CHAPTER IV
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 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 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 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 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.”
“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 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 spoke of France. France did not exist. France had accomplished nothing. France had erected around itself a Chinese wall. As Björnson had said, a long time before, the world’s greatest composer was Wagner; the greatest dramatist, Ibsen; the greatest novelist, Tolstoi; the greatest painter, Böcklin; 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 with this affair?”
“Yes. Has she been living with you for some time?”
“Yes, for some time.”
They were both silent for a period, mute in so embarrassing a situation. All at once there came the sound of the bell being tugged violently.
“Here she comes,” said Esther, opening the door.
Fanny rushed into the studio. She was pale and upset.
“Weren’t you expecting me?” she asked Esther.
“Yes. I knew that you would come.”
“What do you want of Oswald?”
“Nothing. I want to tell him what sort of woman you are; I want to inform him about your treachery, that’s all. You committed against me, who trusted you as if you were my mother, a vile crime. You betrayed me. You told me that Oswald had seduced a woman and then abandoned her.”
“I!” exclaimed the painter, astounded.
“Yes, you. That’s what she told me. She told me also that you were an insignificant painter, utterly lacking in talent.”
Fanny, stupefied, taken unawares, could not say a word.
“During the time in which you and I were friends,” Esther continued, turning to Oswald, “she never missed an opportunity to speak ill of you, to insult you. She said that you were trying to seduce me; she painted you as a wicked wretch, a beast, a repugnant creature....”
“You lie! You lie!” shrieked Fanny in a high-pitched voice.
“I am telling the truth, and only the truth. At that time I believed your advice was for my good,—dictated by the affection you felt for me. Afterward I realized that you had been guilty of the vilest perfidy,—the most iniquitous that can be committed, taking advantage of the influence you wielded over me.”
“But you wrote me a letter,” interposed Oswald.
“Not I.”
“Yes, indeed. A letter in which you replied to my protestations with cruel jests.”
“No. I didn’t write that letter. Fanny must have forged it. She wanted to keep you away from me at all costs.”
“Oh, you have ruined my life!” cried Oswald with wild emphasis, falling into a chair near the table and bowing his head upon his hand. Then he rose from his seat and began to pace from one side of the room to the other.
“This is the truth, the pure truth,” affirmed Esther. “And I wanted you to know it, to hear it in her presence, so that she could deny nothing. She made my life unhappy, but she shall not enjoy her perfidy in peace.”
“You have ruined my life!” repeated Oswald in his emphatic tone.
“She. It was she.”
“I’ll kill you!” howled Fanny in a hoarse voice, seizing Esther by the arms.
“But you know now that what she told you about me was a lie, don’t you?” asked Oswald.
“Yes.”
“Then, will you listen to me now?”
“Now? Ha, ha!” laughed Fanny. “Now she has a lover.”
“Not at all!” cried Esther.
“Yes you have. He comes here every day to see you. He’s a blond. You can’t deny it.”
“Ah! He was in here a moment ago,” said Oswald.
“He’s not my lover. He’s a friend.”
“But why did you call Oswald?” queried Fanny in fury. “Do you love him?”
“I? No! But I want to show you that you can’t play with other persons’ lives as you played with mine. You betrayed me, and now I have had my revenge.”
“I’ll kill you,” howled Fanny again, and she seized Esther by the throat.
“Roberto! Roberto!” cried Esther, terrified.
Roberto burst into the studio, grabbed his cousin by the arm and pulled her violently away from Esther.
“Ah! It’s you, Bob?” exclaimed Fanny, immediately growing calm. “You came in the nick of time. I was going to murder her.”
Roberto’s arrival had the effect of somewhat tranquillizing the company. The four sat down and discussed the matter. They analyzed it as if it were some problem in chess. Fanny loved Oswald. Oswald was in love with Esther, and Esther did not feel the slightest inclination toward the painter. How were they to adjust the situation? Nobody would yield; besides, as they deliberated they went astray in labyrinths of psychological analysis that led nowhere. It had grown dark; Esther lighted the oil lamp and set it down upon the table. The discussion continued coldly; Oswald spoke in a monotone.
“You be the judge,” suggested Fanny to Roberto.
“It seems to me that if everyone will go off on his separate way, each individual conflict will be resolved. But apart from the moral damage you have wrought, Fanny, you have done Esther a very great material injury.”
“I’m ready to indemnify her.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” blurted Esther.
“No. Pardon me,” went on Roberto. “Pardon me for interfering in this matter. You, Fanny, possess a vast fortune, a lofty position in society; Esther, on the other hand, finds herself, and all through your fault, with her future cut off. She has to earn her living, and you don’t know what that means. But I, who do know, know how bitter and sad it is. Esther might have lived a quiet, easy life. Through your fault she has been reduced to her present position.”
