WOMAN TRIUMPHANT

(LA MAJA DESNUDA)

BY

VICENTE BLASCO IBAÑEZ

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH

BY

HAYWARD KENISTON

WITH A SPECIAL INTRODUCTORY NOTE BY THE AUTHOR

[Illustration]

NEW YORKE. P. DUTTON & COMPANY681 FIFTH AVENUECopyright, 1920, BY K. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

_All Rights Reserved_

First printing March, 1920

Second printing March, 1020

Third printing March, 1920

Fourth printing March, 1920

Fifth printing March, 1920

Sixth printing March, 1920

Seventh printing March. 1920

Eighth printing March, 1920

Ninth printing April, 1920

Tenth printing April, 1920

Eleventh printing April, 1920

Twelfth printing April, 1920

Thirteenth printing April, 1920

Fourteenth printing April, 1920

Printed In the United States of America

INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO THE ENGLISH TRANSLATION

The title of this novel in the original, _La maja desnuda_, "The NudeMaja, " is also the name of one of the most famous pictures of the greatSpanish painter Francisco Goya. 

The word _maja_ has no exact equivalent in English or in any of themodern languages. Literally, it means "bedecked, " "showy, " "gaudilyattired, " "flashy, " "dazzling, " etc. , and it was applied at the end ofthe eighteenth century and at the beginning of the nineteenth to acertain class of gay women of the lower strata of Madrid societynotorious for their love of dancing and their fondness for exhibitingthemselves conspicuously at bull-fights and all popular celebrations. The great ladies of the aristocracy affected the free ways and imitatedthe picturesque dress of the _maja_; Goya made this type the centralfigure of many of his genre paintings, and the dramatist Ramón de laCruz based most of his _sainetes_--farcical pieces in one act--upon thecustoms and rivalries of these women. The dress invented by the _maja_, consisting of a short skirt partly covered by a net with berry-shapedtassels, white _mantilla_ and high shell-comb, is considered all overthe world as the national costume of Spanish women. 

When the novel first appeared in Spain some years ago, a certain part ofthe Madrid public, unduly evil-minded, thought that it had discoveredthe identity of the real persons whom I had taken as models to draw mycharacters. This claim provoked a scandalous sensation and gave my bookan unwholesome notoriety. It was thought that the protagonists of _Lamaja desnuda_ were an illustrious Spanish painter of world-wide fame, who is my friend, and an aristocratic lady very celebrated at the timebut now forgotten. I protested against this unwarranted and fantasticinterpretation. Although I draw my characters from life, I do so only ina very fragmentary way (like all the great creative novelists whom Iadmire as masters in the field of fiction), using the materials gatheredin my observations to form completely new types which are the direct andlegitimate offspring of my own imagination. To use a figure: as anovelist I am a painter, not a photographer. Although I seek myinspiration in reality, I copy it in accordance with my own way ofseeing it; I do not reproduce it with the mechanical servility of thephotographic camera. 

It is possible that my imaginary heroes are vaguely reminiscent ofbeings who actually exist. Subconsciousness is the novelist's principalinstrument, and this subconsciousness frequently mocks us, leading us tomistake for our own creation the things which we have unwittinglyobserved in Nature. But despite this, it is unfair, as well as risky, for the reader to assign the names of real persons to the characters offiction, saying, "This is So-and-so. "

It would be equally unfair to consider this novel as audacious or ofdoubtful morality. The artistic world which I describe in _La majadesnuda_ cannot be expected to have the same conception of life as theconventional world. Far from believing it immoral, I consider this oneof the most moral novels I have ever written. And it is for this reasonthat, with a full realization of the standards demanded by theEnglish-reading public, I have not hesitated to authorize the presenttranslation without palliation or amputation, fully convinced that thereader will not find anything in this novel objectionable or offensiveto his moral sense. Morality is not to be found in words but in deedsand in the lessons which these deeds teach. 

The difficulty of adequately translating the word _maja_ into Englishled to the adoption of "Woman Triumphant" as the title of the presentversion. I believe it is a happy selection; it interprets the spirit ofthe novel. But it must be borne in mind that the woman here is the wifeof the protagonist. It is the wife who triumphs, resurrecting in spiritto exert an overwhelming influence over the life of a man who had wishedto live without her. 

Renovales, the hero, is simply the personification of human desire, thispoor desire which, in reality, does not know what it wants, eternallyfickle and unsatisfied. When we finally obtain what we desire, it doesnot seem enough. "More: I want more, " we say. If we lose something thatmade life unbearable, we immediately wish it back as indispensable toour happiness. Such are we: poor deluded children who cried yesterdayfor what we scorn to-day and shall want again to-morrow; poor deludedbeings plunging across the span of life on the Icarian wings of caprice. 

 VICENTE BLASCO IBAÑEZ. 

New York, January, 1920. 

WOMAN TRIUMPHANT

PART I

I

It was eleven o'clock in the morning when Mariano Renovales reached theMuseo del Prado. Several years had passed since the famous painter hadentered it. The dead did not attract him; very interesting they were, very worthy of respect, under the glorious shroud of the centuries, butart was moving along new paths and he could not study there under thefalse glare of the skylights, where he saw reality only through thetemperaments of other men. A bit of sea, a mountainside, a group ofragged people, an expressive head attracted him more than that palace, with its broad staircases, its white columns and its statues of bronzeand alabaster--a solemn pantheon of art, where the neophytes vacillatedin fruitless confusion, without knowing what course to follow. 

The master Renovales stopped for a few moments at the foot of thestairway. He contemplated the valley through which you approach thepalace--with its slopes of fresh turf, dotted at intervals with thesickly little trees--with a certain emotion, as men are wont tocontemplate, after a long absence, the places familiar to their youth. Above the scattered growth the ancient church of Los Jerónimos, with itsgothic masonry, outlined against the blue sky its twin towers and ruinedarcades. The wintry foliage of the Retiro served as a background forthe white mass of the Casón. Renovales thought of the frescos ofGiordano that decorated its ceilings. Afterwards, he fixed his attentionon a building with red walls and a stone portal, which pretentiouslyobstructed the space in the foreground, at the edge of the green slope. Bah! The Academy! And the artist's sneer included in the same loathingthe Academy of Language and the other Academies--painting, literature, every manifestation of human thought, dried, smoked, and swathed, withthe immortality of a mummy, in the bandages of tradition, rules, andrespect for precedent. 

A gust of icy wind shook the skirts of his overcoat, his long beardtinged with gray and his wide felt hat, beneath the brim of whichprotruded the heavy locks of his hair, that had excited so much commentin his youth, but which had gradually grown shorter with prudenttrimming, as the master rose in the world, winning fame and money. 

Renovales felt cold in the damp valley. It was one of those bright, freezing days that are so frequent in the winter in Madrid. The sun wasshining; the sky was blue; but from the mountains, covered with snow, came an icy wind, that hardened the ground, making it as brittle asglass. In the corners, where the warmth of the sun did not reach, themorning frost still glistened like a coating of sugar. On the mossycarpet, the sparrows, thin with the privations of winter, trotted backand forth like children, shaking their bedraggled feathers. 

The stairway of the Museo recalled to the master his early youth, whenat sixteen he had climbed those steps many a time with his stomach faintfrom the wretched meal at the boarding-house. How many mornings he hadspent in that old building copying Velásquez! The place brought to hismemory his dead hopes, a host of illusions that now made his smile;recollections of hunger and humiliating bargaining to make his firstmoney by the sale of copies. His large, stern face, his brow that filledhis pupils and admirers with terror lighted up with a merry smile. Herecalled how he used to go into the Museo with halting steps, how hefeared to leave the easel, lest people might notice the gaping soles ofhis boots that left his feet uncovered. 

He passed through the vestibule and opened the first glass door. Instantly the noises of the world outside ceased; the rattling of thecarriages in the Prado; the bells of the street-cars, the dull rumble ofthe carts, the shrill cries of the children who were running about onthe slopes. He opened the second door, and his face, swollen by thecold, felt the caress of warm air, buzzing with the vague hum ofsilence. The footfalls of the visitors reverberated in the mannerpeculiar to large, unoccupied buildings. The slam of the door, as itclosed, resounded like a cannon shot, passing from hall to hall throughthe heavy curtains. From the gratings of the registers poured theinvisible breath of the furnaces. The people, on entering, spoke in alow tone, as if they were in a cathedral; their faces assumed anexpression of unnatural seriousness, as though they were intimidated bythe thousands of canvases that lined the walls, by the enormous buststhat decorated the circle of the rotunda and the middle of the centralsalon. 

On seeing Renovales, the two door-keepers, in their long frock-coats, started to their feet. They did not know who he was, but he certainlywas somebody. They had often seen that face, perhaps in the newspapers, perhaps on match-boxes. It was associated in their minds with the gloryof popularity, with the high honors reserved for people of distinction. Presently they recognized him. It was so many years since they had seenhim there! And the two attendants, with their caps covered withgold-braid in their hands and with an obsequious smile, came forwardtowards the great artist. 

"Good morning, Don Mariano. Did Señor de Renovales wish something? Didhe want them to call the curator?" They spoke with oily obsequiousness, with the confusion of courtiers who see a foreign sovereign suddenlyenter their palace, recognizing him through his disguise. 

Renovales rid himself of them with a brusque gesture and cast a glanceover the large decorative canvases of the rotunda, that recalled thewars of the 17th century; generals with bristling mustaches and plumedslouch-hat, directing the battle with a short baton, as though they weredirecting an orchestra, troops of arquebusiers disappearing downhillwith banners of red and blue crosses at their front, forests of pikesrising from the smoke, green meadows of Flanders in thebackgrounds--thundering, fruitless combats that were almost the lastgasps of a Spain of European influence. He lifted a heavy curtain andentered the spacious salon, where the people at the other end lookedlike little wax figures under the dull illumination of the skylights. 

The artist continued straight ahead, scarcely noticing the pictures, oldacquaintances that could tell him nothing new. His eyes sought thepeople without, however, finding in them any greater novelty. It seemedas though they formed a part of the building and had not moved from itin many years; good-natured fathers with a group of children beforetheir knees, explaining the meaning of the pictures; a school teacher, with her well-behaved and silent pupils who, in obedience to the commandof their superior, passed without stopping before the lightly cladsaints; a gentleman with two priests, talking loudly, to show that hewas intelligent and almost at home there; several foreign ladies withtheir veils caught up over their straw hats and their coats on theirarms, consulting the catalogue, all with a sort of family-air, withidentical expressions of admiration and curiosity, until Renovaleswondered if they were the same ones he had seen there years before, thelast time he was there. 

As he passed, he greeted the great masters mentally; on one side theholy figures of El Greco, with their greenish or bluish spirituality, slender and undulating; beyond, the wrinkled, black heads of Ribera, with ferocious expressions of torture and pain--marvelous artists, whomRenovales admired, while determined not to imitate them. Afterwards, between the railing that protects the pictures and the line of busts, show-cases and marble tables supported by gilded lions, he came upon theeasels of several copyists. They were boys from the School of Fine Arts, or poverty-stricken young ladies with run-down heels and dilapidatedhats, who were copying Murillos. They were tracing on the canvas theblue of the Virgin's robe or the plump flesh of the curly-haired boysthat played with the Divine Lamb. Their copies were commissions frompious people; a _genre_ that found an easy sale among the benefactors ofconvents and oratories. The smoke of the candles, the wear of years, theblindness of devotion would dim the colors, and some day the eyes of theworshipers, weeping in supplication, would see the celestial figuresmove with mysterious life on their blackened background, as theyimplored from them wondrous miracles. 

The master made his way toward the Hall of Velásquez. It was there thathis friend Tekli was working. His visit to the Museo had no other objectthan to see the copy that the Hungarian painter was making of thepicture of _Las Meninas_. 

The day before, when the foreigner was announced in his studio, he hadremained perplexed for a long while, looking at the name on the card. Tekli! And then all at once he remembered a friend of twenty yearsbefore, when he lived in Rome; a good-natured Hungarian, who admired himsincerely and who made up for his lack of genius with a silentpersistency in his work, like a beast of burden. 

Renovales was glad to see his little blue eyes, hidden under his thin, silky eyebrows, his jaw, protruding like a shovel, a feature that madehim look very much like the Austrian monarchs--his tall frame that bentforward under the impulse of excitement, while he stretched out his bonyarms, long as tentacles, and greeted him in Italian:

"Oh, _maestro, caro maestro!_"

He had taken refuge in a professorship, like all artists who lack thepower to continue the upward climb, who fall in the rut. Renovalesrecognized the artist-official in his spotless suit, dark and proper, inhis dignified glance that rested from time to time on his shining bootsthat seemed to reflect the whole studio. He even wore on one lapel ofhis coat the variegated button of some mysterious decoration. The felthat, white as meringue, which he held in his hand, was the onlydiscordant feature in this general effect of a public functionary. Renovales caught his hands with sincere enthusiasm. The famous Tekli!How glad he was to see him! What times they used to have in Rome! Andwith a smile of kindly superiority he listened to the story of hissuccess. He was a professor in Budapest; every year he saved money inorder to go and study in some celebrated European museum. At last he hadsucceeded in coming to Spain, fulfilling the desire he had cherished formany years. 

"_Oh, Velásquez! uel maestro, caro Mariano!_"

And throwing back his head, with a dreamy expression in his eyes, hemoved his protruding jaw covered with reddish hair, with a voluptuouslook, as though he were sipping a glass of his sweet native Tokay. 

He had been in Madrid for a month, working every morning in the Museo. His copy of _Las Meninas_ was almost finished. He had not been to seehis "Dear Mariano" sooner because he wanted to show him this work. Wouldhe come and see him some morning in the Museo? Would he give him thisproof of his friendship? Renovales tried to decline. What did he carefor a copy? But there was an expression of such humble supplication inthe Hungarian's little eyes, he showered him with so many praises of hisgreat triumphs, expatiating on the success that his picture _ManOverboard!_ had won at the last Budapest Exhibition, that the masterpromised to go to the Museo. 

And a few days later, one morning when a gentleman whose portrait he waspainting canceled his appointment, Renovales remembered his promise andwent to the Museo del Prado, feeling, as he entered, the same sensationof insignificance and homesickness that a man suffers on returning tothe university where he has passed his youth. 

When he found himself in the Hall of Velásquez, he suddenly felt seizedwith religious respect. There was a painter! _The_ painter! All hisirreverent theories of hatred for the dead were left outside the door. The charm of those canvases that he had not seen for many years roseagain--fresh, powerful, irresistible; it overwhelmed him, awakening hisremorse. For a long time he remained motionless, turning his eyes fromone picture to another, eager to comprise in one glance the whole workof the immortal, while around him the hum of curiosity began again. 

"Renovales! That's Renovales!"

The news had started from the door, spreading through the whole Museo, reaching the Hall of Velásquez behind his steps. The groups of curiouspeople stopped gazing at the pictures to look at that huge, self-possessed man who did not seem to realize the curiosity thatsurrounded him. The ladies, as they went from canvas to canvas, lookedout of the corner of their eyes at the celebrated artist whose portraitthey had seen so often. They found him more ugly, more commonplace thanhe appeared in the engravings in the papers. It did not seem possiblethat that "porter" had talent and painted women so well. Some youngfellows approached to look at him more closely, pretending to gaze atthe same pictures as the master. They scrutinized him, noting hisexternal peculiarities with that desire for enthusiastic imitation whichmarks the novice. Some determined to copy his soft bow-tie and histangled hair, with the fantastic hope that this would give them a newspirit for painting. Others complained to themselves that they werebeardless and could not display the curly gray whiskers of the famousmaster. 

He, with his keen sensitiveness to praise, was not long in observing theatmosphere of curiosity that surrounded him. The young copyists seemedto stick closer to their easels, knitted their brows, dilated theirnostrils, and moved their brushes slowly, with hesitation, knowing thathe was behind them, trembling at every step that sounded on the inlaidfloor, full of fear and desire that he might deign to cast a glance overtheir shoulders. He divined with a sort of pride what all the mouthswere whispering, what all the eyes were saying, fixed absent-mindedly onthe canvases only to turn toward him. 

"It's Renovales--the painter Renovales. "

The master looked for a long while at one of the copyists--an old man, decrepit and almost blind, with heavy convex spectacles that gave himthe appearance of a sea-monster, whose hands trembled with senileunsteadiness. Renovales recognized him. Twenty years before, when heused to study in the Museo, he had seen him in the same spot, alwayscopying _Los Borrachos_. Even if he should become completely blind, ifthe picture should be lost, he could reproduce it by feeling. In thosedays they had often talked together, but the poor man could not have theremotest suspicion that the Renovales whom people talked so much aboutwas the same lad who on more than one occasion had borrowed a brush fromhim, but whose memory was scarcely preserved in his mind, mummified byeternal imitation. 

Renovales thought of the kindness of the chummy Bacchus and the gang ofruffians of his court, who for half a century had been supporting thehousehold of the copyist, and he fancied he could see the old wife, themarried children, the grandchildren--a whole family supported by the oldman's trembling hand. 

Some one whispered to him the news that was filling the Museo withexcitement and the copyist, shrugging his shoulders disdainfully, raisedhis moribund glance from his work. 

And so Renovales was there, the famous Renovales! At last he was goingto see the prodigy!

The master saw those grotesque eyes like those of a sea-monster, fixedon him, with an ironical gleam behind the heavy lenses. The grafter! Hehad already heard of that studio, as splendid as a palace, behind theRetire What Renovales had in such plenty had been taken from men likehim who, for want of influence, had been left behind. He chargedthousands of dollars for a canvas, when Velásquez worked for three_pesetas_ a day and Goya painted his portraits for a couple ofdoubloons. Deceit, modernism, the audacity of the younger generationthat lacked scruples, the ignorance of the simpletons that believe thenewspapers! The only good thing was right there before him. And oncemore shrugging his shoulders scornfully, he lost his expression ofironical protest and returned to his thousandth copy of _Los Borrachos_. 

Renovales, seeing that the curiosity about him was diminishing, enteredthe little hall that contained the picture of _Las Meninas_. There wasTekli in front of the famous canvas that occupies the whole back of theroom, seated before his easel, with his white hat pushed back to leavefree his throbbing brow that was contracted with a tenacious insistenceon accuracy. 

Seeing Renovales, he rose hastily, leaving his palette on the piece ofoil-cloth that protected the floor from spots of paint. Dear master! Howthankful he was to him for this visit! And he showed him the copy, minutely accurate but without the wonderful atmosphere, without themiraculous realism of the original. Renovales approved with a nod; headmired the patient toil of that gentle ox of art, whose furrows werealways alike, of geometric precision, without the slightest negligenceor the least attempt at originality. 

"_Ti piace?_" he asked anxiously, looking into his eyes to divine histhoughts. "_È vero? È vero?_" he repeated with the uncertainty of achild who fears that he is being deceived. 

And suddenly calmed by the evidences of Renovales' approval, that keptgrowing more extravagant to conceal his indifference, the Hungariangrasped both of his hands and lifted them to his breast. 

_"Sono contento, maestro, sono contento. "_

He did not want to let Renovales go. Since he had had the generosity tocome and see his work, he could not let him go away, they would lunchtogether at the hotel where he lived. They would open a bottle ofChianti to recall their life in Rome; they would talk of the merryBohemian days of their youth, of those comrades of various nationalitiesthat used to gather in the Café del Greco, --some already dead, the restscattered through Europe and America, a few celebrated, the majorityvegetating in the schools of their native land, dreaming of a finalmasterpiece before which death would probably overtake them. 

Renovales felt overcome by the insistence of the Hungarian, who seizedhis hands with a dramatic expression, as though he would die at arefusal. Good for the Chianti! They would lunch together, and whileTekli was giving a few touches to his work, he would wait for him, wandering through the Museo, renewing old memories. 

When he returned to the Hall of Velásquez, the assemblage haddiminished; only the copyists remained bending over their canvases. Thepainter felt anew the influence of the great master. He admired hiswonderful art, feeling at the same time the intense, historical sadnessthat seemed to emanate from all of his work. Poor Don Diego! He was bornin the most melancholy period of Spanish history. His sane realism wasfitted to immortalize the human form in all its naked beauty and fatehad provided him a period when women looked like turtles, with theirheads and shoulders peeping out between the double shell of theirinflated gowns, and when men had a sacerdotal stiffness, raising theirdark, ill-washed heads above their gloomy garb. He had painted what hesaw; fear and hypocrisy were reflected in the eyes of that world. In thejesters, fools and humpbacks immortalized by Don Diego was revealed theforced merriment of a dying nation that must needs find distraction inthe monstrous and absurd. The hypochondriac temper of a monarchy weakin body and fettered in spirit by the terrors of hell, lived in allthose masterpieces, that inspired at once admiration and sadness. Alasfor the artistic treasures wasted in immortalizing a period whichwithout Velásquez would have fallen into utter oblivion!

Renovales thought, too, of the man, comparing with a feeling of remorsethe great painter's life with the princely existence of the modernmasters. Ah, the munificence of kings, their protection of artists, thatpeople talked about in their enthusiasm for the past! He thought of thepeaceful Don Diego and his salary of three _pesetas_ as court painter, which he received only at rare intervals; of his glorious name figuringamong those of jesters and barbers in the list of members of the king'shousehold, forced to accept the office of appraiser of masonry toimprove his situation, of the shame and humiliation of his last years inorder to gain the Cross of Santiago, denying as a crime before thetribunal of the Orders that he had received money for his pictures, declaring with servile pride his position as servant of the king, asthough this title were superior to the glory of an artist. Happy days ofthe present, blessed revolution of modern life, that dignifies theartist, and places him under the protection of the public, an impersonalsovereign that leaves the creator of beauty free and ends by evenfollowing him in new-created paths!

Renovales went up to the central gallery in search of another of hisfavorites. The works of Goya filled a large space on both walls. On oneside the portraits of the kings and queens of the Bourbon decadence;heads of monarchs, or princes, crushed under their white wigs; sharpfeminine eyes, bloodless faces, with their hair combed in the form of atower. The two great painters had coincided in their lives with themoral downfall of two dynasties. In the Hall of Velásquez the thin, bony, fair-haired kings, of monastic grace and anæmic pallor, withtheir protruding under-jaws, and in their eyes an expression of doubtand fear for the salvation of their souls. Here, the corpulent, clumsymonarchs, with their huge, heavy noses, fatefully pendulous, as thoughby some mysterious relation they were dragging on the brain, paralyzingits functions; their thick underlips, hanging in sensual inertia; theireyes, calm as those of cattle, reflecting in their tranquil lightindifference for everything that did not directly concern their ownwell-being. The Austrians, nervous, restless, vacillating with the feverof insanity, riding on theatrical chargers, in dark landscapes, boundedby the snowy crests of the Guadarrama, as sad, cold and crystallized asthe soul of the nation; the Bourbons, peaceful, adipose, resting--surfeited--on their huge calves, without any other thought thanthe hunt of the following day or the domestic intrigue that would setthe family in dissension, deaf to the storms that thundered beyond thePyrenees. The one, surrounded by brutal-faced imbeciles, by gloomypettifoggers, by Infantas with childish faces and the hollow skirts of aVirgin's image on an altar; the others bringing as a merry, unconcernedretinue, a rabble clad in bright colors, wrapped in scarlet capes orlace mantillas, crowned with ornamental combs or masculine hats--a racethat, without knowing it, was sapping its heroism in picnics at theCanal or in grotesque amusements. The lash of invasion aroused them fromtheir century-long infancy. The same great artist that for many yearshad portrayed the simple thoughtlessness of this gay people, showy andlight-hearted as a comic-opera chorus, afterwards painted them, knife inhand, attacking the Mamelukes with the agility of monkeys, felling thoseEgyptian centaurs under their slashes, blackened with the smoke of ahundred battles, or dying with theatrical pride by the light of alantern in the gloomy solitude of Moncloa, shot by the invaders. 

