“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.”