“I have already said that I’m willing to indemnify her.”
“And I’ve already said that I don’t want anything from you.”
“No. You ought to let me settle this affair, Esther. May I see you tomorrow, Fanny?”
“I’ll wait for you during the whole afternoon.”
“Very well. We’ll go over this matter.”
Fanny rose to leave; she nodded slightly to Esther and held out her hand to her cousin.
“No hard feelings?” asked Roberto.
“No hard feelings,” she asserted, giving Roberto’s hand a violent shake.
Oswald left in company of Fanny, sinister and humiliated. Esther and Roberto remained alone in the studio.
“Do you know what?” said Roberto, laughing.
“What?”
“You wouldn’t have gained very much by marrying Oswald instead of Bernardo.... Good-bye, till tomorrow.”
“You’re forsaking me, Roberto,” murmured Esther moodily.
“No. I’ll come to see you tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to remain in this house. Take me away from here, Roberto.”
“Doesn’t that seem dangerous to you?”
“Dangerous? For whom? You or me?”
“For both, perhaps.”
“Oh, not for me. I want so much to leave this place, and never see Bernardo,—never have him bother me.”
“He’ll never bother you again.”
“Take me away from here. Take me anywhere.”
“See here, Esther. I’m a man who travels through life over a straight path. That’s my sole strength. I wear blinders, just like horses, and I don’t go off the road. My two ambitions are to make a fortune and marry a good woman. All the rest is, to me, merely a delay in the accomplishment of my aims.”
“And I belong to ... all the rest?”
“Yes. For otherwise you’d make me lose my way.”
“You’re inflexible.”
“Yes. But I’m inflexible with myself as well. You’re in a difficult position. You married a man a year ago,—a man you didn’t love, true enough, but in the belief that he was a loyal, industrious person whom in time you would learn to love. That man has turned out to be a stultified, depraved wretch, utterly lacking in moral fibre. You’re deeply wounded in your woman’s pride,—the pride of a good, energetic woman. I understand that perfectly. You are looking for a spar to rescue you from the wreckage.”
“And you come and say to me, coldly: ‘I can’t be your rescuer; I have other ambitions. If I come across persons on the way who are suffering agonies because no one understands them, I turn my head the other direction and continue on my way.’”
“That’s true. I continue on my way. Would it be better to go ahead and do what any one else would, what a gallant man would, in my place? Take advantage of your plight, get you to become my mistress and then desert you? I have a conscience. Perhaps like my ambitions it is single-tracked. But that’s how it’s made; there’s no help for it.”
“There’s no salvation; my life is ruined,” muttered Esther, her eyes moist.
“Not at all. There’s work. Not all men are base and beastly; struggle on, yes, that’s what life is! Rather unrest, continual toil and moil, rather the unending alternation of pleasures and griefs than stagnation.”
Esther wiped off a tear with her handkerchief.
“Good-bye. I’ll try to follow your advice,” and she held out her hand.
Roberto took it, and in his cavalier-like fashion bowed and kissed it.
He was on the point of leaving when in the voice of an entreating child she whispered, in anguish:
“Oh! Don’t go!”
Roberto returned.
“I’ll not lead you astray,” cried Esther. “Take me away from here. No. I’ll not complain. I’ll be a sister to you,—a servant, if you wish. Do with me whatever you will, but don’t abandon me. Some one would come along and take advantage of my weakness and it would be so much the worse for me.”
“Let us be off, then,” murmured Roberto, touched. “Aren’t you going to let Bernardo know?”
Esther seized a sheet of letter-paper and wrote, in a large hand: “Don’t wait for me. I’m not coming back.” Then nervously she put on her hat and joined Roberto, who was waiting at the door.
“But if you don’t really want to accompany me, Roberto, please don’t do it. Not through any sense of obligation, no,” said Esther, her eyes brimming with tears.
“You’ve said you’ll be my sister. Let’s be going,” he replied, with affection in his voice. Then she fell upon his bosom. Brushing aside the curls from her forehead, he kissed her tenderly.
“No, not like that, not like that,” exclaimed Esther, all atremble, and, seizing Roberto by the wrists she offered her lips to his.
Roberto lost his head. He kissed her frantically. Esther encircled his neck with her arms; a deep sigh of desperation and desire sent tremors rippling from her head to her feet.
“Shall we go?”
“Let’s go.”
They left the house.
A few hours later, Bernardo Santín, with his wife’s note in his fingers, was muttering:
“And my poor father? What’s going to become of my poor father now?”