Renovales admired the tragic atmosphere of the canvas before him. Theexecutioners hid their faces, leaning on their guns; they were the blindexecutors of fate, a nameless force, and before them rose the pile ofpalpitating, bloody flesh; the dead with strips of flesh torn off by thebullets, showing reddish holes, the living with folded arms, defying themurderers in a tongue they could not understand, or covering their faceswith their hands, as though this instinctive movement could save themfrom the lead. A whole people died, to be born again. And beside thispicture of horror and heroism, in another close to it, he saw Palafox, the Leonidas of Saragossa, mounted on horseback, with his stylishwhiskers and the arrogance of a blacksmith in a captain-general'suniform, having in his bearing something of the appearance of a popularchieftain, holding in one hand, gloved in buckskin, the curved saber, and in the other the reins of his stocky, big-bellied steed. 

Renovales thought that art is like light, which acquires color andbrightness from the objects it touches. Goya had passed through a stormyperiod; he had been a spectator of the resurrection of the soul of thepeople and his painting contained the tumultuous life, the heroic furythat you look for in vain in the canvases of that other genius, tied ashe was to the monotonous existence of the palace, unbroken except by thenews of distant wars in which they had little interest and whosevictories, too late to be useful, had the coldness of doubt. 

The painter turned away from the dames of Goya, clad in white cambric, with their rosebud mouths and with their hair done up like a turban, toconcentrate his attention on a nude figure, the luminous gleam of whoseflesh seemed to throw the adjacent canvases in a shadow. Hecontemplated it closely for a long time, bending over the railing tillthe brim of his hat almost touched the canvas. Then he gradually movedaway, without ceasing to look at it, until, at last, he sat down on abench, still facing the picture with his eyes fixed upon it. 

"Goya's _Maja_. The _Maja Desnuda!_"

He spoke aloud, without realizing it, as if his words were theinevitable outburst of the thoughts that rushed into his mind and seemedto pass back and forth behind the lenses of his eyes. His expressions ofadmiration were in different tones, marking a descending scale ofmemories. 

The painter looked with delight at the gracefully delicate form, luminous, as though within it burned the flame of life, showing throughthe pearl-pale flesh. A shadow, scarcely perceptible, veiled in mysteryof her femininity; the light traced a bright spot on her smoothlyrounded knees and once more the shadow reached down to her tiny feetwith their delicate toes, rosy and babyish. 

The woman was small, graceful, and dainty; the Spanish Venus with nomore flesh than was necessary to cover her supple, shapely frame withsoftly curving outlines. Her amber eyes that flashed slyly, weredisconcerting with their gaze; her mouth had in its graceful corners thefleeting touch of an eternal smile; on her cheeks, elbows and feet thepink tone showed the transparency and the moist brilliancy of thoseshells that open their mysterious colors in the secret depths of thesea. 

"Goya's _Maja_. The _Maja Desnuda!_"

He no longer said these words aloud, but his thought and his expressionrepeated them, his smile was their echo. 

Renovales was not alone. From time to time groups of visitors passedback and forth between his eyes and the picture, talking loudly. Thetread of heavy feet shook the wooden floor. It was noon and thebricklayers from nearby buildings were taking advantage of the noon hourto explore those salons as if it were a new world, delighting in thewarm air of the furnaces. As they went, they left footprints of plasteron the floor; they called out to each other to share their admirationbefore a picture; they were impatient to take it all in at a singleglance; they waxed enthusiastic over the warriors in their shining armoror the elaborate uniforms of olden times. The cleverest among themserved as guides to their companions, driving them impatiently. They hadbeen there the day before. Go ahead! There was still a lot to see! Andthey ran toward the inner halls with the breathless curiosity of men whotread on new ground and expect something marvelous to rise before theirsteps. 

Amid this rush of simple admirers there passed, too, some groups ofSpanish ladies. All did the same thing before Goya's work, as if theyhad been previously coached. They went from picture to picture, commenting on the fashions of the past, feeling a sort of longing forthe curious old crinolines and the broad mantillas with the high combs. Suddenly they became serious, drew their lips together and started at aquick pace for the end of the gallery. Instinct warned them. Theirrestless eyes felt hurt by the nude in the distance; they seemed toscent the famous _Maja_ before they saw her and they kept on--erect, with severe countenances, just as if they were annoyed by some rudefellow's advances in the street--passing in front of the picture withoutturning their faces, without seeing even the adjacent pictures norstopping till they reached the Hall of Murillo. 

It was the hatred for the nude, the Christian, century-old abominationof Nature and truth, that rose instinctively to protest against thetoleration of such horrors in a public building which was peopled withsaints, kings and ascetics. 

Renovales worshiped the canvas with ardent devotion, and placed it in aclass by itself. It was the first manifestation in Spanish history ofart that was free from scruples, unhampered by prejudice. Threecenturies of painting, several generations of glorious names, succeededone another with wonderful fertility; but not until Goya had the Spanishbrush dared to trace the form of a woman's body, the divine nakednessthat among all peoples has been the first inspiration of nascent art. Renovales remembered another nude, the Venus of Velásquez, preservedabroad. But that work had not been spontaneous; it was a commission ofthe monarch who, at the same time that he was paying foreigners lavishlyfor their studies in the nude, wished to have a similar canvas by hiscourt-painter. 

Religious oppression had obscured art for centuries. Human beautyterrified the great artists, who painted with a cross on their breastsand a rosary on their sword-hilts. Bodies were hidden under the stiff, heavy folds of sackcloth or the grotesque, courtly crinoline, and thepainter never ventured to guess what was beneath them, looking at themodel, as the devout worshiper contemplates the hollow mantle of theVirgin, not knowing whether it contains a body or three sticks to holdup the head. The joy of life was a sin. In vain a sun fairer than thatof Venice shone on Spanish soil, futile was the light that burned uponthe land with a brighter glow than that of Flanders: Spanish art wasdark, lifeless, sober, even after it knew the works of Titian. TheRenaissance, that in the rest of the world worshiped the nude as thesupreme work of Nature, was covered here with the monk's cowl or thebeggar's rags. The shining landscapes were dark and gloomy when theyreached the canvas; under the brush the land of the sun appeared with agray sky and grass that was a mournful green; the heads had a monkishgravity. The artist placed in his pictures not what surrounded him, butwhat he had within him, a piece of his soul--and his soul was fetteredby the fear of dangers in the present life and torments in the life tocome; it was black--black with sadness, as if it were dyed in the sootof the fires of the autos-de-fé. 

That naked woman with her curly head resting on her folded arms was theawakening of an art that had lived in isolation. The slight frame, thatscarcely rested on the green divan and the fine lace cushions, seemed onthe point of rising in the air with the mighty impulse of resurrection. 

Renovales thought of the two masters, equally great, and still sodifferent. One had the imposing majesty of famous monuments--serene, correct, cold, filling the horizon of history with their colossal mass, growing old in glory without the centuries opening the least crack intheir marble walls. On all sides the same façade--noble, symmetrical, calm, without the vagaries of caprice. It was reason--solid, well-balanced, alien to enthusiasm and weakness, without feverish haste. The other was as great as a mountain, with the fantastic disorder ofNature, covered with tortuous inequalities. On one side the wild, barrencliff; beyond, the glen, covered with blossoming heath; below, thegarden with its perfumes and birds; on the heights, the crown of darkclouds, heavy with thunder and lightning. It was imagination inunbridled career, with breathless halts and new flights--its brow in theinfinite and its feet implanted on earth. 

The life of Don Diego was summed up in these words: "He had painted. "That was his whole biography. Never in his travels in Spain and Italydid he feel curious to see anything but pictures. In the court of thePoet-king, he had vegetated amid gallantries and masquerades, calm as amonk of painting, always standing before his canvas and model--to-day ajester, to-morrow a little Infanta--without any other desire than torise in rank among the members of the royal household, to see a cross ofred cloth sewed on his black jerkin. He was a lofty soul, enclosed in aphlegmatic body that never tormented him with nervous desires nordisturbed the calm of his work with violent passions. When he died thegood Dona Juana, his wife, died too, as though they sought each other, unable to remain apart after their long, uneventful pilgrimage throughthe world. 

Goya "had lived. " His life was that of the nobleman-artist--a stormynovel, full of mysterious amours. His pupils, on parting the curtains ofhis studio, saw the silk of royal skirts on their master's knees. Thedainty duchesses of the period resorted to that robust Aragonese ofrough, manly gallantry to have him paint their cheeks, laughing like madat these intimate touches. When he contemplated some divine beauty onthe tumbled bed, he transferred her form to the canvas by anirresistible impulse, an imperious necessity of reproducing beauty; andthe legend that floated about the Spanish artist connected anillustrious name with all the beauties whom his brush immortalized. 

To paint without fear or prejudice, to take delight in reproducing oncanvas the glory of the nude, the lustrous amber of woman's flesh withits pale roses like a sea-shell, was Renovales' desire and envy; to livelike the famous Don Francisco--a free bird with restless, shiningplumage in the midst of the monotony of the human barn-yard; in hispassions, in his diversions, in his tastes, to be different from themajority of men, since he was already different from them in his way ofappreciating life. 

But, ah! his existence was like that of Don Diego--unbroken, monotonous, laid out by level in a straight line. He painted, but he did not live. People praised his work for the accuracy with which he reproducedNature, for the gleam of light, for the indefinable color of theatmosphere, and the exterior of things; but something was lacking, something that stirred within him and fought in vain to leap the vulgarbarriers of daily existence. 

The memory of the romantic life of Goya made him think of his own life. People called him a master; they bought everything he painted at goodprices, especially if it was in accordance with some one else's tastesand contrary to his artistic desire; he enjoyed a calm existence, fullof comforts; in his studio, almost as splendid as a palace, the façadeof which was reproduced in the illustrated magazines, he had a wife whowas convinced of his genius and a daughter who was almost a woman andwho made the troop of his intimate pupils stammer with embarrassment. The only evidences of his Bohemian past that remained were his soft felthats, his long beard, his tangled hair and a certain carelessness in hisdress; but when his position as a "national celebrity" demanded it, hetook out of his wardrobe a dress suit with the lapel covered with theinsignia of honorary orders and played his part in official receptions. He had thousands of dollars in the bank. In his studio, palette in hand, he conferred with his broker, discussing what sort of investments heought to make with the year's profits. His name awakened no surprise oraversion in high society, where it was fashionable for ladies to havetheir portraits painted by him. 

In the early days he had provoked scandal and protests by his boldnessin color and his revolutionary way of seeing Nature, but there was notconnected with his name the least offence against the conventions ofsociety. His women were women of the people, picturesque and repugnant;the only flesh that he had shown on his canvases was that of a sweatylaborer or the chubby child. He was an honored master, who cultivatedhis stupendous ability with the same calm that he showed in his businessaffairs. 

What was lacking in his life? Ah! Renovales smiled ironically. His wholelife suddenly came to mind in a tumultuous rush of memories. Once morehe fixed his glance on that woman, shining white like a pearl amphora, with her arms above her head, her breasts erect and triumphant, her eyesresting on him, as if she had known him for many years, and he repeatedmentally with an expression of bitterness and dejection:

"Goya's _Maja_, the _Maja Desnuda_!"

II

As Mariano Renovales recalled the first years of his life, his memory, always sensitive to exterior impressions, called up the ceaseless clangof hammers. From the rising of the sun till the earth began to darkenwith the shadows of twilight the iron sang or groaned on the anvil, jarring the walls of the house and the floor of the garret, whereMariano used to play, lying on the floor at the feet of a pale, sicklywoman with serious, deep-set eyes, who frequently dropped her sewing tokiss the little one with sudden violence, as though she feared she wouldnot see him again. 

Those tireless hammers that had accompanied Mariano's birth, made himjump out of bed as soon as day broke and go down to the shop to warmhimself beside the glowing forge. His father, a good-naturedCyclops--hairy and blackened--walked back and forth, turning over theirons, picking up files, giving orders to his assistants with loudshouts, in order to be heard in the din of the hammering. Two sturdyfellows, stripped to the waist, swung their arms, panting over theanvil, and the iron--now red, now golden--leaped in bright showers, scattered in crackling sprays, peopling the black atmosphere of the shopwith a swarm of fiery flies that died away in the soot of the corners. 

"Take care, little one!" said the father, protecting his delicatecurly-haired head with one of his great hands. 

The little fellow felt attracted by the colors of the glowing iron, tillwith the thoughtlessness of childhood he sometimes tried to pick up thefragments that glowed on the ground like fallen stars. 

His father would push him out of the shop, and outside the door--blackwith soot--Mariano could see stretching out below him in the flood ofsunlight the fields with their red soil cut into geometric figures bystone walls; at the bottom the valley with groups of poplars borderingthe winding, crystal stream, and before him the mountains, covered tothe very tops with dark pine woods. The shop was in the suburbs of atown and from it and the villages of the valley came the jobs thatsupported the blacksmith--new axles for carts, plowshares, scythes, shovels, and pitchforks in need of repair. 

The incessant pounding of the hammers seemed to stir up the littlefellow, inspiring him with a fever of activity, tearing him from hischildish amusements. When he was eight years old, he used to seize therope of the bellows and pull it, delighting in the shower of sparks thatthe current of air drove out of the lighted coals. The Cyclops wasgratified at the strength of his son, robust and vigorous like all themen of his family, with a pair of fists that inspired a wholesomerespect in all the village lads. He was one of his own blood. From hispoor mother, weak and sickly, he inherited only his propensity towardsilence and isolation that sometimes, when the fever of activity diedout in him, kept him for hours at a time watching the fields, the sky orthe brooks that came tumbling down over the pebbles to join the streamat the bottom of the valley. 

The boy hated school, showing a holy horror of letters. His strong handsshook with uncertainty when he tried to write a word. On the other hand, his father and the other people in the shop admired the ease with whichhe could reproduce objects in a simple, ingenuous drawing, in which nodetail of naturalness was lacking. His pockets were always full of bitsof charcoal and he never saw a wall or stone that had a suggestion ofwhiteness, without at once tracing on it a copy of the objects thatstruck his eyes because of some marked peculiarity. The outside walls ofthe shop were black with little Mariano's drawings. Along the walls ranthe pigs of Saint Anthony, with their puckered snouts and twisted tails, that wandered through the village and were supported by public charity, to be raffled on the festival of the saint. And in the midst of thisstout procession stood out the profiles of the blacksmith and all theworkmen of the shop, with an inscription beneath, that no doubt mightarise as to their identity. 

"Come here, woman, " the blacksmith would shout to his sick wife when hediscovered a new sketch. "Come and see what our son has done. A devil ofa boy!"

And influenced by this enthusiasm, he no longer complained when Marianoran away from school and the bellows rope to spend the whole day runningthrough the valley or the village, a piece of charcoal in his hand, covering the rocks of the mountain and the house walls with black lines, to the despair of the neighbors. In the tavern in the Plaza Mayor he hadtraced the heads of the most constant customers, and the innkeeperpointed them out proudly, forbidding anyone to touch the wall for fearthe sketches would disappear. This work was a source of vanity to theblacksmith when Sundays, after mass, he went in to drink a glass withhis friends. On the wall of the rectory he had traced a Virgin, beforewhich the most pious old women in the village stopped with deep sighs. 

The blacksmith with a flush of satisfaction accepted all the praisesthat were showered on the little fellow as if they belonged in largepart to himself. Where had that prodigy come from, when all the rest ofhis family were such brutes? And he nodded affirmatively when thevillage notables spoke of doing something for the boy. To be sure, hedid not know what to do, but they were right; his Mariano was notdestined to hammer iron like his father. He might become as great apersonage as Don Rafael, a gentleman who painted saints in the capitalof the province and was a teacher of painting in a big house, full ofpictures, in the city. During the summer he came with his family to livein an estate in the valley. 

This Don Rafael was a man of imposing gravity; a saint with a largefamily of children, who wore a frock-coat as if it were a cassock andspoke with the suavity of a friar through his white beard that coveredhis thin, pink cheeks. In the village church they had a wonderfulpicture painted by him, a _Purísima_, whose soft glowing colors made thelegs of the pious tremble. Besides, the eyes of the image had themarvelous peculiarity of looking straight at those who contemplated it, following them even though they changed position. A veritable miracle. It seemed impossible that that good gentleman who came up every morningin the summer to hear mass in the village, had painted that supernaturalwork. An Englishman had tried to buy it for its weight in gold. No onehad seen the Englishman, but every one smiled sarcastically when theycommented on the offer. Yes, indeed, they were likely to let the picturego! Let the heretics rage with all their millions. The _Purísima_ wouldstay in her chapel to the envy of the whole world--and especially of theneighboring villages. 

When the parish priest went to visit Don Rafael to speak to him aboutthe blacksmith's son, the great man already knew about his ability. Hehad seen his drawings in the village; the boy had some talent and it wasa pity not to guide him in the right path. After this came the visitsof the blacksmith and his son, both trembling when they found themselvesin the attic of the country house that the great painter had convertedinto a studio, seeing close at hand the pots of color, the oily palette, the brushes and those pale blue canvases on which the rosy, chubbycheeks of the cherubim or the ecstatic face of the Mother of God werebeginning to assume form. 

At the end of the summer the good blacksmith decided to follow DonRafael's advice. As long as he was so good as to consent to helping theboy, he was not going to be the one to interfere with his good fortune. The shop gave him enough to live on. All it meant was to work a fewyears longer, to support himself till the end of his life beside theanvil, without an assistant or a successor. His son was born to besomebody, and it was a serious sin to stop his progress by scorning thehelp of his good protector. 

His mother, who constantly grew weaker and more sickly, cried as if thejourney to the capital of the province were to the end of the world. 

"Good-by, my boy. I shall never see you again. "

And in truth it was the last time that Mariano saw that pale face withits great expressionless eyes, now almost wiped out of his memory like awhitish spot in which, in spite of all his efforts, he could not succeedin restoring the outline of the features. 

In the city his life was radically different. Then for the first time heunderstood what it was his hands were striving for as they moved thecharcoal over the whitewashed walls. Art was revealed to his eyes inthose silent afternoons, passed in the convent where the provincialmuseum was situated, while his master, Don Rafael, argued with othergentlemen in the professor's hall, or signed papers in the secretary'soffice. 

Mariano lived at his protector's house, at once his servant and hispupil. He carried letters to the dean and the other canons, who werefriends of his master and who accompanied him on his walks or spentsocial evenings in his studio. More than once he visited the locutoriesof nunneries, to deliver through the heavy gratings presents from DonRafael to certain black and white shadows, which attracted by thissturdy young country boy, and aware that he meant to be a painter, overwhelmed him with the eager questions born of their seclusion. Beforehe went away they would hand him, through the revolving window, cakesand candied lemons or some other goody, and then, with a word of advice, would say good-by in their thin, soft voices, which sifted through theiron of the gratings. 

"Be a good boy, little Mariano. Study, pray. Be a good Christian, theLord will protect you and perhaps you will get to be as great a painteras Don Rafael, who is one of the first in the world. "

How the master laughed at the memory of the childish simplicity thatmade him see in his master the most marvelous painter on earth!. .. Mornings, when he attended the classes in the School of Fine Arts, hegrew angry at his comrades, a disrespectful rabble, brought up in thestreets, sons of mechanics, who, as soon as the professor turned hisback, pelted each other with the crumbs of bread meant to wipe out theirdrawings, and cursed Don Rafael, calling him a "Christer" and a"Jesuit. "

The afternoon Mariano passed in the studio, at his master's side. Howexcited he was the first time he placed a palette in his hand andallowed him to copy on an old canvas a child St. John which he hadfinished for a society!. .. While the boy with his forehead wrinkled inhis eagerness, tried to imitate his master's work, he listened to thegood advice that the master gave him without looking up from the canvasover which his angelic brush was running. 

Painting must be religious; the first pictures in the world had beeninspired by religion; outside of it, life offered nothing but basematerialism, loathsome sins. Painting must be ideal, beautiful. It mustalways represent pretty subjects, reproduce things as they ought to be, not as they really are, and above all, look up to heaven, since there istrue life, not on this earth, a valley of tears. Mariano must modify hisinstincts--that was his master's advice--must lose his fondness fordrawing coarse subjects--people as he saw them, animals in all theirmaterial brutality, landscapes in the same form as his eyes gazed upon. 

He must have idealism. Many painters were almost saints; only thus couldthey reflect celestial beauty in the faces of their madonnas. And poorMariano strove to be ideal, to catch a little of that beatific serenitywhich surrounded his master. 

Little by little he came to understand the methods which Don Rafaelemployed to create these masterpieces which called forth cries ofadmiration from his circle of canons and the rich ladies that gave himcommissions for pictures. When he intended to begin one of his_Purísimas_, which were slowly invading the churches and convents of theprovince, he arose early and returned to his studio after mass andcommunion. In this way he felt an inner strength, a calm enthusiasm, and, if he felt depressed in the midst of the work, he once more hadrecourse to this inspiring medicine. 

The artist, besides, must be pure. He had taken a vow of chastity afterhe had reached the age of fifty, somewhat late to be sure, but it wasnot because he had not known before this certain means of reaching theperfect idealism of a celestial painter. His wife, who had grown old inher countless confinements, exhausted by the tiresome fidelity andvirtue of the master, was no longer anything but the companion who gavethe responses when he prayed his rosaries and Trisagia at night. He hadseveral daughters, who weighed on his conscience like the reproachfulmemory of a disgraceful materialism, but some were already nuns and theothers were on the way, while the idealism of the artist increased asthese evidences of his impurity disappeared from the house and went tohide away in a convent where they upheld the artistic prestige of theirfather. 

Sometimes the great painter hesitated before a _Purísima_, which wasalways the same, as if he painted it with a stencil. Then he spokemysteriously to his disciple:

"Mariano, tell the gentlemen not to come to-morrow. We have a model. "

And when the studio was closed to the priests and the other respectablefriends, with heavy step in came Rodríguez, a policeman, with acigarette stub under his heavy bristling mustache and one hand on thehandle of his sword. Dismissed from the gendarmerie for intoxication andcruelty, and finding himself without employment, by some strange chancehe began to devote himself to serving as a painter's model. The piousartist, who held him in a sort of terror, nagged by his constantpetitions, had secured for him this position as policeman, and Rodrígueztook advantage of every opportunity to show his rough appreciation, slapping the master's shoulders with his great hands and blowing in hisface, his breath redolent with nicotine and alcohol. 

"Don Rafael, you are my father. If anybody touches you, I'll fix him, whoever he is. "

And the ascetic artist, with a feeling of satisfaction at thisprotection, blushed and waved his hands in protest against the franknessof the rude fellow with his threats for the men he would "fix. "

He threw his helmet on the ground, handed his heavy sword to Mariano, and like a man that knows his duty, took out of the bottom of a chest awhite woolen tunic and a piece of blue cloth like a cloak, placing bothgarments on his body with the skill of practice. 

Mariano looked at him with astonished eyes but without any temptation tolaugh. They were mysteries of art, surprises that were reserved only forthose who, like him, had the good fortune to live on terms of intimacywith the great master. 

"Ready, Rodríguez?" Don Rafael asked impatiently. 

And Rodríguez, erect in his bath robe with the blue rag hanging from hisshoulders, clasped his hands and lifted his fierce gaze to the ceiling, without ceasing to suck the stub that singed his mustache. The masterdid not need the model except for the robes of the figure, to study thefolds of the celestial garment, which must not reveal the slightestevidence of human contour. The possibility of copying a woman had neverpassed through his imagination. That was falling into materialism, glorifying the flesh, inviting temptation; Rodríguez was all he needed;one must be an idealist. 

The model continued in his mystic attitude with his body lost in theinnumerable folds of his blue and white raiment, while under it thesquare toes of his army boots stuck out, and he held up his grotesque, flat head, crowned with bristling hair, coughing and choking from thesmoke of the cigar, without ceasing to look up and without separatinghis hands clasped in an attitude of worship. 

