my mother. We lived modestly on a small pension that a relation sent us from Paris. I had completed my studies at the Conservatory and was looking for pupils. I had two or three for the piano, and one for English, and these brought me in sufficient for my expenses. It was under these circumstances that my mother fell ill; I lost my pupils because all my time was taken up by caring for her, and soon found myself in a most distressing situation. Then when she died I was left alone in a boarding-house, besieged by men who pestered me at all hours with shameful proposals. I tramped the streets in search of a position as teacher. I was truly in despair. You may well believe that there were days when I was tempted to commit suicide, to plunge into an evil life, to embrace any desperate measure so as to have done with all this brooding. While in this state I read one day in a newspaper[166] that an English lady staying at the Hotel de Paris desired a young lady companion who had a good knowledge of Spanish and English. I go to the hotel, I wait for the lady and she receives me with open arms and treats me like a sister. You can understand my satisfaction and gratitude. I have never been an ingrate; if at that time my benefactress had asked for my life, I would have surrendered it with pleasure. You may take my word for that. This lady was an enthusiastic student of painting and used to go to the Museo; I accompanied her. Among those who copied at the Museo was a young German, tall, fair, and a friend of my employer. He began to make love to me. He struck me as swell-headed and not very agreeable. When my benefactress noticed that the painter was courting me, she was very much put out and told me that he was a low fellow, a cynical beast; she drew me a most horrible picture of him, depicting him as a depraved egotist. I felt no great sympathy for the German in the first place, so I heeded my protector’s words and showed my scorn for the painter quite openly. Despite this, however, Oswald—that was his name—persisted in his attentions. It was at this juncture that Bernardo appeared. I think he knew the German somewhat, and one day he spoke to my employer and me. And now, without my being aware of what was going on, my benefactress began tactics contrary to those she had employed in the case of Oswald. She praised Bernardo to the skies at every least opportunity; she said he was a great artist, a man of superior talents, of exquisite[167] sensibility with a heart of gold; she told me that he adored me. Indeed, I received enchanting love letters from him, filled with delicate sentiments that moved me. My benefactress facilitated our meetings; she urged me to this unfortunate marriage, and as soon as I was wed she left Madrid. Two or three weeks after the ceremony, Bernardo confessed to me with a laugh that all the letters he had written to me had been dictated to him by Fanny.”
“Fanny, you say?”
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“I think I do.”
“She was in love with Oswald herself. To keep Oswald from courting me she had committed a heartless treachery. After saving me from poverty, she cast me into a situation even worse than what she had rescued me from. She abused the blind confidence I had in her. But I’ll have my revenge; yes, I’ll have my revenge. Fanny is here with Oswald. I’ve seen them. I have written to him, making an appointment for tomorrow.”
“That was a mistake, Esther.”
“Why? Is that the way to play with a person’s life?”
“But what will you gain by this?”
“Revenge. Does that seem little?”
“Very little. If you’ve retained some affection for Oswald, that’s a different matter.”
“No, not a bit. I don’t care for him. But I won’t let Fanny get off without punishment for her perfidy.”
[168]
“And would you go as far as adultery to get your revenge?”
“Who told you that it would go as far as adultery? Besides, in me it would be a right, not a lapse.”
“What’s more, you’d make Oswald very unhappy?’
“Haven’t they made me unhappy?”
Esther was in the grip of passionate excitement.
“Do you think Oswald will come to this house tomorrow?” asked Roberto.
“I certainly do.”
“This benefactress of yours,—is she tall, thin, with grey eyes?”
“Yes!”
“Then it’s my cousin.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yes. I warn you, she’s a very violent woman.”
“I know that.”
“She’s capable of attacking you anywhere.”
“I know that, too.”
“Have you considered your resolution calmly? As you will readily understand,—a man to whom a woman writes making an appointment, and to whom she says: ‘If I did not respond to your attentions it was because they deceived me about you, and told me that you were many things that you were not,’—such a man cannot resign himself to listening tranquilly to such a confession.”
“What is he going to do about it?”
“He will look for satisfaction. No one consents to being the mere, passive instrument of another’s[169] vengeance. You will ruin this man’s peace of mind.”
“Didn’t they ruin mine?”
“Yes. But wreaking vengeance for Fanny’s treachery on her lover doesn’t strike me as just.”
“That doesn’t matter to me. One thing alone would make me forgo my revenge.”
“What?”
“The fact that it might harm you in any way. You have been good to me,” murmured Esther, blushing.
“No, you can’t harm me in any way. But you could harm yourself. Fanny has a horrible temper.”
“Would you care to come here tomorrow?”
“I? Why, what right have I to meddle?”
“Aren’t you a friend of mine?”
“Yes.”
“Then come.”
Roberto did come the following afternoon. Bernardo was, as usual, not at home. Esther was highly excited. Oswald arrived at four. He was a blond young man, with reddish eyes, very tall and long-haired. He seemed to suffer an intense disappointment at finding Roberto alone. They conversed. To Roberto, Oswald appeared to be an insufferable pedant. He took the floor to say, in professorial tones, that he could not endure either the Spaniards or the French. He was going to write a book, entitled The Anti-Latin, in which he would consider the Latin peoples as degenerates who should be conquered by the Germans, the sooner the better. He boiled with indignation because folks[170] spoke of France. France did not exist. France had accomplished nothing. France had erected around itself a Chinese wall. As Bj?rnson had said, a long time before, the world’s greatest composer was Wagner; the greatest dramatist, Ibsen; the greatest novelist, Tolstoi; the greatest painter, B?cklin; yet in France they continued to speak of Sardou, Mirbeau, and other similar imbeciles. The original writers of Paris plagiarized Nietzsche; the Latin composers had copied and ransacked the Germans; French science did not exist; France had neither philosophy nor art. France’s historic achievement was a complete illusion. The whole Latin race was a matter for scorn.
Roberto made no answer to this diatribe, but scrutinized Oswald closely instead. This huge pedant of a fellow struck him as so absurd. A woman had made an appointment with him and here he was babbling sociology!
Esther came in. The German saluted her very gravely, and asked her in an aside the reason for this appointment. Esther said nothing. Roberto tactfully left the studio and began to stride up and down the corridor.
“Does Fanny know now that you’ve come here?” asked Esther of Oswald.
“Yes, I think she does.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“Why?”
“Because then she’ll come, too.”
“Has she anything to do w............