You never thought of this; while I was too much taken up with my own affairs just then to have any superfluous energy for other people’s welfare or misfortune.

But now we come to the heart of the question.  For some years past you have confided in me—­more fully than I really cared about.  While your husband was alive I often found it rather painful to be always looking at him through the keyhole, so to speak.  But this confidence justifies me in speaking quite frankly.

My dear Magna, listen to me.  A woman of your temperament ought never to bind herself by marriage to any man, and is certainly not fit to have children.  You were intended—­do not take the words as an insult—­to lead the life of a fille de joie.  The term sounds ugly—­but I know no other that is equally applicable.  Your vehement temperament, your insatiable desire for new excitements—­in a word, your whole nature tends that way.  You cannot deny that your marriage was a grave mistake.

There was just the chance—­a remote one—­that you might have met the kind of husband to suit you:  an eminently masculine type, the kind who would have kept the whip-hand over you, and regarded a wife as half-mistress, half-slave.  Even then I think your conjugal happiness would have ceased the first day he lost the attraction of novelty.

Professor Wellmann, your quiet, correct husband, was as great a torment to you as you were to him.  Without intending it, you made his life a misery.  The dreadful scenes which were brought about by your violent and sensual temperament so changed his disposition that he became brutal; while to you they became a kind of second nature, a necessity, like food or sleep.

Magna, you will think me brutal, too, because I now tell you in black and white what formerly I lacked the courage to say.  Believe me, it was often on the tip of my tongue to exclaim:  “Better have a lover than torment this poor man whose temperament is so different to your own.”

I will not say you did not care for your husband.  You learnt to see his good qualities; but there was no true union between you.  You hated his work.  Not like a woman who is jealous of the time spent away from her; but because you believed such arduous brain work made him less ardent as a lover.  Although you did not really care for him, you would have sacrificed all his fame and reputation for an hour of unreasoning passion.

At his death you lost the breadwinner and the position you had gained in the world as the wife of a celebrity.  Your grief was sincere; you felt your loneliness and loss.  Then for the first time you clung to your children, and erroneously believed you were moved by maternal feeling.  You honestly intended henceforward to live for them alone.

All went well for three months, and then the struggle began.  Do you know, Magna, I admired the way you fought.  You would not give way an inch.  You wore the deepest weeds.  Sheltered behind your crape, you surrounded yourself by your children, and fought for your life.