Sometimes, tired out by the industrious silence of the master and thepupil, Rodríguez uttered a few grumbles that little by little took theform of words and finally developed into the story of the deeds of hisheroic period, when he was a rural policeman and "could take a shot atanyone and pay for it afterward with a report. " The _Purísima_ grewexcited at these memories. His hands separated with a tremble ofmurderous joy, the carefully arranged folds were disturbed, hisbloodshot eyes no longer looked heavenward, and with a hoarse voice hetold of tremendous beatings he administered, of men who fell to theground writhing with pain, the shooting of prisoners which afterwardswere reported as attempts to escape; and to give greater relief to thisautobiography which he declaimed with bestial pride, he sprinkled hiswords with interjections as vulgar as they were lacking in respect forthe first personages of the heavenly court. 

"Rodríguez, Rodríguez!" exclaimed the master, horror-stricken. 

"At your command, Don Rafael. "

And the _Purísima_, after passing the stub from one side of his mouth tothe other, once more folded his hands, straightened up, showing hisred-striped trousers under the tunic, and lost his gaze on high, smilingwith ecstasy, as if he contemplated on the ceiling all his heroic deedsof which he felt so proud. 

Mariano was in despair before his canvas. He could never imitate hisillustrious master. He was incapable of painting anything but what hesaw, and his brush, after reproducing the blue and white raiment, stopped, hesitating at the face, calling in vain on imagination. Afterfutile efforts it was the grotesque mask of Rodríguez that appeared onthe canvas. 

And the pupil had a sincere admiration for the ability of Don Rafael, for that pale head veiled in the light of its halo, a pretty, expressionless face of childish beauty, which took the place of thepoliceman's fierce head in the picture. 

This sleight-of-hand seemed to the boy the most astounding evidence ofart. When would he reach the easy prestidigitation of his master!

With time the difference between Don Rafael and his pupil became moremarked. At school his comrades gathered around him, recognizing hissuperiority and praising his drawings. Some professors, enemies of hismaster, lamented that such talent should be lost beside that"saint-painter. " Don Rafael was surprised at what Mariano did outside ofhis studio--figures and landscapes, directly observed which, accordingto him, breathed the brutality of life. 

His circle of serious gentlemen began to discover some merit in thepupil. 

"He will never reach your height, Don Rafael, " they said. "He lacksunction, he has no idealism, he will never paint a good Virgin--but as aworldly painter he has a future. "

The master, who loved the boy for his submissive nature and the purityof his habits, tried in vain to make him follow the right way. If hewould only imitate him, his fortune was made. He would die without asuccessor and his studio and his fame would be his. The boy only had tosee how, little by little, like a good ant of the Lord, the master hadgathered together a fair sized future with his brush. By virtue of hisidealism, he had his country house there in the village, and no end ofestates, the tenants of which came and visited him in his studio, carrying on endless discussions over the payment and amount of the rentsin front of the poetic Virgins. The Church was poor because of theimpiety of the times, it could not pay as generously as in othercenturies, but commissions were numerous, and a Virgin in all herpurity was a matter of only three days--but young Renovales made atroubled, wry face, as if a painful sacrifice were demanded of him. 

"I can't, Master. I'm an idiot. I don't know how to invent things. Ipaint only what I see. "

And when he began to see naked bodies in the so-called "life" class hedevoted himself zealously to this study, as if the flesh caused in himthe most violent intoxication. Don Rafael was appalled by finding in thecorners of his house sketches that portrayed shameful nudes in all theirreality. Besides, the progress of his pupil caused him some uneasiness;he saw in his painting a vigor that he himself had never had. He evennoted some falling-off in his circle of admirers. The good canons, asalways, admired his Virgins, but some of them had their portraitspainted by Mariano, praising the skill of his brush. 

One day he said to his pupil, firmly:

"You know that I love you as I would a son, Mariano, but you are wastingyour time with me. I cannot teach you anything. Your place is somewhereelse. I thought you might go to Madrid. There you will find men of yourstamp. "

His mother was dead; his father was still in the blacksmith shop, andwhen he saw him come home with several duros, the pay for portraits hehad made, he looked on this sum as a fortune. It did not seem possiblethat anyone would give money in exchange for colors. A letter from DonRafael convinced him. Since that wise gentleman advised that his sonshould go to Madrid, he must agree. 

"Go to Madrid, my boy, and try to make money soon, for your father isold and will not always be able to help you. "

At the age of sixteen, Renovales landed in Madrid and finding himselfalone, with only his wishes for his guide, devoted himself zealously tohis work. He spent the morning in the Museo del Prado, copying all theheads in Velásquez's pictures. He felt that till then he had been blind. Besides, he worked in an attic studio with some other companions andevenings painted water-colors. By selling these and some copies, hemanaged to eke out the small allowance his father sent him. 

He recalled with a sort of homesickness those years of poverty, of realmisery, the cold nights in his wretched bed, the irritatingmeals--Heaven knows what was in them--eaten in a bar-room near theTeatro Real; the discussions in the corner of a café, under the hostileglances of the waiters who were provoked that a dozen long-haired youthsshould occupy several tables and order all together only three coffeesand many bottles of water. 

The light-hearted young fellows stood their misery without difficultyand, to make up for it, what a fill of fancies they had, what a gloriousfeast of hopes! A new discovery every day. Renovales ran through therealm of art like a wild colt, seeing new horizons spreading out beforehim, and his career caused an outburst of scandal that amounted topremature celebrity. The old men said that he was the only boy who "hadthe stuff in him"; his comrades declared that he was a "real painter, "and in their iconoclastic enthusiasm compared his inexperienced workswith those of the recognized old masters--"poor humdrum artists" onwhose bald pates they felt obliged to vent their spleen in order to showthe superiority of the younger generation. 

Renovales' candidacy for the fellowship at Rome caused a veritablerevolution. The younger set, who swore by him and considered him theirillustrious captain, broke out in threats, fearful lest the "old boys"should sacrifice their idol. 

When at last his manifest superiority won him the fellowship, there werebanquets in his honor, articles in the papers, his picture was publishedin the illustrated magazines, and even the old blacksmith made a trip toMadrid, to breathe with tearful emotion part of the incense that wasburned for his son. 

In Rome a cruel disappointment awaited Renovales. His countrymenreceived him rather coldly. The younger men looked on him as a rival andwaited for his next works with the hope of a failure; the old men wholived far from their fatherland examined him with malignant curiosity. "And so that big chap was the blacksmith's son, who caused so muchdisturbance among the ignorant people at home!. .. Madrid was not Rome. They would soon see what that _genius_ could do!"

Renovales did nothing in the first months of his stay in Rome. Heanswered with a shrug of his shoulders those who asked for his pictureswith evident innuendo. He had come there not to paint but to study; thatwas what the State was paying him for. And he spent more than half ayear drawing, always drawing in the famous art galleries, where, pencilin hand, he studied the famous works. The paint boxes remained unopenedin one corner of the studio. 

Before long he came to detest the great city, because of the life theartists led in it. What was the use of fellowships? People studied lessthere than in other places. Rome was not a school, it was a market. Thepainting merchants set up their business there, attracted by thegathering of artists. All--old and beginners, famous and unknown--feltthe temptation of money; all were seduced by the easy comforts of life, producing works for sale, painting pictures in accordance with thesuggestions of some German Jews who frequented the studios, designatingthe sizes and the types that were in style in order to spread them overEurope and America. 

When Renovales visited the studios, he saw nothing but _genre_ pictures, sometimes gentlemen in long dress coats, others tattered Moors orCalabrian peasants. They were pretty, faultless paintings, for whichthey used as models a manikin, or the families of _ciociari_ whom theyhired every morning in the Piazza di Espagna beside the Sealinata of theTrinity; the everlasting country-woman, swarthy and black-eyed, withgreat hoops in her ears and wearing a green skirt, a black waist and awhite head-dress caught up on her hair with large pins; the usual oldman with sandals, a woolen cloak and a pointed hat with spiral bands onhis snowy head that was a fitting model for the Eternal Father. Theartists judged each other's ability by the number of thousand lire theytook in during a year; they spoke with respect of the famous masters whomade a fortune out of the millionaires of Paris and Chicago foreasel-pictures that nobody saw. Renovales was indignant. This sort ofart was almost like that of his first master, even if it was "worldly"as Don Rafael had said. And that was what they sent him to Rome for!

Unpopular with his countrymen because of his brusque ways, his rudetongue and his honesty, which made him refuse all commissions from theart merchants, he sought the society of artists from other countries. Among the cosmopolitan group of young painters who were quartered inRome, Renovales soon became popular. 

His energy, his exuberant spirits, made him a congenial, merry comrade, when he appeared in the studios of the Via di Babuino or in thechocolate rooms and cafés of the Corso, where the artists of differentnationalities gathered in friendly company. 

Mariano, at the age of twenty, was an athletic fellow, a worthy scionof the man who was pounding iron from morning till night in a far awaycorner of Spain. One day an English youth, a friend of his, read him apage of Ruskin in his honor. "The plastic arts are essentiallyathletic. " An invalid, a half paralyzed man, might be a great poet, acelebrated musician, but to be a Michael Angelo or a Titian a man musthave not merely a privileged soul, but a vigorous body. Leonardo daVinci broke a horseshoe in his hands; the sculptors of the Renaissanceworked huge blocks of marble with their titanic arms or chipped off thebronze with their gravers; the great painters were often architects and, covered with dust, moved huge masses. Renovales listened thoughtfully tothe words of the great English æstheticist. He, too, was a strong soulin an athlete's body. 

The appetites of his youth never went beyond the manly intoxications ofstrength and movement. Attracted by the abundance of models which Romeoffered, he often undressed a _ciociara_ in his studio, delighting indrawing the forms of her body. He laughed, like the big giant that hewas, he spoke to her with the same freedom as if she were one of thepoor women that came out to stop him at night as he returned alone tothe Academy of Spain, but when the work was over and she wasdressed--out with her! He had the chastity of strong men. He worshipedthe flesh, but only to copy its lines. The animal contact, the chancemeeting, without love, without attraction, with the inner reserve of twopeople who do not know each other and who look on each other withsuspicion, filled him with shame. What he wanted to do was to study, andwomen only served as a hindrance in great undertakings. He consumed thesurplus of his energy in athletic exercise. After one of his feats ofstrength, which filled his comrades with enthusiasm, he would come infresh, serene, indifferent, as though he were coming out of a bath. Hefenced with the French painters of the Villa Medici; learned to box withEnglishmen and Americans; organized, with some German artists, excursions to a grove near Rome, which were talked about for days in thecafés of the Corso. He drank countless healths with his companions tothe Kaiser whom he did not know and for whom he did not care a rap. Hewould thunder in his noisy voice the traditional _Gaudeamus Igitur_ andfinally would catch two models of the party around the waist and withhis arms stretched out like a cross carry them through the woods till hedropped them on the grass as if they were feathers. Afterwards he wouldsmile with satisfaction at the admiration of those good Germans, many ofthem sickly and near-sighted, who compared him with Siegfried and theother muscular heroes of their warlike mythology. 

In the Carnival season, when the Spaniards organized a cavalcade of theQuixote, he undertook to represent the knight Pentapolin--"him of therolled-up sleeves, "--and in the Corso there were applause and cries ofadmiration for the huge biceps that the knight-errant, erect on hishorse, revealed. When the spring nights came, the artists marched in aprocession across the city to the Jewish quarter to buy the firstartichokes--the popular dish in Rome, in the preparation of which an oldHebrew woman was famous. Renovales went at the head of the_carciofalatta_, bearing the banner, starting the songs which werealternated with the cries of all sorts of animals; and his comradesmarched behind him, reckless and insolent under the protection of such achieftain. As long as Mariano was with them there was no danger. Theytold the story that in the alleys of the Trastevere he had given adeadly beating to two bullies of the district, after taking away theirstilettos. 

Suddenly the athlete shut himself up in the Academy and did not comedown to the city. For several days they talked about him at thegatherings of artists. He was painting; an exhibition that was going totake place in Madrid was close at hand and he wanted to take to it apicture to justify his fellowship. He kept the door of his studio closedto everyone, he did not permit comment nor advice, the canvas wouldappear just as he conceived it. His comrades soon forgot him andRenovales ended his work in seclusion, and left for his country with it. 

It was a complete success, the first important step on the road that wasto lead him to fame. Now he remembered with shame, with remorse, theglorious uproar his picture "The Victory of Pavia" stirred up. Peoplecrowded in front of the huge canvas, forgetting the rest of theExhibition. And as, at that time, the Government was strong, the Corteswas closed and there was no serious accident in any of the bull-rings, the newspapers, for lack of any more lively event, hastened in cheaprivalry to reproduce the picture, to talk about it, publishing portraitsof the author, profiles, as well as front views, large and small, expatiating on his life in Rome and his eccentricities, and recalledwith tears of emotion the poor old man who far away in his village waspounding iron, hardly knowing of his son's glory. 

With one bound Renovales passed from obscurity to the light ofapotheosis. The older men whose duty it was to judge his work becamebenevolent and extended kindly sympathy. The little tiger was gettingtame. Renovales had seen the world and now he was coming back to thegood traditions; he was going to be a painter like the rest. His picturehad portions that were like Velásquez, fragments worthy of Goya, cornersthat recalled El Greco; there was everything in it, except Renovales, and this amalgam of reminiscences was its chief merit, what attractedgeneral applause and won it the first medal. 

A magnificent debut it was. A dowager duchess, a great protectress ofthe arts, who never bought a picture or a statue but who entertained ather table painters and sculptors of renown, finding in this aninexpensive pleasure and a certain distinction as an illustrious lady, wished to make Renovales' acquaintance. He overcame the stand-offishnessof his nature that kept him away from all social relations. Why shouldhe not know high society? He could go wherever other men could. And heput on his first dress-coat, and after the banquets of the duchess, where his way of arguing with members of the Academy provoked peals ofmerry laughter, he visited other salons and for several weeks was theidol of society which, to be sure, was somewhat scandalized by his fauxpas, but still pleased with the timidity that overcame him after hisdaring sallies. The younger set liked him because he handled a swordlike a Saint George. Although a painter and son of a blacksmith, he wasin every way a respectable person. The ladies flattered him with theirmost amiable smiles, hoping that the fashionable artist would honor themwith a portrait gratis, as he had done with the duchess. 

In this period of high-life, always in dress clothes from seven in theevening, without painting anything but women who wanted to appear prettyand discussed gravely with the artist which gown they should put on toserve as a model, Renovales met his wife Josephina. 

The first time that he saw her among so many ladies of arrogant bearingand striking presence, he felt attracted towards her by force ofcontrast. The bashfulness, the modesty, the insignificance of the girlimpressed him. She was small, her face offered no other beauty than thatof youth, her body had the charm of delicacy. Like himself, the poorgirl was there out of a sort of condescendence on the part of theothers; she seemed to be there by sufferance and she shrank in it, as ifafraid of attracting attention, Renovales always saw her in the sameevening gown somewhat old, with that appearance of weariness which agarment constantly made over to follow the course of the fashions iswont to acquire. The gloves, the flowers, the ribbons had a sort ofsadness in their freshness, as if they betrayed the sacrifices, thedomestic exertions it had taken to procure them. She was on intimateterms with all the girls who made a triumphal entrance into thedrawing-rooms, inspiring praise and envy with their new toilettes; hermother, a majestic lady, with a big nose and gold glasses, treated theladies of the noblest families with familiarity; but in spite of thisintimacy there was apparent around the mother and daughter the gap ofsomewhat disdainful affection, in which commiseration bore no smallpart. They were poor. The father had been a diplomat of some distinctionwho, at his death, left his wife no other source of income than thewidow's pension. Two sons were abroad as attachés of an embassy, struggling with the scantiness of their salary and the demands of theirposition. The mother and daughter lived in Madrid, chained to thesociety in which they were born, fearing to abandon it, as if that wouldbe equivalent to a degradation, remaining during the day in afourth-floor apartment, furnished with the remnants of their pastopulence, making unheard-of sacrifices in order to be able in theevening to rub elbows worthily with those who had been their equals. 

Some relative of Doña Emilia, the mother, contributed to her support, not with money (never that!) but by loaning her the surplus of theirluxury, that she and her daughter might maintain a pale appearance ofcomfort. 

Some of them loaned them their carriage on certain days, so that theymight drive through the Castellana and the Retiro, bowing to theirfriends as the carriages passed; others sent them their box at the Operaon evenings when the bill was not a brilliant one. Their pity made themremember them, too, when they sent out invitations to birthday dinners, afternoon teas, and the like. "We mustn't forget the Torrealtas, poorthings. " And the next day, the society reporters included in the list ofthose present at the function "the charming Señorita de Torrealta andher distinguished mother, the widow of the famous diplomat ofimperishable memory, " and Doña Emilia, forgetting her situation, fancying she was in the good old times, went to everything, in the sameblack gown, annoying with her "my dears" and her gossip the great ladieswhose maids were richer and ate better than she and her daughter. Ifsome old gentleman took refuge beside her, the diplomat's wife tried tooverwhelm him with the majesty of her recollections. "When we wereambassadors in Stockholm. " "When my friend Eugénie was empress. .. . "

The daughter, endowed with her instinctive girlish timidity, seemedbetter to realize her position. She would remain seated among the olderladies, only rarely venturing to join the other girls who had been herboarding-school companions and who now treated her condescendingly, looking on her as they would upon a governess who had been raised totheir station, out of remembrance for the past. Her mother was annoyedat her timidity. She ought to dance a lot, be lively and bold, like theother girls, crack jokes, even if they were doubtful, that the men mightrepeat them and give her the reputation of being a wit. It wasincredible that with the bringing up she had had, she should be soinsignificant. The idea! The daughter of a great man about whom peopleused to crowd as soon as he entered the first salons in Europe! A girlwho had been educated at the school of the Sacred Heart in Paris, whospoke English, a little German, and spent the day reading when she didnot have to clean a pair of gloves or make over a dress! Didn't she wantto get married? Was she so well satisfied with that fourth-storyapartment, that wretched cell so unworthy of their name?

Josephina smiled sadly. Get married! She never would get to that in thesociety they frequented. Everyone knew they were poor. The young menthronged the drawing-rooms in search of women with money. If by chanceone of them did come up to her, attracted by her pale beauty, it wasonly to whisper to her shameful suggestions while they danced; topropose uncompromising engagements, friendly relations with a prudencemodeled on the English, flirtations that had no result. 

Renovales did not realize how his friendship with Josephina began. Perhaps it was the contrast between himself and the little woman whohardly came up to his shoulder and who seemed about fifteen when she wasalready past twenty. Her soft voice with its slight lisp came to hisears like a caress. He laughed when he thought of the possibility ofembracing that graceful, slender form; it would break in pieces in hispugilist's hands, like a wax doll. Mariano sought her out in thedrawing-rooms which she and her mother were accustomed to frequent, andspent all the time sitting at her side, feeling an impulse to confide inher as a brother, a desire of telling her all about herself, his past, his present work, his hopes, as if she were a room-mate. She listened tohim, looking at him with her brown eyes that seemed to smile at him, nodding assent, often without having heard what he said, receiving likea caress the exuberance of that nature which seemed to overflow inwaves of fire. He was different from all the men she had known. 

When someone--nobody knows who--perhaps one of Josephina's friends, noticed this intimacy, to make sport of her, she spread the news. Thepainter and the Torrealta girl were engaged. That was when theinterested parties discovered that they loved each other. It wassomething more than friendship that made Renovales pass throughJosephina's street mornings, looking at the high windows in the hope ofseeing her dainty silhouette through the panes. One night at theduchess' when they were left alone in the hallway, Renovales caught herhand and lifted it to his lips, but so timidly that they scarcelytouched her glove. He was afraid after his rudeness, felt ashamed of hisviolence; he thought he was hurting the delicate, slender girl; but shelet her hand stay in his, and at the same time bowed her head and beganto cry. 

"How good you are, Mariano!"

She felt the most intense gratitude, when she realized that she wasloved for the first time; loved truly, by a man of some distinction, whofled from the women of fortune to seek a humble, neglected girl likeher. All the treasures of affection which had been accumulating in theisolation of her humiliating life overflowed. How she could love the manwho loved her, taking her out of that parasite's existence, lifting herby his strength and affection to the level of those who scorned her!

The noble widow of Torrealta gave a cry of indignation when she learnedof the engagement of the painter and her daughter. "The blacksmith'sson!" "The illustrious diplomat of imperishable memory!" But as if thisprotest of her pride opened her eyes, she thought of the years herdaughter had spent going from one drawing-room to another, withoutanyone paying any attention to her. What dunces men were! She thought, too, that a celebrated painter was a personage; she remembered thearticles devoted to Renovales because of his last picture, and, aboveall, a thing that had the most effect on her, she knew by hearsay of thegreat fortune that artists amassed abroad, the hundreds of thousands offrancs paid for a canvas that could be carried under your arm. Why mightnot Renovales be one of the fortunate?

She began to annoy her countless relatives with requests for advice. Thegirl had no father and they must take his place. Some answeredindifferently. "The painter! Hump! Not bad!" evidencing by theircoldness that it was all the same to them if she married atax-collector. Others insulted her unwittingly by showing theirapproval. "Renovales? An artist with a great future before him. Whatmore do you want? You ought to be thankful he has taken a fancy to her. "But the advice that decided her was that of her famous cousin, theMarquis of Tarfe, a man to whom she looked upon as the mostdistinguished citizen in the country, without doubt because of hisoffice as permanent head of the Foreign Service, for every two years hewas made Minister of Foreign Affairs. 

"It looks very good to me, " said the nobleman, hastily, for they werewaiting for him in the Senate. "It is a modern marriage and we must keepup with the times. I am a conservative, but liberal, very liberal andvery modern. I will protect the children. I like the marriage. Artjoining its prestige with a historic family! The popular blood thatrises through its merits and is mingled with that of the ancientnobility!"

And the Marquis of Tarfe, whose marquisate did not go back half acentury, with these rhetorical figures of an orator in the Senate andhis promises of protection, convinced the haughty widow. She was the onewho spoke to Renovales, to relieve him of an explanation that would betrying because of the timidity he felt in this society that was not hisown. 

"I know all about it, Mariano, my dear, and you have my consent. "

But she did not like long engagements. When did he intend to getmarried? Renovales was more eager for it than the mother. Josephina wasdifferent from other women who hardly aroused his desire. His chastity, which had been like that of a rough laborer, developed into a feverishdesire to make that charming doll his own as soon as possible. Besides, his pride was flattered by this union. His fiancée was poor; her onlydowry was a few ragged clothes, but she belonged to a noble family, ministers, generals--all of noble descent. They could weigh by the tonthe coronets and coats-of-arms of those countless relatives who did notpay much attention to Josephina and her mother, but who would soon behis family. What would Señor Antón think, hammering iron in the suburbsof his town? What would his comrades in Rome say, whose lot consisted inliving with the _ciociari_ who served as their models, and marrying themafterward out of fear for the stiletto of the venerable Calabrian whoinsisted on providing a legitimate father for his grandsons!

The papers had much to say about the wedding, repeating with slightvariations the very phrases of the Marquis of Tarfe, "Art uniting withnobility. " Renovales wanted to leave for Rome with Josephina as soon asthe marriage was celebrated. He had made all the arrangements for hisnew life there, investing in it all the money he had received from theState for his picture and the product of several pictures for the Senatefor which he received commissions through his illustriousrelative-to-be. 

A friend in Rome (the jolly Cotoner) had hired for him an apartment inthe Via Margutta and had furnished it in accordance with his artistictaste. Doña Emilia would remain in Madrid with one of her sons, who hadbeen promoted to a position in the Foreign Office. Everybody, even themother, was in the young couple's way. And Doña Emilia wiped away aninvisible tear with the tip of her glove. Besides, she did not care togo back to the countries where she had been _somebody_; she preferred tostay in Madrid; there people knew her at least. 

The wedding was an event. Not a soul in the huge family was absent; allfeared the annoying questions of the illustrious widow who kept a listof relatives to the sixth remove. 

Señor Antón arrived two days before, in a new suit with knee-breechesand a broad plush hat, looking somewhat confused at the smiles of thosepeople who regarded him as a quaint type. Crestfallen and trembling inthe presence of the two women, with a countryman's respect, he calledhis daughter-in-law "Señorita. "

"No, papa, call me 'daughter. ' Say Josephina to me. "

But in spite of Josephina's simplicity and the tender gratitude he feltwhen he saw her look at his son with such loving eyes, he did notventure to take the liberty of speaking to her as his child and made thegreatest efforts to avoid this danger, always speaking to her in thethird person. 

Doña Emilia, with her gold glasses and her majestic bearing, caused himeven greater emotion. He always called her "Señora marquesa, " for in hissimplicity he could not admit that that lady was not at least amarchioness. The widow, somewhat disarmed by the good man's homage, admitted that he was a "rube" of some natural talent, a fact that madeher tolerate the ridiculous note of his knee breeches. 

In the chapel of the Marquis of Tarfe's palace, after lookingdumbfounded at the great throng of nobility that had gathered for hisson's wedding, the old man, standing in the doorway, began to cry:

"Now I can die, O Lord. Now I can die!"

And he repeated his sad desire, without noticing the laughter of theservants, as if, after a life of toil, happiness were the inevitableforerunner of death. 

The bride and groom started on their trip the same day. Señor Antón forthe first time kissed his daughter-in-law on the forehead, moistening itwith his tears, and went home to his village, still repeating hislonging for death, as though nothing were left in the world for him tohope for. 

Renovales and his wife reached Rome after several stops on the way. Their short stay in various cities of the Riviera, the days in Pisa andFlorence, though delightful, as keeping the memory of their firstintimacy, seemed unspeakably vulgar, when they were installed in theirlittle house in Rome. There the real honeymoon began, by their ownfireside, free from all intrusion, far from the confusion of hotels. 

Josephina, accustomed to a life of secret privation, to the misery ofthat fourth-floor apartment in which she and her mother lived as thoughthey were camping out, keeping all their show for the street, admiredthe coquettish charm, the smart daintiness of the house in the ViaMargutta. Mariano's friend, who had charge of the furnishing of thehouse, a certain Pepe Cotoner, who hardly ever touched his brushes andwho devoted all his artistic enthusiasm to his worship of Renovales, hadcertainly done things well. 

Josephina clapped her hands in childish joy when she saw the bedroom, admiring its sumptuous Venetian furniture, with its wonderful inlaidpearl and ebony, a princely luxury that the painter would have to payfor in instalments. 

Oh! The first night of their stay in Rome! How well Renovales rememberedit! Josephina, lying on the monumental bed, made for the wife of a Doge, shook with the delight of rest, stretching her limbs before she hid themunder the fine sheets, showing herself with the abandon of a woman whono longer has any secrets to keep. The pink toes of her plump littlefeet moved as if they were calling Renovales. 

Standing beside the bed, he looked at her seriously, with his browscontracted, dominated by a desire that he hesitated to express. Hewanted to see her, to admire her; he did not know her yet, after thosenights in the hotels when they could hear strange voices on the otherside of the thin walls. 

It was not the caprice of a lover, it was the desire of a painter, thedemand of an artist. His eyes were hungry for beauty. 

She resisted, blushing, a trifle angry at this demand which offended herdeepest prejudices. 

"Don't be foolish, Mariano, dear. Come to bed; don't talk nonsense. "

But he persisted obstinately in his desire. She must overcome herbourgeois scruples, art scoffed at such modesty, human beauty was meantto be shown in all its radiant majesty and not to be kept hidden, despised and cursed. 

He did not want to paint her; he did not dare to ask for that; but hedid want to see her, to see her and admire her, not with a coarsedesire, but with religious adoration. 

And his hands, restrained by the fears of hurting her, gently pulled herweak arms that were crossed on her breast in the endeavor to resist hisadvances. She laughed: "You silly thing. You're tickling me--you'rehurting me. " But little by little, conquered by his persistency, herfeminine pride flattered by this worship of her body, she gave in tohim, allowed herself to be treated like a child, with soft remonstrancesas if she were undergoing torture, but without resisting any longer. 

Her body, free from veils, shone with the whiteness of pearl. Josephinaclosed her eyes as if she wanted to flee from the shame of hernakedness. On the smooth sheet, her graceful form was outlined in aslightly rosy tone, intoxicating the eyes of the artist. 

Josephina's face was not much to look at, but her body! If he could onlyovercome her scruples some time and paint her!

Renovales kneeled down beside the bed in a transport of admiration. 

"I worship you, Josephina. You are as fair as Venus. No, not Venus. Sheis cold and calm, like a goddess, and you are a woman. You arelike--what are you like? Yes, now I see the likeness. You are Goya'slittle _Maja_, with her delicate grace, her fascinating daintiness. Youare the _Maja Desnuda!_"

III

Renovales' life was changed. In love with his wife, fearing that shemight lack some comfort, and thinking with anxiety of the Torrealtawidow, who might complain that the daughter of the "illustrious diplomatof imperishable memory" was not happy because she had lowered herself tothe extent of marrying a painter, he worked incessantly to maintain withhis brush the comforts with which he had surrounded Josephina. 

He, who had had so much scorn for industrial art, painting for money, asdid his comrades, followed their example, but with the energy that heshowed in all his undertakings. In some of the studios there were criesof protest against this tireless competitor who lowered pricesscandalously. He had sold his brush for a year to one of those Jewishdealers who exported paintings at so much a picture, and under agreementnot to paint for any other dealer. Renovales worked from morning tillnight changing subjects when it was demanded by what he called his_impresario_. "Enough _ciociari_, now for some Moors. " Afterwards theMoors lost their market-value and the turn of the musketeers came, fencing a valiant duel; then pink shepherdesses in the style of Watteauor ladies in powdered wigs embarking in a golden gondola to the sound oflutes. To give freshness to his stock, he would interpolate a sacristyscene with much show of embroidered chasubles and golden incensaries, oran occasional bacchanalian, imitating from memory, without models, Titians' voluptuous forms and amber flesh. When the list was ended, the_ciociari_ were once more in style and could be begun again. Thepainter with his extraordinary facility of execution produced two orthree pictures a week, and the _impresario_, to encourage him in hiswork, often visited him afternoons, following the movements of his brushwith the enthusiasm of a man who appreciated art at so much a foot andso much an hour. The news he brought was of a sort to infuse new zest. 

The last bacchanal painted by Renovales was in a fashionable bar in NewYork. His pageant of the Abruzzi was in one of the noblest castles inRussia. Another picture, representing a dance of countesses disguised asshepherdesses in a field of violets, was in the possession of a Jewishbaron, a banker in Frankfort. The dealer rubbed his hands, as he spoketo the painter with a patronizing air. His name was becoming famous, thanks to him, and he would not step until he had won him a world-widereputation. Already his agents were asking him to send nothing but theworks of Signor Renovales, for they were the best sellers. But Marianoanswered him with a sudden outburst of bitterness. All those canvaseswere mere rot. If that was art, he would prefer to break stone on thehigh roads. 

But his rebellion against this debasement of his art disappeared when hesaw his Josephina in the house whose ornamentation he was constantlyimproving, converting it into a jewel case worthy of his love. She washappy in her home, with a splendid carriage in which to drive everyafternoon and perfect freedom to spend money on her clothes and jewelry. Renovales' wife lacked nothing; she had-at her disposal, as adviser anderrand-boy, Cotoner, who spent the night in a garret that served him asa studio in one of the cheap districts and the rest of the day with theyoung couple. She was mistress of the money; she had never seen so manybanknotes at once. When Renovales handed her the pile of lires whichthe impresario gave him she said with a little laugh of joy, "Money, money!" and ran and hid it away with the serious expression of adiligent, economical housewife--only to take it out the next day andsquander it with a childish carelessness. What a wonderful thingpainting was! Her illustrious father (in spite of all that her mothersaid) had never made so much money in all his travels through the world, going from cotillon to cotillon as the representative of his king. 

While Renovales was in the studio, she had been to drive in the Pincio, bowing from her landau to the countless wives of ambassadors who werestationed at Rome, to aristocratic travelers stopping in the city, towhom she had been introduced in some drawing-room, and to all the crowdof diplomatic attachés who live about the double court of the Vaticanand the Quirinal. 

The painter was introduced by his wife into an official society of themost rigid formality. The niece of the Marquis of Tarfe, perpetualforeign minister, was received with open arms by the high society ofRome, the most exclusive in Europe. At every reception at the twoSpanish embassies, "the famous painter Renovales and his charming wife"were present and these invitations had spread to the embassies of othercountries. Almost every night there was some function. Since there weretwo diplomatic centers, one at the court of the Italian king, the otherat the Vatican, the receptions and evening parties were frequent in thisisolated society that gathered every night, sufficient for its ownenjoyment. 

When Renovales got home at dark, tired out with his work, he would findJosephina, already half dressed, waiting for him, and Cotoner helped himto put on his evening clothes. 

"The cross!" exclaimed Josephina, when she saw him with his dress-coaton. "Why, man alive, how did you happen to forget your cross? You knowthat they all wear something there. "

Cotoner went for the insignia, a great cross the Spanish government hadgiven him for his picture, and the artist, with the ribbon across hisshirt-front and a brilliant circle on his coat, started out with hiswife to spend the evening among diplomats, distinguished travelers andcardinals' nephews. 

The other painters were furious with envy when they learned how oftenthe Spanish ambassador and his wife, the consul and prominent peopleconnected with the Vatican visited his studio. They denied his talent, attributing these distinctions to Josephina's position. They called hima courtier and a flatterer, alleging that he had married to better hisposition. One of his most constant visitors was Father Recovero, therepresentative of a monastic order that was powerful in Spain, a sort ofcowled ambassador who enjoyed great influence with the Pope. When he wasnot in Renovales' studio, the latter was sure that he was at his house, doing some favor for Josephina who felt proud of her friendship withthis influential friar, so jovial and scrupulously correct in spite ofhis coarse clothes. Renovales' wife always had some favor to ask of him, her friends in Madrid were unceasing in their requests. 

The Torrealta widow contributed to this by her constant chatter amongher acquaintances about the high position her daughter occupied in Rome. According to her, Mariano was making millions; Josephina was reported tobe a great friend of the Pope, her house was full of Cardinals and ifthe Pope did not visit her it was only because the poor thing was aprisoner in the Vatican. And so the painter's wife had to keep sendingto Madrid some rosary that had been passed over St. Peter's tomb orreliques taken from the Catacombs. She urged Father Recovero tonegotiate difficult marriage dispensations and interested herself inbehalf of the petitions of pious ladies, friends of her mother. Thegreat festivals of the Roman Church filled her with enthusiasm becauseof their theatrical interest and she was very grateful to the generousfriar who never forgot to reserve her a good place. There never was areception of pilgrims in Saint Peter's with a triumphal march of thePope carried on a platform amid feather fans, at which Josephina was notpresent. At other times the good Father made the mysterious announcementthat on the next day Pallestri, the famous male soprano of the papalchapel, was going to sing; the Spanish lady got up early, leaving herhusband still in bed, to hear the sweet voice of the pontifical eunuchwhose beardless face appeared in shop windows among the portraits ofdancers and fashionable tenors. 

Renovales laughed good-naturedly at the countless occupations and futileentertainments of his wife. Poor girl, she must enjoy herself; that waswhat he was working for. He was sorry enough that he could go with heronly in her evening diversions. During the day he entrusted her to hisfaithful Cotoner who attended her like an old family servant, carryingher bundles when she went shopping, performing the duties of butler andsometimes of chef. 

Renovales had made his acquaintance when he came to Rome. He was hisbest friend. Ten years his senior, Cotoner showed the worship of a pupiland the affections of an older brother for the young artist. Everyone inRome knew him, laughing at his pictures on the rare occasions when hepainted, and appreciated his accommodating nature that to some extentdignified his parasite's existence. Short, rotund, bald-headed, withprojecting ears and the ugliness of a good-natured, merry satyr, SignorCotoner, when summer came, always found refuge in the castle of somecardinal in the Roman Campagna. During the winter he was a familiarsight in the Corso, wrapped in his greenish mackintosh, the sleeves ofwhich waved like a bat's wings. He had begun in his own province as alandscape painter but he wanted to paint figures, to equal the masters, and so he landed in Rome in the company of the bishop of his diocese wholooked on him as an honor to the church. He never moved from the city. His progress was remarkable. He knew the names and histories of all theartists, no one could compare with him in his ability to liveeconomically in Rome and to find where things were cheapest. If aSpaniard went through the great city, he never missed visiting him. Thechildren of celebrated painters looked on him as a sort of nurse, for hehad put them all to sleep in his arms. The great triumph of his life washaving figured in the cavalcade of the Quixote as Sancho Panza. Healways painted the same picture, portraits of the Pope in threedifferent sizes, piling them up in the attic that served him for astudio and bedroom. His friends, the cardinals whom he visitedfrequently, took pity on "Poor Signor Cotoner" and for a few lire boughta picture of the Pontiff horribly ugly, to present it to some villagechurch where it would arouse great admiration since it came from Romeand was by a painter who was a friend of His Eminence. 

These purchases were a ray of joy for Cotoner, who came to Renovales'studio with his head up and wearing a smile of affected modesty. 

"I have made a sale, my boy. A pope; a large one, two meter size. "

And with a sudden burst of confidence in his talent, he talked of thefuture. Other men desired medals, triumphs in the exhibitions; he wasmore modest. He would be satisfied if he could guess who would be Popewhen the present Pope died, in order to be able to paint up pictures ofhim by the dozen ahead of time. What a triumph to put the goods on themarket the day after the Conclave! A perfect fortune! And wellacquainted with all the cardinals, he passed the Sacred College inmental review with the persistency of a gambler in a lottery, hesitatingbetween the half dozen who aspired to the tiara. He lived like aparasite among the high functionaries of the Church, but he wasindifferent to religion, as if this association with them had taken awayall his belief. The old man clad in white and the other red gentlemeninspired respect in him because they were rich and served indirectly hiswretched portrait business. His admiration was wholly devoted toRenovales. In the studio of other artists he received their irritatingjests with his usual calm smile of affability, but they could not speakill of Renovales nor discuss his ability. To his mind, Renovales couldproduce nothing but masterpieces and in his blind admiration he evenwent so far as to rave naively over the easel pictures he painted forhis impresario. 

Sometimes Josephina unexpectedly appeared in her husband's studio andchatted with him while he painted, praising the canvases that had apretty subject. She preferred to find him alone in these visits, painting from his fancy without any other model than some clothes placedon a manikin. She felt a sort of aversion to models, and Renovales triedin vain to convince her of the necessity of using them. He had talent topaint beautiful things without resorting to the assistance of thoseordinary old men and above all, of those women with their disheveledhair, their flashing eyes and their wolfish teeth, who, in the solitudeand silence of the studio, actually terrified her. Renovales laughed. What nonsense! Jealous little girl! As if he were capable of thinking ofanything but art with a palette in his hand!

One afternoon, when Josephina suddenly came into the studio she saw onthe model's platform a naked woman, lying in some furs, showing thecurves of her yellow back. The wife compressed her lips and pretendednot to see her, listened to Renovales with a distracted air, as heexplained this innovation. He was painting a bacchanal and it wasimpossible for him to proceed without a model. It was a case ofnecessity, flesh could not be done from memory. The model, at easebefore the painter, felt ashamed of her nakedness in the presence ofthat fashionable lady, and after wrapping herself up in the furs, hidbehind a screen and hastily dressed herself. 

Renovales recovered his serenity when he reached home, seeing that hiswife received him with her customary eagerness, as if she had forgottenher displeasure of the afternoon. She laughed at Cotoner's stories;after dinner they went to the theater and when bedtime came, the painterhad forgotten about the surprise in the studio. He was falling asleepwhen he was alarmed by a painful, prolonged sigh, as if some one werestifling beside him. When he lit the light he saw Josephina with bothfists in her eyes, crying, her breast heaving with sobs, and kicking ina childish fit of temper till the bed-clothes were rolled in a ball andthe exquisite puff fell to the floor. 

"I won't, I won't, " she moaned with an accent of protest. 

The painter had jumped out of bed, full of anxiety, going from one sideto the other without knowing what to do, trying to pull her hands awayfrom her eyes, giving in, in spite of his strength, to Josephina'sefforts to free herself from him. 

"But what's the matter? What is it you won't do? What's happened toyou?"

And she continued to cry, tossing about in the bed, kicking in a nervousfury. 

"Let me alone! I don't like you; don't touch me. I won't let you, no, sir, I won't let you. I'm going away. I'm going home to my mother. "

Renovales, terrified at the fury of the little woman who was always sogentle, did not know what to do to calm her. He ran through the bedroomand the adjoining dressing room in his night shirt, that showed hisathletic muscles; he offered her water, going so far as to pick up thebottles of perfumes in his confusion as if they could serve him assedatives, and finally he knelt down, trying to kiss the clenched littlehands that thrust him away, catching at his hair and beard. 

"Let me alone. I tell you to let me alone. I know you don't love me. I'mgoing away. "

The painter was surprised and afraid of the nervousness in this belovedlittle doll; he did not dare to touch her for fear of hurting her. Assoon as the sun rose she would leave that house forever. Her husband didnot love her. No one but her mother cared for her. He was making her alaughing stock before people. And all these incoherent complaints thatdid not explain the motive for her anger, continued for a long timeuntil the artist guessed the cause. Was it the model, the naked woman?Yes, that was it; she would not consent to it, that in a studio that waspractically her house, low women should show themselves immodestly toher husband's eyes. And as she protested against such abominations, hertwitching fingers tore the front of her night dress, showing the hiddencharms that filled Renovales with such enthusiasm. 

The painter, tired out by this scene, enervated by the cries and tearsof his wife, could not help laughing when he discovered the motive ofher irritation. 

"Ah! So it's all on account of the model. Be quiet, girl, no woman shallcome into the studio. "

And he promised everything Josephina wished, in order to be over with itas soon as possible. When it was dark once more, she was still sighing, but now it was in her husband's strong arms with her head resting on hisbreast, lisping like a grieved child that tries to justify the past fitof temper. It did not cost Mariano anything to do her this favor. Sheloved him dearly, so dearly, and she would love him still more if herespected her prejudices. He might call her bourgeois, a common ordinarysoul, but that was what she wanted to be, just as she always had been. Besides, what was the need of painting naked women? Couldn't he do otherthings? She urged him to paint children in smocks and sandals, curlyhaired and chubby, like the child Jesus; old peasant women withwrinkled, copper-colored faces, bald-headed ancients with long beards;character studies, but no young women, understand? No naked beauties!Renovales said "yes" to everything, drawing close to him that belovedform still trembling with its past rage. They clung to each other with asort of anxiety, desirous of forgetting what had happened, and the nightended peacefully for Renovales in the happiness of reconciliation. 

When summer came they rented a little villa at Castel-Gandolfo. Cotonerhad gone to Rivoli in the train of a cardinal and the married couplelived in the country accompanied only by a couple of maids and amanservant, who took care of Renovales' painting kit. 

Josephina was perfectly contented in this retirement, far from Rome, talking with her husband at all hours, free from the anxiety that filledher, when he was working in his studio. For a month Renovales remainedin placid idleness. His art seemed forgotten; the boxes of paints, theeasels, all the artistic luggage brought from Rome, remained packed upand forgotten in a shed in the garden. Afternoons they took long walks, returning home at nightfall slowly, with their arms around each other'swaists, watching the strip of pale gold in the western sky, breaking therural silence with one of the sweet, passionate romances that came fromNaples. Now that they were alone in the intimacy of a life without caresor friendships, the enthusiastic love of the first days of their marriedlife reawakened. But the "demon of painting" was not long in spreadingover him his invisible wings, which seemed to scatter an irresistibleenchantment. He became bored at the long hours in the bright sun, yawnedin his wicker chair, smoking pipe after pipe, not knowing what to talkabout. Josephina, on her part, tried to drive away the ennui by readingsome English novel of aristocratic life, tiresome and moral, to whichshe had taken a great liking in her school girl days. 

Renovales began to work again. His servant brought out his artist's kitand he took up his palette as enthusiastically as a beginner, andpainted for himself with a religious fervor as if he thought to purifyhimself from that base submission to the commissions of a dealer. 

He studied Nature directly; painted delightful bits of landscapes, tanned and repulsive heads that breathed the selfish brutality of thepeasant. But this artistic activity did not seem to satisfy him. Hislife of increased intimacy with Josephina aroused in him mysteriouslongings that he hardly dared to formulate. Mornings when his wife, fresh and rosy from her bath, appeared before him almost naked, helooked at her with greedy eyes. 

"Oh, if you were only willing! If you didn't have that foolish prejudiceof yours!"

And his exclamations made her smile, for her feminine vanity wasflattered by this worship. Renovales regretted that his artistic talenthad to go in search of beautiful things when the supreme, definitivework was at his side. He told her about Rubens, the great master, whosurrounded Elène Froment with the luxury of a princess, and of her whofelt no objection to freeing her fresh, mythological beauty from veilsin order to serve as a model for her husband. Renovales praised theFlemish woman. Artists formed a family by themselves; morality and thepopular prejudices were meant for other people. They lived under thejurisdiction of Beauty, regarding as natural what other people looked onas a sin. 

Josephina protested against her husband's wishes with a playfulindignation but she allowed him to admire her. Her abandon increasedevery day. Mornings, when she got up, she remained undressed longer, prolonging her toilette while the artist walked around her, praising hervarious beauties. "That is Rubens, pure and simple, that's Titian'scolor. Look, little girl, lift up your arms, like this. Oh, you are the_Maja_, Goya's little _Maja_. " And she submitted to him with a graciouspout, as if she relished the expression of worship and disappointmentwhich her husband wore at possessing her as a woman and not possessingher as a model. 

One afternoon when a scorching wind seemed to stifle the countrysidewith its breath, Josephina capitulated. They were in their room, withthe windows closed, trying to escape the terrible sirocco by shuttingit out and putting on thin clothes. She did not want to see her husbandwith such a gloomy face nor listen to his complaints. As long as he wascrazy and was set on his whim, she did not dare to oppose him. He couldpaint her; but only a study, not a picture. When he was tired ofreproducing her flesh on the canvas they would destroy it, --just as ifhe had done nothing. 

The painter said "yes" to everything, eager to have his brush in hand assoon as possible, before the beauty he craved. For three days he workedwith a mad fever, with his eyes unnaturally wide open, as if he meant todevour the graceful outlines with his sight. Josephina, accustomed nowto being naked, posed with unconscious abandon, with that feminineshamelessness which hesitates only at the first step. Oppressed by theheat, she slept while her husband kept on painting. 

When the work was finished, Josephina could not help admiring it. "Howclever you are! But am I really like that, so pretty?" Mariano showedhis satisfaction. It was his masterpiece, his best. Perhaps in all hislife he might never find another moment like that, of prodigious mentalintensity, what people commonly call inspiration. She continued toadmire herself in the canvas, just as she did some mornings in the greatmirror in the bedroom. She praised the various parts of her beauty withfrank immodesty. Dazzled by the beauty of her body she did not noticethe face, that seemed unimportant, lost in soft veils. When her eyesfell on it she showed a sort of disappointment. 

"It doesn't look much like me! It isn't my face!"

The artist smiled. It was not she; he had tried to disguise her face, nothing but her face. It was a mask, a concession to social conventions. As it was, no one would recognize her and his work, his great work, might appear and receive the admiration of the world. 

"Because, we aren't going to destroy it, " Renovales continued with atremble in his voice, "that would be a crime. Never in my life will I beable to do anything like it again. We won't destroy it, will we, littlegirl?"

The little girl remained silent for a good while with her gaze fixed onthe picture. Renovales' eager eyes saw a cloud slowly rise over herface, like a shadow on a white wall. The painter felt as though thefloor were sinking under his feet; the storm was coming. Josephinaturned pale, two tears slipped slowly down her cheeks, two others tooktheir places to fall with them and then more and more. 

"I won't! I won't!"

It was the same hoarse, nervous, despotic cry that had set his hair onend with anxiety and fear that night in Rome. The little woman lookedwith hatred at the naked body that radiated its pearly light from thedepths of the canvas. She seemed to feel the terror of a sleep-walkerwho suddenly awakens in the midst of a square surrounded by a thousandcurious, eager eyes and in her fright does not know what to do nor whereto flee. How could she have assented to such a disgraceful thing?

"I won't have it!" she cried angrily. "Destroy it, Mariano, destroy it. "

But Mariano seemed on the point of weeping too. Destroy it! Who coulddemand such a foolish thing? That figure was not she; no one wouldrecognize her. What was the use of depriving him of a signal triumph?But his wife did not listen to him. She was rolling on the floor withthe same convulsions and moans as on the night of the stormy scene, herhands were clenched like a crook, her feet kicked like a dying lamb'sand her mouth, painfully distorted, kept crying hoarsely:

"I won't have it! I won't have it! Destroy it!"

She complained of her lot with a violence that wounded Renovales. She, arespectable woman, submitted to that degradation as if she were a streetwalker. If she had only known! How was she going to imagine that herhusband would make such abominable proposals to her!

Renovales, offended at these insults, at these lashes which her shrill, piercing voice dealt his artistic talent, left his wife, let her roll onthe floor and with clenched fists, went from one end of the room to theother, looking at the ceiling, muttering all the oaths, Spanish andItalian, that were in current use in his studio. 

Suddenly he stood still, rooted to the floor by terror and surprise. Josephina, still naked, had jumped on the picture with the quickness ofa wild cat. With the first stroke of her finger nails, she scratched thecanvas from top to bottom, mingling the colors that were still soft, tearing off the thin shell of the dry parts. Then she caught up thelittle knife from the paint box and--rip! the canvas gave a long moan, parted under the thrust of that white arm which seemed to have a bluishcast in the violence of her wrath. 

He did not move. For a moment he felt indignant, tempted to throwhimself on her but he lapsed into a childish weakness, ready to cry, totake refuge in a corner, to hide his weak, aching head. She, blind withwrath, continued to vent her fury on the picture, tangling her feet inthe wood of the frame, tearing off pieces of canvas, walking back andforth with her prey like a wild beast. The artist had leaned his headagainst the wall, his strong breast shook with cowardly sobs. 

To the almost fatherly grief at the loss of his work was added thebitterness of disappointment. For the first time he foresaw what hislife was going to be. What a mistake he had made in marrying that girlwho admired his art as a profession, as a means of making money, and whowas trying to mold him to the prejudices and scruples of the circle inwhich she was born! He loved her in spite of this and he was certainthat she did not love him less, but, still, perhaps it would have beenbetter to remain alone, free for his art and, in case a companion wasnecessary, to find a fair maid of all work with all the splendor andintellectual humility of a beautiful animal that would admire and obeyher master blindly. 

Three days passed in which the painter and his wife hardly spoke to eachother. They looked at each other askance, humbled and broken by thisdomestic trouble. But the solitude in which they lived, the necessity ofremaining together made the reconciliation imperative. She was the firstto speak, as if she were terrified by the sadness and dejection of thathuge giant who wandered about as peevish as a sick man. She threw herarms around him, kissed his forehead, made a thousand gracious effortsto bring a faint smile to his face. "Who loved him? His Josephina. His_Maja_ but not his _Maja Desnuda;_ that was over forever. He must neverthink of those horrible things. A decent painter does not think of them. What would all her friends say? There were many pretty things to paintin the world. They must live in each other's love, without hisdispleasing her with his hateful whims. His affection for the nude was ashameful remnant of his Bohemian days. "

And Renovales, won over by his wife's petting, made peace, --tried toforget his work and smiled with the resignation of a slave who loveshis chain because it assures him peace and life. 

They returned to Rome at the beginning of the fall. Renovales began hiswork for the contractor, but after a few months the latter seemeddissatisfied. Not that Signor Mariano was losing power, not at all, buthis agents complained of a certain monotony in the subjects of hisworks. The dealer advised him to travel; he might stay awhile in Umbria, painting peasants in ascetic landscapes, or old churches; he might--andthis was the best thing to do--move to Venice. How much Signor Marianocould accomplish in those canals! And it was thus that the idea ofleaving Rome first came to the painter. 

Josephina did not object. That daily round of receptions in thecountless embassies and legations was beginning to bore her. Now thatthe charm of the first impressions had disappeared, Josephina noticedthat the great ladies treated her with an annoying condescension as ifshe had descended from her rank in marrying an artist. Besides, theyounger men in the embassies, the attachés of different nationalities, some light, some dark, who sought relief from their celibacy withoutgoing outside diplomatic society, were disgracefully impudent as theydanced with her or went through the figures of a cotillion, as if theyconsidered her an easy conquest, seeing her married to an artist whocould not display an ugly uniform in the drawing rooms. They madecynical declarations to her in English or German and she had to keep hertemper, smiling and biting her lips, close to Renovales, who did notunderstand a word and showed his satisfaction at the attentions of whichhis wife was the object on the part of the fashionable youths whosemanners he tried to imitate. 

The trip was decided on. They would go to Venice! Their friend Cotonersaid "Good-by, " he was sorry to part from them but his place was inRome. The Pope was ailing just at that time and the painter, in the hopeof his death, was preparing canvases of all sizes, striving to guess whowould be his successor. 

As he went back in his memories, Renovales always thought of his life inVenice with a sort of pleasant homesickness. It was the best period ofhis life. The enchanting city of the lagoons, --bathed in golden light, lulled by the lapping of the water, fascinated him from the firstmoment, making him forget his love for the human form. For some time hisenthusiasm for the nude was calmed. He worshiped the old palaces, thesolitary canals, the lagoon with its green, motionless waiter, the soulof a majestic past, which seemed to breathe in the solemn old age of thedead, eternally smiling city. 

They lived in the Foscarini palace, a huge building with red walls andcasements of white stone that opened on a little alley of wateradjoining the Grand Canal. It was the former abode of merchants, navigators and conquerors of the Isles of the East who in times gone byhad worn on their heads the golden horn of the Doges. The modern spirit, utilitarian and irreverent, had converted the palace into a tenement, dividing gilded drawing rooms with ugly partitions, establishingkitchens in the filigreed arcades of the seignorial court, filling themarble galleries to which the centuries gave the amber-like transparencyof old ivory, with clothes hung out to dry and replacing the gaps in thesuperb mosaic with cheap square tiles. 

Renovales and his wife occupied the apartment nearest the Grand Canal. Mornings, Josephina saw from a bay window the rapid silent approach ofher husband's gondola. The gondolier, accustomed to the service ofartists, shouted to the painter, till Renovales came down with his boxof water-colors and the boat started immediately through the narrow, winding canals, moving the silvered comb of its prow from one side tothe other as if it were feeling the way. What mornings of placid silencein the sleeping water of an alley, between two palaces whose boldlyprojecting roofs kept the surface of the little canal in perpetualshadow! The gondolier slept stretched out in one of the curving ends ofhis boat and Renovales, sitting beside the black canopy, painted hisVenetian water-colors, a new type that his impresario in Rome receivedwith the greatest enthusiasm. His deftness enabled him to produce theseworks with as much facility as if they were mechanical copies. In themaze of canals he had one of his own which he called his "estate" onaccount of the money it netted him. He had painted again and again itsdead, silent waters which all day long were never rippled except by hisgondola; two old palaces with broken blinds, the doors covered with thecrust of years, stairways rotted with mold and in the background alittle arch of light, a marble bridge and under it the life, themovement, the sun of a broad, busy canal. The neglected little alleycame to life every week under Renovales' brush--he could paint it withhis eyes shut--and the business initiative of the Roman Jew scattered itthrough the world. 

The afternoons Mariano passed with his wife. Sometimes they went in agondola to the promenade of the Lido and sitting on the sandy beach, watched the angry surface of the open Adriatic, that stretched itstossing white caps to the horizon, like a flock of snowy sheep hurryingin the rush of a panic. 

Other afternoons they walked in the Square of Saint Mark, under thearcades of its three rows of palaces where they could see in thebackground, by the last rays of the sun, the pale gold of the basilicagleaming, as if in its walls and domes there were crystallized all thewealth of the ancient Republic. 

Renovales, with his wife on his arm, walked calmly as if the majesty ofthe place impelled him to a sort of noble bearing. The august silencewas not disturbed by the deafening hubbub of other great capitals; norattling of carts or footsteps of horses or hucksters' cries. TheSquare, with its white marble pavement, was a huge drawing room throughwhich the visitors passed as if they were making a call. The musiciansof the Venice band were gathered in the center with their hatssurmounted by black waving plumes. The blasts of the Wagnerian brasses, galloping in the mad ride of the Valkyries, made the marble columnsshake and seemed to give life to the four golden horses that reared overspace with silent whinnies on the cornice of St. Mark's. 

The dark-feathered doves of Venice scattered in playful spirals, somewhat frightened at the music, finally settled, like rain, on thetables of the café. Then, taking flight again, they blackened the roofof the palaces and once more swooped down like a mantle of metallicluster on the groups of English tourists in green veils and round hats, who called them in order to offer them grain. 

Josephina, with childish eagerness, left her husband in order to buy acone full of grain, and spreading it out in her gloved hands shegathered the wards of St. Mark around her; they rested on the flowers ofher head, fluttering like fantastic crests, they hopped on hershoulders, or lined up on her outstretched arms, they clung desperatelyto her slight hips, trying to walk around her waist, and others, moredaring, as if possessed of human mischievousness, scratched her breast, reached out their beaks striving to caress her ruddy, half-opened, lipsthrough the veil. She laughed, trembling at the tickling of the animatedcloud that rubbed against her body. Her husband watched her, laughingtoo, and certain that no one but she would understand him, he called toher in Spanish. 

"My, but you are beautiful! I wish I could paint your picture! If itweren't for the people, I would kiss you. "

Venice was the scene of her happiest days. She lived quietly while herhusband worked, taking odd corners of the city for his models. When heleft the house, her placid calm was not disturbed by any troublesomethought. This was painting, she was sure, --and not the conditions ofaffairs in Rome, where he would shut himself up with shameless women whowere not afraid to pose stark naked. She loved him with a renewedpassion, she petted him with constant caresses. It was then that herdaughter was born, their only child. 

Majestic Doña Emilia could not remain in Madrid when she learned thatshe was going to be a grandmother. Her poor Josephina, in a foreignland, with no one to take care of her but her husband, who had sometalent according to what people said, but who seemed to her ratherordinary! At her son-in-law's expense, she made the trip to Venice andthere she stayed for several months, fuming against the city, which shehad never visited in her diplomatic travels. The distinguished ladyconsidered that no cities were inhabitable except the capitals that havea court. Pshaw! Venice! A shabby town that no one liked but writers ofromanzas and decorators of fans, and where there were nothing higherthan consuls. She liked Rome with its Pope and kings. Besides, it madeher seasick to ride in the gondolas and she complained constantly of therheumatism, blaming it to the dampness of the lagoons. 

Renovales, who had feared for Josephina's life, believing that her weak, delicate constitution could not stand the shock, broke out into cries ofjoy when he received the little one in his arms and looked at the motherwith her head resting on the pillow as if she were dead. Her white facewas hardly outlined against the white of the linen. His first thoughtwas for her, for the pale features, distorted by the recent crisis, which gradually were growing calmer with rest. Poor little girl! How shehad suffered! But as he tip-toed out of the bed room in order not todisturb the heavy sleep that, after two cruel days, had overpowered thesick woman, he gave himself up to his admiration for the bit of fleshthat lay in the huge flabby arms of the grandmother, wrapped in finelinen. Ah, what a dear little thing! He looked at the livid little face, the big head, thinly covered with hair, seeking for some suggestion ofhimself in this surge of flesh that was in motion and still withoutdefinite form. "Mamma, whom does she look like?"

Doña Emilia was surprised at his blindness. Whom; should she look like?Like him, no one but him. She was large, enormous; she had seen fewbabies as large as this one. It did not seem possible that her poordaughter could live after giving birth to "that. " They could notcomplain that she was not healthy; she was as ruddy as a country baby. 

"She's a Renovales; she's yours, wholly yours, Mariano. We belong to adifferent class. "

And Renovales, without noticing his mother's words, saw only that hisdaughter was like him, overjoyed to see how robust she was, shouting hispleasure at the health of which the grandmother spoke in a disappointedtone. 

In vain did he and Doña Emilia try to dissuade Josephina from nursingthe baby. The little woman, in spite of the weakness that kept hermotionless in bed, wept and cried almost as she had in the crises thathad so terrified Renovales. 

"I won't have it, " she said with that obstinacy that made her soterrible. 

"I won't have a strange woman's milk for my daughter. I will nurse her, her mother. "

And they had to give the baby to her. 

When Josephina seemed recovered, her mother, feeling that her missionwas over, went home to Madrid. She was bored to death in that silentcity of Venice, night after night she thought she was dead, for shecould not hear a single sound from her bed. The calm, interrupted nowand then by the shouts of the gondoliers filled her with the same terrorthat she felt in a cemetery. She had no friends, she did not "shine";there was nobody in that dirty hole and nobody knew her. She was alwaysrecalling her distinguished friends in Madrid where she thought she wasan indispensable personage. The modesty of her granddaughter'schristening left a deep impression in her mind in spite of the fact thatthey gave her name to the child; an insignificant little party thatneeded only two gondolas; she, who was the godmother, with thegodfather, an old Venetian painter, who was a friend of Renovales and, besides, Renovales himself and two artists, a Frenchman and anotherSpaniard. The Patriarch of Venice did not officiate at the baptism, noteven a bishop. And she knew so many of them at home. A mere priest, whowas in a shameful hurry, had been sufficient to christen thegranddaughter of the famous diplomat, in a little church, as the sun wassetting. She went away repeating once more that Josephina was killingherself, that it was perfect folly for her to nurse the baby in herdelicate condition, regretting that she did not follow the example ofher mother who had always intrusted her children to nurses. 

Josephina cried bitterly when her mother went, but Renovales said"good-by" with ill-concealed joy. _Bon voyage_! He simply could notendure the woman, always complaining that she was being neglected whenshe saw how her son-in-law was working to make her daughter happy. Theonly thing he agreed with her in was in scolding Josephina tenderly forher obstinacy in nursing the baby. Poor little _Maja Desnuda_! Her formhad lost its bud-like daintiness in the full flower of motherhood. 

She appeared more robust, but the stoutness was accompanied by an anemicweakness. Her husband, seeing how she was losing her daintiness, lovedher with more tender compassion. Poor little girl! How good she was! Shewas sacrificing herself for her daughter. 

When the baby was a year old, the great crisis in Renovales' lifeoccurred. Desirous of taking a "bath in art, " of knowing what was goingon outside of the dungeon in which he was imprisoned, painting at somuch a piece, he left Josephina in Venice and made a short trip to Paristo see its famous Salon. He came back transfigured, with a new fever forwork and a determination to transform his existence which filled hiswife with astonishment and fear. He was going to break with his_impresario_, he would no longer debase himself with that falsepainting, even if he had to beg for his living. Great things were beingdone in the world, and he felt that he had the courage to be aninnovator, following the steps of those modern painters who made such aprofound impression on him. 

Now he hated old Italy, where artists went to study under the protectionof ignorant governments. 

In reality what they found there was a market of tempting commissionswhere they soon grew accustomed to taking orders, to the luxurious, indifferent life of easy profit. He wanted to move to Paris. ButJosephina, who listened to Renovales' fancies in silence, unable tounderstand them for the most part, modified this determination by heradvice. She too wanted to leave Venice. The city seemed gloomy in thewinter with its ceaseless rains that left the bridges slippery and themarble alleys impassable. Since they were determined to break up camp, why not go back to Madrid? Mamma was sick, she complained in all herletters at living so far from her daughter. Josephina wanted to see her, she had a presentiment that her mother was going to die. Renovalesthought it over; he too wanted to go back to Spain. He felt homesick;he thought of the great stir he would cause there, teaching his newmethods amid the general routine. The desire of shocking theAcademicians, who had accepted him before because he had renounced hisideals, tempted him. 

They went back to Madrid with little Milita, as they called her forshort, abbreviating the diminutive of Emilia. Renovales brought with himas his whole capital some few thousand lire, that representedJosephina's savings and the product of his sale of part of the furniturethat decorated the poorly furnished halls of the Foscarini palace. 

At first it was hard. Doña Emilia died a few months after they reachedMadrid. Her funeral did not come up to the dreams the illustrious widowhad always fashioned. Hardly a score of her countless relatives werepresent. Poor old lady, if she had known how her hopes were destined tobe disappointed! Renovales was almost glad of the event. With it, theonly tie that bound them to society was broken. He and Josephina livedin a fifth story flat on the Calle de Alcalá, near the Plaza de Toros, with a large terrace that the artist converted into a studio. Their lifewas modest, secluded, humble, without friends or functions. She spentthe day taking care of her daughter and the house, without help except adull, poorly-paid maid. Oftentimes when she seemed most active, she fellinto a sudden languor, complaining of strange, new ailments. 

Mariano hardly ever worked at home; he painted out of doors. He despisedthe conventional light of the studio, the closeness of its atmosphere. He wandered through the suburbs of Madrid and the neighboring provincesin search of rough, simple types, whose faces seemed to bear the stampof the ancient Spanish soul. He climbed the Guadarrama in the midst ofwinter, standing alone in the snowy fields like an Arctic explorer, totransfer to his canvas the century-old pines, twisted and black undertheir caps of frozen sleet. 

When the Exhibition took place, Renovales' name became famous in aflash. He did not present a huge picture with a key, as he had at hisfirst triumph. They were small canvases, studies prompted by a chancemeeting; bits of nature, men and landscapes reproduced with anastonishing, brutal truth that shocked the public. 

The sober fathers of painting writhed as if they had received a slap inthe face, before those sketches that seemed to flame among the otherdead, leaden pictures. They admitted that Renovales was a painter, buthe lacked imagination, invention, his only merit was his ability totransfer to the canvas what his eyes saw. The younger men flocked to thestandard of the new master; there were endless disputes, impassionedarguments, deadly hatred, and over this battle Renovales', nameflitted, appearing almost daily in the newspapers, till he was almost ascelebrated as a bull-fighter or an orator in the Congress. 

The struggle lasted for six years, giving rise to a storm of insults andapplause every time that Renovales exhibited one of his works, andmeanwhile the master, discussed as he was, lived in poverty, forced topaint water-colors in the old style which he secretly sent to his dealerin Rome. But all combats have their end. The public finally accepted asunquestionable a name that they saw every day; his enemies, weakened bythe unconscious effect of public opinion, grew tired, and the masterlike all innovators, as soon as the first success of the scandal wasover, began to limit his daring, pruning and softening his originalbrutality. The dreaded painter became fashionable. The easy, instantaneous success he had won at the beginning of his career wasrenewed, but more solidly and more definitely, like a conquest made byrough, hard paths when there is a struggle at every step. 

Money, the fickle page, came back to him, holding the train of glory. Hesold pictures at prices unheard of in Spain and they grew fabulously asthey were repeated by his admirers. Some American millionaires, surprised that a Spanish painter should be mentioned abroad and that theprincipal reviews in Europe should reproduce his works, bought canvasesas objects of great luxury. The master, embittered by the poverty of hisyears of struggle, suddenly felt a longing for money, an overpoweringgreed that his friends had never known in him. His wife seemed to growmore sickly every day; her daughter was growing up and he wanted hisMilita to have the education and the luxuries of a princess. They nowhad a respectable house of their own, but he wanted something better forthem. His business instinct, which everyone recognized in him when hewas not blinded by some artistic prejudice, strove to make his brush aninstrument of great profits. 

Pictures were bound to disappear, according to the master. Modern rooms, small and soberly decorated, were not fitted for the large canvases thatornamented the walls of drawing rooms in the old days. Besides, thereception rooms of the present, like the rooms in a doll's house, weregood merely for pretty pictures marked by stereotyped mannerisms. Scenestaken from nature were out of place in this background. The only way tomake money then was to paint portraits and Renovales forgot hisdistinction as an innovator in order to win at any cost fame as aportrait painter of society people. He painted members of the royalfamily in all sorts of postures, not omitting any of their importantoccupations; on foot, and on horseback, with a general's plumes or agray hunting jacket, killing pigeons or riding in an automobile. Heportrayed the beauties of the oldest families, concealing imperceptibly, with clever dissimulation, the ravages of time, giving firmness to theflabby flesh with his brush, holding up the heavy eyelids and cheeksthat sagged with fatigue and the poison of rouge. After successes atcourt, the rich considered a portrait by Renovales as an indispensabledecoration for their drawing rooms. They sought him because hissignature cost thousands of dollars; to possess a canvas by him was anevidence of opulence, quite as necessary as an automobile of the bestmake. 

Renovales was as rich as a painter can be. It was at that time that hebuilt what envious people called his "pantheon"; a magnificent mansionbehind the iron grating of the Retiro. 

He had a violent desire to build a home after his own heart and image, like those mollusks that build a shell with the substance of theirbodies so that it may serve both as a dwelling and a defense. Thereawakened in him that longing for show, for pompous, swaggering, amusingoriginality that lies dormant in the mind of every artist. At first heplanned a reproduction of Rubens' palace in Antwerp, open _loggie_ forstudios, leafy gardens covered with flowers at all seasons, and in thepaths, gazelles, giraffes, birds of bright plumage, like flying flowers, and other exotic animals which this great painter used as models in hisdesire to copy Nature in all its magnificence. 

But he was forced to give up this dream, on account of the nature of thebuilding sites in Madrid, a few thousand feet of barren, chalky soil, bounded by a wretched fence and as dry as only Castile can be. Sincethis Rubenesque ostentation was not possible, he took refuge inClassicism and in a little garden he erected a sort of Greek temple thatshould serve at once as a dwelling and a studio. On the triangularpediment rose three tripods like torch-holders, that gave the house theappearance of a commemorative tomb. But in order that those who stoppedoutside the grating might make no mistake, the master had garlands oflaurel, palettes surrounded with crowns, carved on the stone façade, andin the midst of this display of simple modesty a short inscription ingold letters of average size--"Renovales. " Exactly like a store. Inside, in two studios where no one ever painted and which led to the realworking studio, the finished pictures were exhibited on easels coveredwith antique textures, and callers gazed with wonder at the collectionof properties fit for a theater, --suits of armor, tapestries, oldstandards hanging from the ceiling, show-cases full of ancientknick-knacks, deep couches with canopies of oriental stuffs supported bylances, century old coffers and open secretaries shining with the palegold of their rows of drawers. 

These studios where no one studied were like the luxurious line ofwaiting rooms in the house of a doctor who charges twenty dollars for aconsultation, or like the anterooms, furnished in dark leather withvenerable pictures, of a famous lawyer, who never opens his mouthwithout carrying off a large portion of his client's fortune. People whowaited in these two studios spacious as the nave of a church, with thesilent majesty which comes with the lapse of years, were brought to thenecessary frame of mind to make them submit to the enormous prices themaster demanded. 

Renovales had "made good" and he could rest calmly, as his admirerssaid. And still the master was gloomy; his nature, embittered by hisyears of silent suffering, broke out in violent fits of temper. 

The slightest attack by some insignificant enemy was enough to send himinto a rage. His pupils thought it was due to the fact that he wasgetting old. His struggles had so aged him that with his heavy beard andhis round shoulders he looked ten years older than he was. 

In this white temple, on the pediment of which his name shone in lettersof glorious gold, he was not so happy as in the modest houses in Italyor the little garret near the Plaza de Toros. All that was left of theJosephina of the first months of his married life was a distant shadow. The "_Maja Desnuda_" of the happy nights in Rome and Venice was nothingbut a memory. On her return to Spain the false stoutness of motherhoodhad disappeared. 

She grew thin, as if some hidden fire were devouring her; the flesh thathad covered her body with graceful curves melted away in the flames thatburned within her. The sharp angles and dark hollows of her skeletonbegan to show beneath her pale, flabby flesh. Poor _"Maja Desnuda"!_Her husband pitied her, attributing her decline to the struggles andcares she had suffered when they first returned to Madrid. 

For her sake, he was eager to conquer, to become rich, that he mightprovide her with the comforts he had dreamed of. Her illness seemed tobe mental; it was neurasthenia, melancholia. The poor woman had sufferedwithout doubt at being condemned to a pauper's existence, in Madrid, where she had once lived in comparative splendor, this time in awretched house, struggling with poverty, forced to perform the mostmenial tasks. She complained of strange pains, her legs lost theirstrength, she sank into a chair where she would stay motionless forhours at a time, weeping without knowing why. Her digestion was poor;for weeks her stomach refused all nourishment. At night she would tossabout in bed, unable to sleep and at daybreak she was up flitting aboutthe house with a feverish activity, turning things upside down, findingfault with the servant, with her husband, with herself, until suddenlyshe would collapse from the height of her excitement and begin to cry. 

These domestic trials broke the painter's spirit, but he bore thempatiently. Now a gentle sympathy was added to his former love, when hesaw her so weak, without any remnant of her former charm except hereyes, sunk in their bluish sockets, bright with the mysterious fire offever. Poor little girl! Her struggles brought her to such a pass. Herweakness filled Renovales with a sort of remorse. Her lot was that ofthe soldier who sacrifices himself for his general's glory. He hadconquered, but he left behind him the woman he loved, fallen in thestruggle because she was the weaker. 

He admired, too, her maternal self-sacrifice. The baby, Milita, whoattracted attention because of her whiteness and ruddiness, had thestrength that her mother lacked. The greediness of this strong, enslaving creature had absorbed all of the mother's life. 

When the artist was rich and installed his family in the new house, hethought that Josephina was going to get well. The doctors were confidentof a rapid improvement. The first day that they walked through theparlors and studios of the new house, taking note of the furniture andthe valuables, old and new, with a glance of satisfaction, Renovales puthim arm around the waist of the weak little doll, bending his head overher, caressing her forehead with his bearded lips. 

Everything was hers, the house and its sumptuous decorations, hers toowas the money that was left and that he would continue to make. She wasthe owner, the absolute mistress, she could spend all she wanted to, hewould stand for everything. She could wear stylish clothes, havecarriages, make her former friends green with envy, be proud of beingthe wife of a famous painter, much more proud than others who had landeda ducal crown by marriage. Was she satisfied?

She said "Yes, " nodding her assent weakly, and she even stood on tiptoeto kiss the lips that seemed to caress her through a cloud of hair, buther expression was sad and her listless movements were like a witheredflower's, as if there was no joy on earth that could lift her out ofthis dejection. 

After a few days, when the first impress of the change in her mode oflife was over, the old outbreaks that had so often disturbed theirformer dwelling began again in the luxurious palace. 

Renovales found her in the dining-room with her head in her hands, crying, but unwilling to explain the cause of her tears. When he triedto take her in his arms, caressing her like a child, the little womanbecame as agitated as if she had received an insult. 

"Let me go!" she cried with a hostile look. "Don't touch me. Go away!"

At other times he looked all over the house for her in vain, questioningMilita who, accustomed to her mother's outbreaks and made selfish by hergirlish strength, paid little attention to her and kept on playing withher dolls. 

"I don't know, papa; she's probably crying up stairs, " she would answernaively. 

And in some corner of the upper story, in the bedroom, beside the bed oramong the clothes in the wardrobe, the husband would find her, sittingon the floor with her chin in her hands, her eyes fixed on the wall asif she were looking at something invisible and mysterious that only shecould see. She was not crying, her eyes were dry and enlarged with anexpression of terror, and her husband tried in vain to attract herattention. She remained motionless, cold, indifferent to his caresses, as if he were a stranger, as if there were a hopeless gap between them. 

"I want to die, " she said in a serious, tense tone. "I am of no use inthe world; I want to rest. "

The deadly resignation would change a moment later into furiousantagonism. Renovales could never tell how the quarrel began. The mostinsignificant word on his part, the expression of his face, silenceeven, was all that was needed to bring on the storm. Josephina began tospeak with a taunting accent that made her words cut like cold steel. She found fault with the painter for what he did and what he did not do, for his most trifling habits, for what he painted, and presently, extending the radius of her insults to include the whole world, shebroke out into denunciations of the distinguished people who formed herhusband's clientele and brought him such profits. He might be satisfiedwith painting the portraits of those people, disreputable society menand women. Her mother, who was in close touch with that society, hadtold her many stories about them. The women she knew still better;almost all of them had been her companions at boarding-school or herfriends. They had married to make sport of their husbands; they all hada past, they were worse than the women who walked the streets at night. This house with all its façade of laurels and its gold letters was abrothel. One of these fine days she would come into the studio and throwthem into the street to have their pictures painted somewhere else. 

"For God's sake, Josephina, " Renovales murmured with a troubled voice, "don't talk like that. Don't think of such outrageous things. I don'tsee how you can talk that way. Milita will hear us. "

Now that her nervous anger was exhausted, Josephina would burst intotears and Renovales would have to leave the table and take her to bed, where she lay, crying out for the hundredth time that she wanted to die. 

This life was even more intolerable because he was faithful to his wife, because his love, mingled with habit and routine, kept him firmlydevoted to her. 

At the end of the afternoon, several of his friends used to gather inhis studio, among them the jolly Cotoner who had moved to Madrid. Whenthe twilight crept in through the huge window and made them all prone tofriendly confidences, Renovales always made the same statement. 

"As a boy I had my good times just like anyone else, but since I wasmarried I have never had anything to do with any woman except my ownwife. I am proud to say so. "

And the big man drew himself up to his full height and stroked hisbeard, as proud of his faithfulness to his wife as other men are oftheir good fortune in love. 

When they talked about beautiful women in his presence, or looked atportraits of great foreign beauties, the master did not conceal hisapproval. 

"Very beautiful! Very pretty to paint!"

His enthusiasm over beauty never went beyond the limits of art. Therewas only one woman in the world for him, his wife; the others weremodels. 

He, who carried in his mind a perfect orgy of flesh, who worshiped thenude with religious fervor, reserved all his manly homage for his wifewho grew constantly more sickly, more gloomy, and waited with thepatience of a lover for a moment of calm, a ray of sunlight among theincessant storms. 

The doctors, who admitted their inability to cure the nervous disorderthat was consuming the wife, had hopes of a sudden change andrecommended to the husband that he should be extremely kind to her. Thisonly increased his patient gentleness. They attributed the nervoustrouble to the birth and nursing of the child, that had broken her weakhealth; they suspected, too, the existence of some unknown cause thatkept the sick woman in constant excitement. 

Renovales, who studied his wife closely in his eagerness to recoverpeace in his house, soon discovered the true cause of her illness. 

Milita was growing up; already she was a woman. She was fourteen yearsold and wore long skirts, and her healthy beauty was beginning toattract the glances of men. 

"One of these days they'll carry her off, " said the master laughing. And his wife, when she heard him talking about marriage, makingconjectures on his future son-in-law, closed her eyes and said in atense voice, that revealed her insuperable obstinacy:

"She shall marry anyone she wants to, --except a painter. I would rathersee her dead than that. "

It was then Renovales divined his wife's true illness. It was jealousy, a terrific, deadly, ruinous jealousy; it was the sadness of realizingthat she was sickly. She was certain of her husband; she knew hisdeclarations of faithfulness to her. But when the painter spoke of hisartistic interests in her presence, he did not hide his worship ofbeauty, his religious cult of form. Even if he was silent, shepenetrated his thoughts; she read in him that fervor which dated fromhis youth and had grown greater as the years went by. When she looked atthe statues of sovereign nakedness that decorated the studios, when sheglanced through the albums of pictures where the light of flesh shonebrightly amid the shadows of the engraving, she compared them mentallywith her own form emaciated by illness. 

Renovales' eyes that seemed to worship every beauty of form were thesame eyes that saw her in all her ugliness. That man could never loveher. His faithfulness was pity, perhaps habit, unconscious virtue. Shecould not believe that it was love. This illusion might be possible withanother man, but he was an artist. By day he worshiped beauty; at nighthe was brought face to face with ugliness, with physical wretchedness. 

She was constantly tormented by jealousy, that embittered her mind andconsumed her life, a jealousy that was inconsolable for the very reasonthat it had no real foundation. 

The consciousness of her ugliness brought with it a sadness, aninsatiable envy of everyone, a desire to die but to kill the worldfirst, that she might drag it down with her in her fall. 

Her husband's caresses irritated her like an insult. Maybe he thought heloved her, maybe his advances were in good faith, but she read histhoughts and she found there her irresistible enemy, the rival thatovershadowed her with her beauty. And there was no remedy for this. Shewas married to a man who, as long as he lived, would be faithful to hisreligion of beauty. How well she remembered the days when she hadrefused to allow her husband to paint her youthful body! If youth andbeauty would but come back to her, she would recklessly cast off all herveils, would stand in the middle of the studio as arrogantly as abacchante, crying, "Paint! Satisfy yourself with my flesh, and whenever you think of youreternal beloved, whom you call Beauty, fancy that you see her with myface, that she has my body!"

It was a terrible misfortune to be the wife of an artist. She wouldnever marry her daughter to a painter; she would rather see her dead. Men who carry with them the demon of form, cannot live in peace andhappiness except with a companion who is eternally young, eternallyfair. 

Her husband's fidelity made her desperate. That chaste artist was alwaysmusing over the memory of naked beauties, fancying pictures he did notdare to paint for fear of her. With her sick woman's penetration, sheseemed to read this longing in her husband's face. She would havepreferred certain infidelity, to see him in love with another woman, madwith passion. He might return from such a wandering outside the bonds ofmatrimony, wearied and humble, begging her forgiveness; but from theother, he would never return. 

When Renovates discovered the cause of her sadness, he tenderlyundertook to cure his wife's mental disorder. He avoided speaking of hisartistic interests in her presence; he discovered terrible defects inthe fair ladies who sought him as a portrait painter; he praisedJosephina's spiritual beauty; he painted pictures of her, putting herfeatures on the canvas, but beautifying them with, subtle skill. 

She smiled, with that eternal condescension that a woman has for themost stupendous, most shameful deceits, as long as they flatter her. 

"It's you, " said Renovales, "your face, your charm, your air ofdistinction. I really don't think I have made you as beautiful as youare. "

She continued to smile, but soon her look grew hard, her lips tightenedand the shadow spread little by little across her face. 

She fixed her eyes on the painter's as if she were scrutinizing histhoughts. 

It was a lie. Her husband was flattering her; he thought he loved her, but only his flesh was faithful. The invincible enemy, the eternalbeloved, was mistress of his mind. 

Tortured by this mental unfaithfulness and by the rage which herhelplessness produced, she would gradually fall into one of the nervousstorms that broke out in a shower of tears and a thunder of insults andrecriminations. 

Renovales' life was a hell at the very time when he possessed the gloryand wealth which he had dreamed of so many years, building on them hishope of happiness. 

IV

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when the painter went home afterhis luncheon with the Hungarian. 

As he entered the dining-room, before going to the studio, he saw twowomen with their hats and veils on who looked as if they were gettingready to go out. One of them, as tall as the painter, threw her armsaround his neck. 

"Papa, dear, we waited for you until nearly two o'clock. Did you have agood luncheon?"

And she kissed him noisily, rubbing her fresh, rosy cheeks against themaster's gray beard. 

Renovales smiled good naturedly under this shower of caresses. Ah, hisMilita! She was the only joy in that gloomy, showy house. It was she whosweetened that atmosphere of tedious strife which seemed to emanate fromthe sick woman. He looked at his daughter with an air of comicgallantry. 

"Very pretty; yes, I swear you are very pretty to-day. You are a perfectRubens, my dear, a brunette Rubens. And where are we going to show off?"

He looked with a father's pride at that strong, rosy body, in which thetransition to womanhood was marked by a sort of passing delicacy--theresult of her rapid growth--and a dark circle around her eyes. Her soft, mysterious glance was that of a woman who is beginning to understand themeaning of life. She dressed with a sort of exotic elegance; her clotheshad a masculine appearance; her mannish collar and tie were in keepingwith the rigid energy of her movements, with her wide-soled Englishboots, and the violent swing of her legs that opened her skirts like acompass when she walked, more intent on speed and a heavy step than on agraceful carriage. The master admired her healthy beauty. What asplendid specimen! The race would not die out with her. She was likehim, wholly like him; if he had been a woman, he would have been likehis Milita. 

She kept on talking, without taking her arms from her father'sshoulders, with her eyes, tremulous like molten gold, fixed on themaster. 

She was going for her daily walk with "Miss, " a two hours' tramp throughthe Castellana and the Retiro, without stopping a moment to sit down, taking a peripatetic lesson in English on the way. For the first timeRenovates turned around to speak to "Miss, " a stout woman with a red, wrinkled face who, when she smiled, showed a set of teeth that shonelike yellow dominoes. In the studio Renovales and his friends oftenlaughed at "Miss's" appearance and eccentricities, at her red wig thatwas placed on her head as carelessly as a hat, at her terrible falseteeth, at her bonnets that she made herself out of chance bits of ribbonand discarded ornaments, of her chronic lack of appetite, that forcedher to live on beer, which kept her in a continual state of confusion, which was revealed in her exaggerated curtsies. Soft and heavy fromdrink, she was alarmed at the approach of the hour of the walk, a dailytorment for her, as she tried painfully to keep up with Milita's longstrides. Seeing the painter looking at her, she turned even redder andmade three profound curtsies. 

"Oh, Mr. Renovales, oh, sir!"

And she did not call him "Lord, " because the master greeting her with anod, forgot her presence and began to talk again with his daughter. 

Milita was eager to hear about her father's luncheon with Tekli. And sohe had had some Chianti? Selfish man! When he knew how much she likedit! He ought to have let them know sooner that he would not be home. Fortunately Cotoner was at the house and mamma had made him stay, sothat they would not have to lunch alone. Their old friend had gone tothe kitchen and prepared one of those dishes he had learned to make inthe days when he was a landscape-painter. Milita observed that alllandscape-painters knew something about cooking. Their outdoor life, thenecessities of their wandering existence among country inns and huts, defying poverty, gave them a liking for this art. 

They had had a very pleasant luncheon; mamma had laughed at Cotoner'sjokes, who was always in good humor, but during the dessert, whenSoldevilla, Renovales' favorite pupil, came, she had felt indisposed andhad disappeared to hide her eyes swimming with tears and her breast thatheaved with sobs. 

"She's probably upstairs, " said the girl with a sort of indifference, accustomed to these outbreaks. "Good-by, papa, dear, a kiss. Cotoner andSoldevilla are waiting for you in the studio. Another kiss. Let me biteyou. "

And after fixing her little teeth gently in one of the master's cheeks, she ran out, followed by Miss, who was already puffing in anticipationat the thought of the tiresome walk. 

Renovales remained motionless as if he hesitated to shake off theatmosphere of affection in which his daughter enveloped him. Milita washis, wholly his. She loved her mother, but her affection was cold incomparison with the ardent passion she felt for him--that vague, instinctive preference girls feel for their fathers and which is, as itwere, a forecast of the worship the man they love will later inspire inthem. 

For a moment he thought of looking for Josephina to console her, butafter a brief reflection, he gave up the idea. It probably was nothing;his daughter was not disturbed; a sudden fit such as she usually had. Ifhe went upstairs he would run the risk of an unpleasant scene that wouldspoil the afternoon, rob him of his desire to work and banish theyouthful light-heartedness that filled him after his luncheon withTekli. 

He turned his steps towards the last studio, the only one that deservedthe name, for it was there he worked, and he saw Cotoner sitting in ahuge armchair, the seat of which sagged under his corpulent frame, withhis elbows resting on the oaken arms, his waistcoat unbuttoned torelieve his well-filled paunch, his head sunk between his shoulders, hisface red and sweating, his eyes half closed with the sweet joy ofdigestion in that comfortable atmosphere heated by a huge stove. 

Cotoner was getting old; his mustache was white and his head was bald, but his face was as rosy and shining as a child's. He breathed theplacidness of a respectable old bachelor whose only love is for goodliving and who appreciates the digestive sleepiness of theboaconstrictor as the greatest of happiness. 

He was tired of living in Rome. Commissions were scarce. The Popes livedlonger than the Biblical patriarchs. The chromo portraits of the Pontiffhad simply forced him out of business. Besides, he was old and the youngpainters who came to Rome did not know him; they were poor fellows wholooked on him as a clown, and never laid aside their seriousness exceptto make sport of him. His time had passed. The echoes of Mariano'striumphs at home had come to his ears, had determined him to move toMadrid. Life was the same everywhere. He had friends in Madrid, too. Andhere he had continued the life he had led in Rome, without any effort, feeling a kind of longing for glory in that narrow personality whichhad made him a mere day-laborer in art, as if his relations withRenovales imposed on him the duty of seeking a place near his in theworld of painting. 

He had gone back to landscapes, never winning any greater success thanthe simple admirations of wash-women and brickmakers who gathered aroundhis easel in the suburbs of Madrid, whispering to each other that thegentleman who wore on his lapel the variegated button of his numerousPapal Orders, must be a famous old "buck, " one of the great painters thepapers talked about. Renovales had secured for him two honorablementions at the Exhibitions and after this victory, shared with all theyoung chaps who were just beginning, Cotoner settled down in the rut, torest forever, counting that the mission of his life was fulfilled. 

Life in Madrid was no more difficult for him than in Rome. He slept atthe house of a priest whom he had known in Italy, and had accompanied onhis tours as Papal representative. This chaplain, who was employed inthe office of the Rota, considered it a great honor to entertain theartist, recalling his friendly relations with the cardinals andbelieving that he was in correspondence with the Pope himself. 

They had agreed on a sum which he was to pay for his lodging, but thepriest did not seem to be in any hurry for payment; he would soon givehim a commission for a painting for some nuns for whom he was confessor. 

The eating problem offered still less difficulty for Cotoner. He had thedays of the week divided among various rich families noted for theirpiety, whom he had met in Rome during the great Spanish pilgrimages. They were wealthy miners from Bilbao, gentlemen farmers from Andalusia, old marchionesses who thought about God a great deal, but continued tolive their comfortable life to which they gave a serious tone by therespectable color of devotion. 

The painter felt closely attached to this little group; they wereserious, religious and they ate well. Everyone called him "goodCotoner. " The ladies smiled with gratitude when he presented them with arosary or some other article of devotion brought from Rome. If theyexpressed the desire of obtaining some dispensation from the Vatican, hewould offer to write to "his friend the cardinal. " The husbands, glad toentertain an artist so cheaply, consulted him about the plan for a newchapel or the designs for an altar, and on their saint's day they wouldreceive with a condescending mien some present from Cotoner--a "littledaub, " a landscape painted on a piece of wood, that often needed anexplanation before they could understand what it was meant for. 

At dinners he was a constant source of amusement for these people ofsolid principles and measured words, with his stories of the strangedoings of the "Monsignori" or the "Eminences" he used to know in Rome. They listened to these jokes with a sort of unction, however dubiousthey were, seeing that they came from such respectable personages. 

When the round of invitations was interrupted by illness or absence, andCotoner lacked a place to dine, he stayed at Renovales' house withoutwaiting for an invitation. The master wanted him to live with them, buthe did not accept. He was very fond of the family; Milita played withhim as if he were an old dog, Josephina felt a sort of affection forhim, because his presence reminded her of the good old days in Rome. ButCotoner, in spite of this, seemed to be somewhat reluctant, divining thestorms that darkened the master's life. He preferred his free existence, to which he adapted himself with the ease of a parasite. After dinnerwas over, he would listen to the weighty discussions between learnedpriests and serious old church-goers, nodding his approval, and an hourlater he would be jesting impiously in some café or other with painters, actors and journalists. He knew everybody; he only needed to speak to anartist twice and he would call him by his first name and swear that heloved and admired him from the bottom of his heart. When Renovales cameinto the studio, he shook off his drowsiness and stretched out his shortlegs so that he could touch the floor and get out of the chair. 

"Did they tell you, Mariano? A magnificent dish! I made them anAndalusian pot-pourri! They were tickled to death over it!"

He was enthusiastic over his culinary achievement as if all his meritswere summed up in this skill. Afterwards, while Renovales was handinghis coat and hat to the servant who followed him, Cotoner with thecuriosity of an intimate friend who wants to know all the details of hisidol's life, questioned him about his luncheon with the foreigner. 

Renovales lay down on a divan deep as a niche, between two bookcases andlined with piles of cushions. As they spoke of Tekli, they recalledfriends in Rome, painters of different nationalities who twenty yearsbefore had walked with their heads high, following the star of hope asif they were hypnotized. Renovales, in his pride in his strength, incapable of hypocritical modesty, declared that he was the only one whohad succeeded. Poor Tekli was a professor; his copy of Velásquezamounted to nothing more than the work of a patient cart horse in art. 

"Do you think so?" asked Cotoner doubtfully. "Is his work so poor?"

His selfishness kept him from saying a word against anyone; he had nofaith in criticism, he believed blindly in praise; thereby preservinghis reputation as a good fellow, which gave him the entree everywhereand made his life easy. The figure of the Hungarian was fixed in hismemory and made him think of a series of luncheons before he leftMadrid. 

"Good afternoon, master. "

It was Soldevilla who came out from behind a screen with his handsclasped behind his back under the tail of his short sack coat, his headin the air, tortured by the excessive height of his stiff, shiningcollar, throwing out his chest so as to show off better his velvetwaistcoat. His thinness and his small stature were made up for by thelength of his blond mustache that curled around his pink little nose asif it were trying to reach the straight, scraggly bangs on his forehead. This Soldevilla was Renovales' favorite pupil--"his weakness" Cotonercalled him. The master had fought a great battle to win him thefellowship at Rome; afterward he had given him the prize at severalexhibitions. 

He looked on him almost as a son, attracted perhaps by the contrastbetween his own rough strength and the weakness of that artistic dandy, always proper, always amiable, who consulted this master abouteverything, even if afterwards he did not pay much attention to hisadvice. When he criticized his fellow painters, he did it with avenomous suavity, with a feminine finesse. Renovales laughed at hisappearance and his habits and Cotoner joined in. He was like china, always shining; you could not find the least speck of dust on him; youwere sure he slept in a cupboard. These present-day painters! The twoold artists recalled the disorder of their youth, their Bohemiancarelessness, with long beards and huge hats, all their oddextravagances to distinguish them from the rest of men, forming a worldby themselves. They felt out of humor with these painters of the lastbatch--proper, prudent, incapable of doing anything absurd, copying thefashions of the idle and presenting the appearance of Statefunctionaries, clerks, who wielded the brush. 

His greeting over, Soldevilla fairly overwhelmed the master with hiseffusive praise. He had been admiring the portrait of the Countess ofAlberca. 

"A perfect marvel, master. The best thing you have painted, and it'sonly half done, too. "

This praise aroused Renovales. He got up, shoved aside the screen andpulled out an easel that held a large canvas, until it was opposite thelight that came in through the wide window. 

On a gray background stood a woman dressed in white, with that majestyof beauty that is accustomed to admiration. The aigrette of feathers anddiamonds seemed to tremble on her tawny yellow curls, the curve of herbreasts was outlined through the lace of her low-necked gown, her glovesreached above her elbows, in one of her hands she held a costly fan, inthe other, a dark cloak, lined with flame-colored satin, that slippedfrom her bare shoulders, on the point of falling. The lower part of thefigure was merely outlined in charcoal on the white canvas. The head, almost finished, seemed to look at the three men with its proud eyes, cold, but with a false coldness that bespoke a hidden passion within, adead volcano that might come to life at any moment. 

She was a tall, stately woman, with a charming, well-proportionedfigure, who seemed to keep the freshness of youth, thanks to thehealthy, comfortable life she led. The corners of her eyes were narrowedwith a tired fold. 

Cotoner looked at her from his seat with chaste calmness, commentingtranquilly on her beauty, feeling above temptation. 

"It's she, you've caught her, Mariano. She has been a great woman. "

Renovales appeared offended at this comment. 

"She is, " he said with a sort of hostility. "She is still. "

Cotoner could not argue with his idol and he hastened to correcthimself. 

"She is a charming woman, very attractive, yes sir, and very stylish. They say she is talented and cannot bear to let men who worship hersuffer. She has certainly enjoyed life. "

Renovales began to bristle again, as if these words cut him. 

"Nonsense! lies, calumnies!" he said angrily. "Inventions of some youngfellows who spread these disgraceful reports because they wererejected. "

Cotoner began to explain away what he had said. He did not knowanything, he had heard it. The ladies at whose houses he dined spoke illof the Alberca woman, but perhaps it was merely woman's gossip. Therewas a moment of silence and Renovales, as if he wanted to change thesubject of conversation, turned to Soldevilla. 

"And you, aren't you painting any longer? I always find you here inworking hours. "

He smiled somewhat knowingly as he said this, while the youth blushedand tried to make excuses. He was working hard, but every day he feltthe need of dropping into his master's studio for a minute before hewent to his own. 

It was a habit he had formed when he was a beginner, in that period, thebest in his life, when he studied beside the great painter in a studiofar less sumptuous than this. 

"And Milita? Did you see her?" continued Renovales with a good-naturedsmile that had not lost its playfulness. "Didn't she 'kid' you, forwearing that dazzling new tie?"

Soldevilla smiled too. He had been in the dining-room with DoñaJosephina and Milita and the latter had made fun of him as usual. Butshe did not mean anything; the master knew that Milita and he treatedeach other like brother and sister. 

More than once when she was a little tot and he a lad, he had acted asher horse, trotting around the old studio with the little scamp on hisback, pulling his hair and pounding him with her tiny fists. 

"She's very cute, " interrupted Cotoner. "She is the most attractive, thebest girl I know. "

"And the unequaled López de Sosa?" asked the master, once more in aplayful tone. "Didn't that 'chauffeur' that drives us crazy with hisautomobiles come to-day?"

Soldevilla's smile disappeared. He grew pale and his eyes flashedspitefully. No, he had not seen the gentleman. According to the ladies, he was busy repairing an automobile that had broken down on the Pardoroad. And as if the recollection of this friend of the family was tryingfor him and he wished to avoid any further allusions to him, he said"good-by" to the master. He was going to work; he must take advantage ofthe two hours of sunlight that were left. But before he went out hestopped to say another word in praise of the portrait of the countess. 

The two friends remained alone for a long while in silence. Renovales, buried in the shadow of that niche of Persian stuffs with which hisdivan was canopied, gazed at the picture. 

"Is she going to come to-day?" asked Cotoner, pointing to the canvas. 

Renovales shrugged his shoulders. To-day or the next day; it wasimpossible to do any serious work with that woman. 

He expected her that afternoon; but he would not feel surprised if shefailed to keep her appointment. For nearly a month he had been unable toget in two days in succession. She was always engaged; she was presidentof societies for the education and emancipation of woman; she wasconstantly planning festivals and raffles; the activity of a tired womanof society, the fluttering of a wild bird that made her want to beeverywhere at the same time, without the will to withdraw when once shewas started in the current of feminine excitement. Suddenly the painterwhose eyes were fixed on the portrait gave a cry of enthusiasm. 

"What a woman, Pepe! What a woman to paint!"

His eyes seemed to lay bare the beauty that stood on the canvas in allits aristocratic grandeur. They strove to penetrate the mystery of thatcovering of lace and silk, to see the color and the lines of the formthat was hardly revealed through the gown. This mental reconstructionwas helped by the bare shoulders and the curve of her breasts thatseemed to tremble at the edge of her dress, separated by a line of softshadow. 

"That's just what I told your wife, " said the Bohemian naively. "If youpaint beautiful women, like the countess, it is merely for the sake ofpainting them and not that you would think of seeing in them anythingmore than a model. "

"Aha! So my wife has been talking to you about that!"

Cotoner hastened to set his mind at ease, fearing his digestion might bedisturbed. A mere trifle, nervousness on the part of poor Josephina, whosaw the dark side of everything in her illness. 

She had referred during the luncheon to the Alberca woman and herportrait. She did not seem to be very fond of her, in spite of the factthat she had been her companion in boarding-school. She felt as otherwomen did; the countess was an enemy, who inspired them with fear. Buthe had calmed her and finally succeeded in making her smile faintly. There was no use in talking about that any longer. 

But Renovales did not share his friend's optimism. He was well aware ofhis wife's state of mind; he understood now the motive that had made herflee from the table, to take refuge upstairs and to weep and long fordeath. She hated Concha as she did all the women who entered his studio. But this impression of sadness did not last very long in the painter; hewas used to his wife's susceptibility. Besides, the consciousness of hisfaithfulness calmed him. His conscience was clean, and Josephina mightbelieve what she would. It would only be one more injustice and he wasresigned to endure his slavery without complaint. 

In order to forget his trouble, he began to talk about painting. Therecollection of his conversation with Tekli enlivened him, for Tekli hadbeen traveling all over Europe and was well acquainted with what themost famous masters were thinking and painting. 

"I'm getting old, Cotoner. Did you think I didn't know it? No, don'tprotest. I know that I am not old; forty-three years. I mean that I havelost my gait and cannot get started. It's a long time since I have doneanything new; I always strike the same note. You know that some people, envious of my reputation are always throwing that defect in my face, like a vile insult. "

And the painter, with the selfishness of great artists who always thinkthat they are neglected and the world begrudges them their glory, complained at the slavery that was imposed upon him by his good fortune. Making money! What a calamity for art! If the world were governed byhis common sense, artists with talent would be supported by the State, which would generously provide for all their needs and whims. Therewould be no need of bothering about making a living. "Paint what youwant to, and as you please. " Then great things would be done and artwould advance with giant strides, not constrained to debase itself byflattering public vulgarity and the ignorance of the rich. But now, tobe a celebrated painter it was necessary to make money and this couldnot be done except by portraits, opening a shop, painting the first onethat appeared, without the right of choice. Accursed painting! Inwriting, poverty was a merit. It stood for truth and honesty. But thepainter must be rich, his talent was judged by his profits. The fame ofhis pictures was connected with the idea of thousands of dollars. Whenpeople talked about his work they always said, "He's making such andsuch a sum of money, " and to keep up this wealth, the indispensablecompanion of his glory, he had to paint by the job, cringing before thevulgar throng that pays. 

Renovales walked excitedly around the portrait. Sometimes this laborer'swork was tolerable, when he was painting beautiful women and men whosefaces had the light of intelligence. But the vulgar politicians, therich men that looked like porters, the stout dames with dead faces thathe had to paint! When he let his love for truth overcome him and copiedthe model as he saw it, he won another enemy, who paid the billgrumblingly and went away to tell everyone that Renovales was not sogreat as people thought. To avoid this he lied in his painting, havingrecourse to the methods employed by other mediocre artists and this baseprocedure tormented his conscience, as if he were robbing his inferiorswho deserved respect for the very reason that they were less endowed forartistic production than he. 

"Besides, that is not painting, the whole of painting. We think we areartists because we can reproduce a face, and the face is only a part ofthe body. We tremble with fear at the thought of the nude. We haveforgotten it. We speak of it with respect and fear, as we would ofsomething religious, worthy of worship, but something we never see closeat hand. A large part of our talent is the talent of a dry-goods clerk. Cloth, nothing but cloth; garments. The body must be carefully wrappedup or we flee from it as from a danger. "

He ceased his nervous walking to and fro and stopped in front of thepicture, fixing his gaze on it. 

"Imagine, Pepe, " he said in an undertone, looking first instinctivelytoward the door, with that eternal fear of being heard by his wife inthe midst of his artistic raptures. "Imagine, if that woman wouldundress; if I could paint her as she certainly is. "

Cotoner burst into laughter with a look like a knavish friar. 

"Wonderful, Mariano, a masterpiece. But she won't. I'm sure she wouldrefuse to undress, though I admit she isn't always particular. "

Renovales shook his fists in protest. 

"And why won't they? What a rut! What vulgarity!"

In his artistic selfishness he fancied that the world had been createdwithout any other purpose than supporting painters, the rest of humanitywas made to serve them as models, and he was shocked at thisincomprehensible modesty. Ah, where could they find now the beauties ofGreece, the calm models of sculptors, the pale Venetian ladies paintedby Titian, the graceful Flemish women of Rubens, and the dainty, sprightly beauties of Goya? Beauty was eclipsed forever behind the veilsof hypocrisy and false modesty. Women had one lover to-day, anotherto-morrow and still they blushed at recalling the woman of other times, far more pure than they, who did not hesitate to reveal to the publicadmiration the perfect work of God, the chastity of the nude. 

Renovales lay down on the divan again, and in the twilight he talkedconfidentially with Cotoner in a subdued voice, sometimes looking towardthe door as if he feared being overheard. 

For some time he had been dreaming of a masterpiece. He had it in hisimagination complete even to the least details. He saw it, closing hiseyes, just at it would be, if he ever succeeded in painting it. It wasPhryne, the famous beauty of Athens, appearing naked before the crowd ofpilgrims on the beach of Delphi. All the suffering humanity of Greecewalked on the shore of the sea toward the famous temple, seeking divineintervention for the relief of their ills, cripples with distortedlimbs, repulsive lepers, men swollen with dropsy, pale, suffering women, trembling old men, youths disfigured in hideous expressions, witheredarms like bare bones, shapeless elephant legs, all the phases of aperverted Nature, the piteous, desperate expressions of human pain. Whenthey see on the beach Phryne, the glory of Greece, whose beauty was anational pride, the pilgrims stop and gaze upon her, turning their backsto the temple, that outlines its marble columns in the background of theparched mountains; and the beautiful woman, filled with pity by thisprocession of suffering, desires to brighten their sadness, to cast ahandful of health and beauty among their wretched furrows, and tears offher veils, giving them the royal alms of her nakedness. The white, radiant body is outlined on the dark blue of the sea. The wind scattersher hair like golden serpents on her ivory shoulders; the waves that dieat her feet, toss upon her stars of foam that make her skin tremble withthe caress from her amber neck down to her rosy feet. The wet sand, polished and bright as a mirror, reproduces the sovereign nakedness, inverted and confused in serpentine lines that take on the shimmer ofthe rainbow as they disappear. And the pilgrims, on their knees, in theecstasy of worship, stretch out their arms toward the mortal goddess, believing that Beauty and eternal Health have come to meet them. 

Renovales sat up and grasped Cotoner's arm as he described his futurepicture, and his friend nodded his approval gravely, impressed by thedescription. 

"Very fine! Sublime, Mariano!"

But the master became dejected again after this flash of enthusiasm. 

The task was very difficult. He would have to go and take up quarters onthe shore of the Mediterranean, on some secluded beach at Valencia or inCatalonia; he would have to build a cabin on the very edge of the sandwhere the water breaks with its bright reflections, and take woman afterwoman there, a hundred if it was necessary, in order to study thewhiteness of their skin against the blue of the sea and sky, until hefound the divine body of the Phryne he had dreamed. 

"Very difficult, " murmured Renovales. "I tell you it is very difficult. There are so many obstacles to struggle against. "

Cotoner leaned forward with a confidential expression. 

"And besides, there's the mistress, " he said in a quiet voice, lookingat the door with a sort of fear. "I don't believe Josephina would bevery much pleased with this picture and its pack of models. "

The master lowered his head. 

"If you only knew, Pepe! If you could see the life I lead every day!"

"I know what it is, " Cotoner hastened to say, "or rather, I can imagine. Don't tell me anything. "

And in his haste to avoid the sad confidences of his friend, there was agreat deal of selfishness, the desire not to disturb his peaceful calmwith other men's sorrows that excite only a distant interest. 

Renovales spoke after a long silence. He often wondered whether anartist ought to be married or single. Other men, of weak, hesitatingcharacter needed the support of a comrade, the atmosphere of a family. 

He recalled with relish the first few months of his married life; butsince then it had weighed on him like a chain. He did not deny theexistence of love; he needed the sweet company of a woman in order tolive, but with intermissions, without the endless imprisonment of commonlife. Artists like himself ought to be free, he was sure of it. 

"Oh, Pepe, if I had only stayed like you, master of my time and my work, without having to think what my family will say if they see me paintingthis or that, what great things I should have done!"

The old man, who had failed in all his tasks, was going to say somethingwhen the door of the studio opened and Renovales' servant came in, alittle man with fat red cheeks and a high voice which, according toCotoner, sounded like the messenger of a monastery. 

"The countess. "

Cotoner jumped out of his armchair. Those models didn't like to seepeople in the studio. How could he get out? Renovales helped him to findhis hat, coat and cane, which with his usual carelessness he had left indifferent corners of the studio. 

The master pushed him out of a door that led into the garden. Then, whenhe was alone, he ran to an old Venetian mirror, and looked at himselffor a moment in its deep, bluish surface, smoothing his curly gray hairwith his fingers. 

V

She came in with a great rustling of silks and laces, her leaststep accompanied by the _frou-frou_ of her skirts, scattering variousperfumes, like the breath of an exotic garden. 

"Good afternoon, _mon cher maître_. "

As she looked at him through her tortoise-shell lorgnette, hanging froma gold chain, the gray amber of her eyes took on an insolent starethrough the glasses, a strange expression, half caressing, half mocking. 

He must pardon her for being so late. She was sorry for her lack ofattention, but she was the busiest woman in Madrid. The things she haddone since luncheon! Signing and examining papers with the secretary ofthe "Women's League, " a conference with the carpenter and the foreman(two rough fellows who fairly devoured her with their eyes), who hadcharge of putting up the booths for the great fair for the benefit ofdestitute working women; a call on the president of the Cabinet, asomewhat dissolute old gentleman, in spite of his gravity, who receivedher with the airs of an old-fashioned gallant, kissing her hand, as theyused to in a minuet. 

"We have lost the afternoon, haven't we, _maître?_ There's hardly sunenough to work by now. Besides, I didn't bring my maid to help me. "

She pointed with her lorgnette to the door of an alcove that served as adressing-room for the models and where she kept the evening gown and theflame-colored cloak in which he was painting her. 

Renovales, after looking furtively at the entrance of the studio, assumed an arrogant air of swaggering gallantry, such as he used to havein his youth in Rome, free and obstreperous. 

"You needn't give up on that account. If you will let me, I'll act asmaid for you. "

The countess began to laugh loudly, throwing back her head andshoulders, showing her white throat that shook with merriment. 

"Oh, what a good joke! And how daring the master is getting. You don'tknow anything about such things, Renovales. All you can do is paint. Youare not in practice. "

And in her accent of subtle irony, there was something like pity for theartist, removed from mundane things, whose conjugal virtue everyoneknew. This seemed to offend him for he spoke to the countess verysharply as he picked up the palette and prepared the colors. There wasno need of changing her dress; he would make use of what little daylightremained to work on the head. 

Concha took off her hat and then, before the same Venetian mirror inwhich the painter had looked at himself, began to touch up her hair. Herarms curved around her golden head, while Renovales contemplated thegrace of her back, seeing at the same time her face and breast in theglass. She hummed as she arranged her hair, with her eyes fixed on theirown reflection, not letting anything distract her in this importantoperation. 

That brilliant, striking golden hair was probably bleached. The painterwas sure of it, but it did not seem less beautiful to him on thataccount. The beauties of Venice in the olden times used to dye theirhair. 

The countess sat down in an armchair, a short distance from the easel. She felt tired and as long as he was not going to paint anything but herface, he would not be so cruel as to make her stand, as he did on daysof real sittings. Renovales answered with monosyllables and shrugs ofhis shoulders. That was all right--for what they were going to do. Anafternoon lost. He would limit himself to working on her hair and herforehead. She might take it easy, looking anywhere she wanted to. 

The master did not feel any desire to work either. A dull angerdisturbed him; he was irritated by the ironical accent of the countesswho saw in him a man different from other men, a strange being who wasincapable of acting like the insipid young men who formed her court andmany of whom, according to common gossip, were her lovers. A strangewoman, provoking and cold! He felt like falling on her, in his rage ather offence, and beating her with the same scorn that he would a lowwoman, to make her feel his manly superiority. 

Of all the ladies whose pictures he had painted, none had disturbed hisartistic calm as she had. He felt attracted by her mad jesting, by heralmost childish levity, and at the same time he hated her for thepitying air with which she treated him. For her he was a good fellow, but very commonplace, who by some rare caprice of Nature possessed thegift of painting well. 

Renovales returned this scorn by insulting her mentally. That Countessof Alberca was a fine one. No wonder people talked about her. Perhapswhen she appeared in his studio, always in a hurry and out of breath, she came from a private interview with some one of those young bloodsthat hung around her, attracted by her still fresh, alluring maturity. 

But if Concha spoke to him with her easy freedom, telling him of thesadness she said she felt and allowing herself to confide in him, as ifthey were united by a long standing friendship, that was enough to makethe master change his thoughts immediately. She was a superior woman ofideals, condemned to live in a depressing aristocratic atmosphere. Allthe gossip about her was a calumny, a lie forged by envious people. Sheought to be the companion of a superior man, of an artist. 

Renovales knew her history; he was proud of the friendly confidence shehad had in him. She was the only daughter of a distinguished gentleman, a solemn jurist, and a violent Conservative, a minister in the mostreactionary cabinets of the reign of Isabel II. She had been educated atthe same school as Josephina, who in spite of the fact that Concha wasfour years her senior, retained a vivid recollection of her livelycompanion. "For mischief and deviltry you can't beat Conchita Salazar. "It was thus that Renovales heard her name for the first time. Then whenthe artist and his wife had moved from Venice to Madrid, he learned thatshe had changed her name to that of the Countess of Alberca by marryinga man who might have been her father. 

He was an old courtier who performed his duties as a grandee of Spainwith great conscientiousness, proud of his slavery to the royal family. His ambition was to belong to all the honorable orders of Europe and assoon as he was named to one of them, he had his picture painted, coveredwith scarfs and crosses, wearing the uniform of one of the traditionalmilitary Orders. His wife laughed to see him, so little, bald andsolemn, with high boots, a dangling sword, his breast covered withtrinkets, a white plumed helmet resting in his lap. 

During the life of isolation and privation with which Renovalesstruggled so courageously, the papers brought to the artist's wretchedhouse the echoes of the triumphs of the "fair Countess of Alberca. " Hername appeared in the first line of every account of an aristocraticfunction. Besides, they called her "enlightened, " and talked about herliterary culture, her classic education which she owed to her"illustrious father, " now dead. And with this public news there reachedthe artist on the whispering wings of Madrid gossip other tales thatrepresented the Countess of Alberca as consoling herself merrily for themistake she had made in marrying an old man. 

At Court, they had taken her name from the lists, as a result of thisreputation. Her husband took part at all the royal functions, for he didnot have a chance every day to show off his load of honorary hardware, but she stayed at home, loathing these ceremonious affairs. Renovaleshad often heard her declare, dressed luxuriously and wearing costlyjewels in her ears and on her breast, that she laughed at his set, thatshe was on the inside, she was an anarchist! And he laughed as he heardher, just as all men laughed at what they called the "ways" of theAlberca woman. 

When Renovales won success and, as a famous master, returned to thosedrawing rooms through which he had passed in his youth, he felt theattraction of the countess who in her character as a "woman ofintellect, " insisted on gathering celebrated men about her. Josephinadid not accompany him in this return to society. She felt ill; contactwith the same people in the same places tired her; she lacked thestrength to undertake even the trips her doctors urged upon her. 

The countess enrolled the painter in her following, appearing offendedwhen he failed to present himself at her house on the afternoons onwhich she received her friends. What ingratitude to show to such afervent admirer! How she liked to exhibit him before her friends, as ifhe were a new jewel! "The painter Renovales, the famous master. "

At one of these afternoon receptions, the count spoke to Renovales withthe serious air of a man who is crushed beneath his worldly honors. 

"Concha wants a portrait done by you, and I like to please her in everyway. You can say when to begin. She is afraid to propose it to you andhas commissioned me to do it. I know that your work is better than thatof other painters. Paint her well, so that she may be pleased. "

And noticing that Renovales seemed rather offended at his patronizingfamiliarity, he added as if he were doing him another favor. 

"If you have success with Concha, you may paint my picture afterward. Iam only waiting for the Grand Chrysanthemum of Japan. At the Governmentoffices they tell me the titles will come one of these days. "

Renovales began the countess's portrait. The task was prolonged by thatrattle-brained woman who always came late, alleging that she had beenbusy. Many days the artist did not take a stroke with his brush; theyspent the time chatting. At other times the master listened in silencewhile she with her ceaseless volubility made fun of her friends andrelated their secret defects, their most intimate habits, theirmysterious amours, with a kind of relish, as if all women were herenemies. In the midst of one of these confidential talks, she stoppedand said with a shy expression and an ironical accent:

"But I am probably shocking you, Mariano. You, who are a good husband, astaunch family-man. "

Renovales felt tempted to choke her. She was making fun of him; shelooked on him as a man different from the rest of men, a sort of monk ofpainting. Eager to wound her, to return the blow, he interrupted oncebrutally in the midst of her merciless gossip. 

"Well, they talk about you, too, Concha. They say things that wouldn'tbe very pleasing to the count. "

He expected an outburst of anger, a protest, and all that resounded inthe silence of the studio was a merry, reckless laugh that lasted along time, stopping occasionally, only to begin again. Then she grewpensive, with the gentle sadness of women who are "misunderstood. " Shewas very unhappy. She could tell him everything because he was a goodfriend. She had married when she was still a child; a terrible mistake. There was something else in the world besides the glare of fortune, thesplendor of luxury and that count's coronet, which had stirred herschool-girl's mind. 

"We have the right to a little love, and if not love, to a little joy. Don't you think so, Mariano?"

Of course he thought so. And he declared it in such a way, looking atConcha with alarming eyes, that she finally laughed at his frankness andthreatened him with her finger. 

"Take care, master. Don't forget that Josephina is my friend and if yougo astray, I'll tell her everything. "

Renovales was irritated at her disposition, always restless andcapricious as a bird's, quite as likely to sit down beside him in warmintimacy as to flit away with tormenting banter. 

Sometimes she was aggressive, teasing the artist from her very firstwords, as had just happened that afternoon. 

They were silent for a long time--he, painting with an absent-mindedair, she watching the movement of the brush, buried in an armchair inthe sweet calm of rest. 

But the Alberca woman was incapable of remaining silent long. Little bylittle her usual chatter began, paying no attention to the painter'ssilence, talking to relieve the convent-like stillness of the studiowith her words and laughter. 

The painter heard the story of her labors as president of the "Women'sLeague, " of the great things she meant to do in the holy undertaking forthe emancipation of the sex. And, in passing, led on by her desire ofridiculing all women, she gaily made sport of her co-workers in thegreat project; unknown literary women, school teachers, whose lives wereembittered by their ugliness, painters of flowers and doves, a throng ofpoor women with extravagant hats and clothes that looked as though theywere hung on a bean-pole; feminine Bohemians, rebellious and rabidagainst their lot, who were proud to have her as their leader and whomade it a point to call her "Countess" in sonorous tones at every otherword, in order to flatter themselves with the distinction of thisfriendship. The Alberca woman was greatly amused at her following ofadmirers; she laughed at their intolerance and their proposals. 

"Yes, I know what it is, " said Renovales breaking his long silence. "Youwant to annihilate us, to reign over man, whom you hate. "

The countess laughed at the recollection of the fierce feminism of someof her acolytes. As most of them were homely, they hated feminine beautyas a sign of weakness. They wanted the woman of the future to be withouthips, without breasts, straight, bony, muscular, fitted for all sorts ofmanual labor, free from the slavery of love and reproduction. "Down withfeminine fat!"

"What a frightful idea! Don't you think so, Mariano?" she continued. "Woman, straight in front and straight behind, with her hair cut shortand her hands hardened, competing with men in all sorts of struggles!And they call that emancipation! I know what men are; if they saw uslooking like that, in a few days they would be beating us. "

No, she was not one of them. She wanted to see a woman triumph, but byincreasing still more her charm and her fascination. If they took awayher beauty what would she have left? She wanted her to be man's equal inintelligence, his superior by the magic of her beauty. 

"I don't hate men, Mariano, I am very much a woman, and I like them. What's the use of denying it?"

"I know it, Concha, I know it, " said the painter, with a maliciousmeaning. 

"What do you know? Lies, gossip that people tell about me because I amnot a hypocrite and am not always wearing a gloomy expression. "

And led on by that desire for sympathy that all women of questionablereputation experience, she spoke once more of her unpleasant situation. Renovales knew the count, a good man in spite of his hobbies, whothought of nothing but his honorary trinkets. She did everything forhim, watched out for his comfort, but he was nothing to her. She lackedthe most important thing--heart-love. 

As she spoke she looked up, with a longing idealism that would have madeanyone but Renovales smile. 

"In this situation, " she said slowly, looking into space, "it isn'tstrange that a woman seeks happiness where she can find it. But I amvery unhappy, Mariano; I don't know what love is. I have never loved. "

Ah, she would have been happy, if she had married a man who was hersuperior. To be the companion of a great artist, of a scholar, wouldhave meant happiness for her. The men who gathered around her in herdrawing-rooms were younger and stronger than the poor count, butmentally they were even weaker than he. There was no such thing asvirtue in the world, she admitted that; she did not dare to lie to afriend like the painter. She had had her diversions, her whims, just asmany other women who passed as impregnable models of virtue, but shealways came out of these misdoings with a feeling of disenchantment anddisgust. She knew that love was a reality for other women, but she hadnever succeeded in finding it. 

Renovales had stopped painting. The sunlight no longer came in throughthe wide window. The panes took on a violet opaqueness. Twilight filledthe studio, and in the shadows there shone dimly like dying sparks, herethe corner of a picture frame, beyond the old gold of an embroideredbanner, in the corners the pummel of a sword, the pearl inlay of acabinet. 

The painter sat down beside the countess, sinking into the perfumedatmosphere which surrounded her with a sort of nimbus of keenvoluptuousness. 

He, too, was unhappy. He said it sincerely, believing honestly in thelady's melancholy despair. Something was lacking in his life; he wasalone in the world. And as he saw an expression of surprise on Concha'sface, he pounded his chest energetically. 

Yes, alone. He knew what she was going to say. He had his wife, hisdaughter. About Milita he did not want to talk; he worshiped her; shewas his joy. When he felt tired out with work, it gave him a sweet senseof rest to put his arms around her neck. But he was still too young tobe satisfied with this joy of a father's love. He longed for somethingmore and he could not find it in the companion of his life, always ill, with her nerves constantly on edge. Besides, she did not understand him. She never would understand him; she was a burden who was crushing histalent. 

Their union was based merely on friendship, on mutual consideration forthe suffering they had undergone together. He, too, had been deceived intaking for love what was only an impulse of youthful attraction. Heneeded a true passion; to live close to a soul that was akin to his, tolove a woman who was his superior, who could understand him andencourage him in his bold projects, who could sacrifice her commonplaceprejudices to the demands of art. 

He spoke vehemently, with his eyes fixed on Concha's eyes that shonewith light from the window. 

But Renovales was interrupted by a cruel, ironical laugh, while thecountess pushed back her chair, as if to avoid the artist who slowlyleaned forward toward her. 

"Look out, you're slipping, Mariano! I see it coming. A little more andyou would have made me a confession. Heavens! These men! You can't talkto them like a good friend, show them any confidence without theirbeginning to talk love on the spot. If I would let you, in less than aminute you would tell me that I am your ideal, that you worship me. "

Renovales, who had moved away from her, recovering his sternness, feltcut by that mocking laugh and said in a quiet tone:

"And what if it were true? What if I loved you?"

The laugh of the countess rang out again, but forced, false, with a tonethat seemed to tear the artist's breast. 

"Just what I expected! The confession I spoke of! That's the third oneI've received to-day. But isn't it possible to talk with a man ofanything but love?"

She was already on her feet, looking around for her hat, for she couldnot remember where she had left it. 

"I'm going, _cher maître_. It isn't safe to stay here. I'll try to comeearlier next time so that the twilight won't catch us. It's atreacherous hour; the moment of the greatest follies. "

The painter objected to her leaving. Her carriage had not yet come. Shecould wait a few minutes longer. He promised to be quiet, not to talk toher, as long as it seemed to displease her. 

The countess remained, but she would not sit down in the chair. Shewalked around the studio for a few moments and finally opened the organthat stood near the window. 

"Let's have a little music; that will quiet us. You, Mariano, sit stillas a mouse in your chair and don't come near me. Be a good boy now. "

Her fingers rested on the keys; her feet moved the pedals and the_Largo_ of Handel, grave, mystic, dreamy, swelled softly through thestudio. The melody filled the wide room, already wrapped in shadows, itmade its way through the tapestries, prolonging its winged whisperthrough the other two studios, as though it were the song of an organplayed by invisible hands in a deserted cathedral at the mysterious hourof dusk. 

Concha felt stirred with feminine sentimentality, that superficial, whimsical, sensitiveness that made her friends look on her as a greatartist. The music filled her with tenderness; she strove to keep backthe tears that came to her eyes, --why, she could not tell. 

Suddenly she stopped playing and looked around anxiously. The painterwas behind her, she fancied she felt his breath on her neck. She wantedto protest, to make him draw back with one of her cruel laughs, but shecould not. 

"Mariano, " she murmured, "go sit down, be a good boy and mind me. If youdon't I'll be cross. "

But she did not move; after turning half way around on the stool, sheremained facing the window with one elbow resting on the keys. 

They were silent for a long time; she in this position, he watching herface that now was only a white spot in the deepening shadow. 

The panes of the window took on a bluish opaqueness. The branches of thegarden cut them like sinuous, shifting lines of ink. In the deep calm ofthe studio the creaking of the furniture could be heard, that breathingof wood, of dust, of objects in the silence and shadow. 

Both of them seem to be captivated by the mystery of the hour, as if thedeath of day acted as an anæsthetic on their minds. They felt lulled ina vague, sweet dream. 

She trembled with pleasure. 

"Mariano, go away, " she said slowly, as if it cost her an effort. "Thisis so pleasant, I feel as if I were in a bath, a bath that penetrates tomy very soul. But it isn't right. Turn on the lights, master. Light!Light! This isn't proper. "

Mariano did not listen to her. He had bent over her, taking her handthat was cold, unfeeling, as if it did not notice the pressure of his. 

Then, with a sudden start, he kissed it, almost bit it. 

The countess seemed to awake and stood up, proudly, angrily. 

"That's childish, Mariano. It isn't fair. "

But in a moment she laughed with her cruel laugh, as if she pitied theconfusion that Renovales showed when he saw her anger. "You arepardoned, master. A kiss on the hand means nothing. It is theconventional thing. Many men kiss my hand. "

And this indifference was a bitter torment for the artist, whoconsidered that his kiss was a sign of possession. 

The countess continued to search in the darkness, repeating in anirritated voice:

"Light, turn on the light. Where in the world is the button?"

The light was turned on without Mariano's moving, before she found thebutton she was looking for. Three clusters of electric lights flashedout on the ceiling of the studio, and their crowns of white needles, brought out of the shadows the golden picture frames, the brillianttapestries, the shining arms, the showy furniture and the bright-coloredpaintings. 

They both blinked, blinded by the sudden brightness. 

"Good evening, " said a honeyed voice from the doorway. 

"Josephina!"

The countess ran toward her, embracing her effusively, kissing herbright red, emaciated cheeks. 

"How dark you were, " continued Josephina with a smile that Renovalesknew well. 

Concha fairly stunned her with her flow of chatter. The illustriousmaster had refused to light up, he liked the twilight. An artist's whim!They had been talking about their dear Josephina, while she was waitingfor her carriage to come. And as she said this, she kept kissing thelittle woman, drawing back a little to look at her better, repeatingimpetuously:

"My, how pretty you are to-day. You look better than you did three daysago. "

Josephina continued to smile. She thanked her. Her carriage was waitingat the door. The servant had told her when she came downstairs, attracted by the distant sound of the organ. 

The countess seemed to be in a hurry to leave. She suddenly remembered ahost of things she had to do, she enumerated the people who were waitingfor her at home. Josephina helped her to put on her hat and veil andeven then the countess gave her several good-by kisses through the veil. 

"Good-by, _ma chère_. Good-by, _mignonne_. Do you remember our schooldays? How happy we were there! Good-by, _maître_. "

She stopped at the door to kiss Josephina once more. 

And finally, before she disappeared, she exclaimed in the querulous toneof a victim who wants sympathy:

"I envy you, _chèrie_. You, at least, are happy. You have found ahusband who worships you. Master, take lots of care of her. Be good toher so that she may get well and pretty. Take care of her or we shallquarrel. "

VI

Renovales had finished reading the evening papers in bed as was hiscustom, and before putting out the light he looked at his wife. 

She was awake. Above the fold of the sheet he saw her eyes, unusuallywide open, fixed on him with a hostile stare, and the little tails ofher hair, that stuck out under the lace of her night-cap straight andsedate. 

"Aren't you asleep?" the painter asked in an affectionate tone, in whichthere was some anxiety. 

"No. "

And after this hard monosyllable, she turned over in the bed with herback to him. 

Renovales remained in the darkness, with his eyes open, somewhatdisturbed, almost afraid of that body, hidden under the same sheet, lying a short distance from him, which avoided touching him, shrinkingwith manifest repulsion. 

Poor little girl! Renovales' better nature felt tormented with a painfulremorse. His conscience was a cruel beast that had awakened, angry andimplacable, tearing him with scornful teeth. The events of the afternoonmeant nothing, a moment of thoughtlessness, of weakness. Surely thecountess would not remember it and he, for his part, was determined notto slip again. 

A pretty situation for a father of a family, for a man whose youth waspast, compromising himself in a love affair, getting melancholy in thetwilight, kissing a white hand like an enamored troubadour! Good God!How his friends would have laughed to see him in that posture! He mustpurge himself of that romanticism which sometimes mastered him. Everyman must follow his fate, accepting life as he found it. He was born tobe virtuous, he must put up with the relative peace of his domesticlife, must accept its limited pleasures as a compensation for thesuffering his wife's illness caused him. He would be content with thefeasts of his thought, with the revels in beauty at the banquets servedby his fancy. He would keep his flesh faithful though it amounted toperpetual privation. Poor Josephina! His remorse at a moment of weaknesswhich he considered a crime, impelled him to draw closer to her, as ifhe sought in her warmth and contact a mute forgiveness. 

Her body, burning with a slow fever, drew away as it felt his touch, itshriveled like those timid molluscs that shrink and hide at the leasttouch. She was awake. He could not hear her breathing; she seemed deadin the profound darkness, but he fancied her with her eyes open, a scowlon her forehead and he felt the fear of a man who has a presentiment ofdanger in the mystery of the darkness. 

Renovales too remained motionless, taking care not to touch again thatform which silently repelled him. The sincerity of his repentancebrought him a sort of consolation. Never again would he forget his wife, his daughter, his respectability. 

He would give up forever the longings of youth, that recklessness, thatthirst for enjoying all the pleasures of life. His lot was cast; hewould continue to be what he always had been. He would paint portraitsand everything that was given to him as a commission; he would pleasethe public; he would make more money, he would adapt his art to meet hiswife's jealous demands, that she might live in peace; he would scoff atthat phantom of human ambition which men call glory. Glory! A lottery, where the only chance for a prize depended on the tastes of people stillto be born! Who knew what the artistic inclinations of the future wouldbe? Perhaps it would appreciate what he was now producing with suchloathing; perhaps it would laugh scornfully at what he wanted to paint. The only thing of importance was to live in peace, as long as he couldbe surrounded by happiness. His daughter would marry. Perhaps herhusband would be his favorite pupil, that Soldevilla, so polite, socourteous, who was mad over the mischievous Milita. If it was not he, itwould be López de Sosa, a crazy fellow, in love with his automobiles, who pleased Josephina more than the pupil because he had not committedthe sin of showing talent and devoting himself to painting. He wouldhave grandchildren, his beard would grow white, he would have themajesty of an Eternal Father and Josephina, cared for by him, restoredto health by an atmosphere of affection, would grow old too, freed fromher nervous troubles. 

The painter felt allured by this picture of patriarchal happiness. Hewould go out of the world without having tasted the best fruits whichlife offers, but still with the peace of a soul that does not know thegreat heat of passion. 

Lulled by these illusions, the artist was sinking into sleep. He saw inthe darkness, the image of his calm old age, with rosy wrinkles andsilvery hair, at his side a sprightly little old lady, healthy andattractive, with wavy hair, and around them a group of children, manychildren, some of them with their fingers in their noses, others rollingon their backs on the floor, like playful kittens, the older ones withpencils in their hands, making caricatures of the old couple and allshouting in a chorus of loving cries: "Grandpa, dear! Pretty grandma!"

In his sleepy fancy, the picture grew indistinct and was blotted out. Heno longer saw the figures, but the loving cry continued to sound in hisears, dying away in the distance. 

Then it began to increase again, drew slowly nearer, but it was acomplaint, a howl like that of the victim that feels the sacrificer'sknife at its throat. 

The artist, terrified by this moan, thought that some dark animal, somemonster of the night was tossing beside him, brushing him with itstentacles, pushing him with the bony points of its joints. 

He awoke and with his brain still cloudy with sleep, the first sensationhe experienced was a tremble of fear and surprise, reaching from hishead to his feet. The invisible monster was beside him, dying, kickingviolently, sticking him with its angular body. The howl tore thedarkness like a death rattle. 

Renovales, aroused by his fear, awoke completely. That cry came fromJosephina. His wife was tossing about in the bed, shrieking while shegasped for breath. 

The electric button snapped and the white, hard light of the lamp showedthe little woman in the disorder of her nervous outbreak; her weak limbspainfully convulsed, her eyes, staring, dull with an uncanny vacancy;her mouth contracted, dripping with foam. 

The husband, dazed at this awakening, tried to take her in his arms, tohold her gently against him, as if his warmth might restore her calm. 

"Let me--alone, " she cried brokenly. "Let go of me. I hate you!"

And though she asked him to let go of her, she was the one who clung tohim, digging her fingers into his throat, as if she wanted to stranglehim. Renovates, insensible to this clutch which made little impressionon his strong neck, murmured with sad kindness:

"Squeeze! Don't be afraid of hurting me. Relieve your feelings!"

Her hands, tired out with this useless pressure on that muscular flesh, relaxed their grasp with a sort of dejection. The outbreak lasted forsome time, but tears came and she lay exhausted, inert, without anyother signs of life than the heaving of her breast and a constant streamof tears. 

Renovales had jumped out of bed, moving about the room in his nightclothing, searching on all sides, without knowing what he was lookingfor, murmuring loving words to calm his wife. 

She stopped crying, struggling to enunciate each syllable between hersobs. She spoke with her head buried in her arms. The painter stopped tolisten to her, astounded at the coarse words that came from her lips, asif the grief that stirred her soul had set afloat all the shameful, filthy words she had heard in the streets that were hidden in the depthof her memory. 

"The ----!" (And here she uttered the classic word, naturally, as if shehad spoken thus all her life. ) "The shameless woman! The ----!"

And she continued to volley a string of interjections which shocked herhusband to hear them coming from those lips. 

"But whom are you talking about? Who is it?"

She, as if she were only waiting for his question, sat up in bed, gotonto her knees, looking at him fixedly, shaking her head on her delicateneck, so that the short, straight locks of hair whirled around it. 

"Whom do you suppose? The Alberca woman. That peacock! Look surprised!You don't know what I mean! Poor thing!"

Renovales expected this, but when he heard it, he assumed an injuredexpression, fortified by his determination to reform and by thecertainty that he was telling the truth. He raised his hand to his heartin a tragic attitude, throwing back his shock of hair, not noticing theabsurdity of his appearance that was reflected in the bedroom mirror. 

"Josephina, I swear by all that I love most in the world that yoursuspicions are not true. I have had nothing to do with Concha. I swearit by our daughter!"

The little woman became more irritated. 

"Don't swear, don't lie, don't name my daughter. You deceiver! Youhypocrite! You are all alike!"

Did he think she was a fool? She knew everything that was going onaround her. He was a rake, a false husband, she had discovered it a fewmonths after their marriage; a Bohemian without any other education thanthe low associations of his class. And the woman was as bad; the worstin Madrid. There was a reason why people laughed at the counteverywhere. Mariano and Concha understood each other; birds of afeather; they made fun of her in her own house, in the dark of thestudio. 

"She is your mistress, " she said with cold anger. "Come now, admit it. Repeat all those shameless things about the rights of love and joy thatyou talk about to your friends in the studio, those infamous hypocrisiesto justify your scorn for the family, for marriage, for everything. Havethe courage of your convictions. "

But Renovales, overwhelmed by this fierce outpouring of words that fellon him like a rain of blows, could only repeat, with his hand on hisheart and the expression of noble resignation of a man who suffers aninjustice:

"I am innocent. I swear it. Your suspicions are absolutely groundless. "

And walking around to the other side of the bed, he tried again to takeJosephina in his arms, thinking he could calm her, now that she seemedless furious and that her angry words were broken by tears. 

It was a useless effort. The delicate form slipped out of his hands, repelling them with a feeling of horror and repugnance. 

"Let me alone. Don't touch me. I loathe you. "

Her husband was mistaken if he thought that she was Concha's enemy. Pshaw! She knew what women were. She even admitted (since he was soinsistent in his protestations of innocence) that there was nothingbetween them. But if so, it was due solely to Concha--she had plenty ofadmirers and, besides, her old time friendship would impel her not toembitter Josephina's life. Concha was the one who had resisted and nothe. 

"I know you. You know that I can guess your thoughts, that I read inyour face. You are faithful because you are a coward, because you havelacked an opportunity. But your mind is loaded with foul ideas; I detestyour spirit. "

And before he could protest, his wife attacked him; anew, pouring out inone breath all the observations she had made, weighing his words anddeeds with the subtlety of a diseased imagination. 

She threw in his face the expression of rapture in his eyes when he sawbeautiful women sit down before his easel to have their portraitspainted; his praise of the throat of one, the shoulders of another; thealmost religious unction with which he examined the photographs andengravings of naked beauties, painted by other artists whom he wouldlike to imitate in his licentious impulses. 

"If I should leave you! If I should disappear! Your studio would be abrothel, no decent person could enter it; you would always have somewoman stripped in there, painting some disgraceful picture of her. "

And in the tremble of her irritated voice there was revealed the anger, the bitter disappointment she had experienced in the constant contactwith this cult of beauty, that paid no attention to her, who was agedbefore her time, sickly, with the ugliness of physical misery, whom eachone of these enthusiastic homages wounded like a reproach, marking theabyss between her sad condition and the ideal that filled the mind ofher husband. 

"Do you think I don't know what you are thinking about. I laugh at yourfidelity. A lie! Hypocrisy! As you get older, a mad desire is masteringyou. If you could, if you had the courage, you would run after thesecreatures of beautiful flesh that you praise so highly. You arecommonplace. There's nothing in you but coarseness and materialism. Form! Flesh! And they call that artistic? I'd have done better to marrya shoemaker, one of those honest, simple men that takes his poor littlewife to dinner in a restaurant on Sunday and worships her, not knowingany other. "

Renovales began to feel irritated at this attack that was no longerbased on his actions but on his thoughts. That was worse than theInquisition. She had spied on him constantly; always on the watch, shepicked up his least words and expressions, she penetrated his thoughts, making his inclinations and enthusiasms a subject for jealousy. 

"Stop, Josephina. That's despicable. I won't be able to think, toproduce. You spy on me and pursue me even in my art. "

She shrugged her shoulders scornfully. His art! She scoffed at it. 

And she began again to insult painting, repenting that she had joinedher lot to an artist's. Men like him ought not to marry respectablewomen, what people call "homebodies. " Their fate was to remain single orto join with unscrupulous women who were in love with their own form andwere capable of exhibiting it in the street, taking pride in theirnakedness. 

"I used to love you; did you know it?" she said coldly. "I used to loveyou, but I no longer love you. What's the use? I know that even if youswore to me on your knees, you would never be faithful to me. You mightbe tied to my apron strings but your thoughts would go wandering off tocaress those beauties you worship. You've got a perfect harem in yourhead. I think I am living alone with you and when I look at you, thehouse is peopled with women that surround me, that fill everything andmock at me; all fair, like children of the devil all naked, liketemptations. Let me alone, Mariano, don't come near me. I don't want tosee you. Put out the light. "

And seeing that the artist did not obey her command, she pressed thebutton herself. The cracking of her bones could be heard as she wrappedherself up in the bed-clothes. 

Renovales was left in utter darkness, and feeling his way, he got intobed too. He no longer implored, he remained silent, angry. The tendercompassion that made him put up with his wife's nervous attacks haddisappeared. What more did she expect of him? How far was it going togo? He lived the life of a recluse, restraining his healthy passion, keeping a chaste fidelity out of habit and respect, seeking an outlet inthe ardent vagaries of his fancy, and even that was a crime! With theacumen of a sick woman, she saw within him, divining his ideas, following their course, tearing off the veil behind which he concealedthose feasts of fancy with which he passed his solitary hours. Thispersecution reached even his brain. He could not patiently endure thejealousy of that woman who was embittered by the loss of her youthfulfreshness. 

She began her weeping again in the darkness. She sobbed convulsively, tossing the clothes with the heaving of her breast. 

His anger made him insensible and hard. 

"Groan, you poor wretch, " he thought with a sort of relish. "Weep tillyou ruin yourself. I won't be the one to say a word. "

Josephina, tired out by his silence, interjected words amid her sobs. People made fun of her. She was a constant laughing-stock. How hisfriends who hung on his words, and the ladies who visited him in hisstudio, laughed when they heard him enthusiastically praising beauty inthe presence of his sickly, broken-down wife! What did she amount to inthat house, that terrible pantheon, that home of sorrow? A poorhousekeeper who watched out for the artist's comforts. And he thoughtthat he was fulfilling his duty by not keeping a mistress, by staying athome, but still abusing her with his words that made her an object ofderision. If her mother were only alive! If her brothers were not soselfish, wandering about the world from embassy to embassy, satisfiedwith life, paying no attention to her letters filled with complaints, thinking she was insane because she was not contented with adistinguished husband and with wealth!

Renovales, in the darkness, lifted his hands to his forehead in despair, infuriated at the sing-song of her unjust words. 

"Her mother!" he thought. "It's lucky that intolerable old dame is underthe sod forever. Her brothers! A crowd of rakes that are always askingme for something whenever they get a chance. Heavens! Give me thepatience to stand this woman, the calm resignation to keep a cool headand not to forget that I am a man!"

He scorned her mentally in order to maintain his indifference in thisway. Bah! A woman! and a sick one! Every man carries his cross and hiswas Josephina. 

But she, as if she penetrated his thoughts, stopped crying and spoke tohim slowly in a voice that shook with cruel irony. 

"You need not expect anything from the Alberca woman, " she said suddenlywith feminine incoherence. "I warn you that she has worshipers by thedozen, young and stylish, too, something that counts more with womenthan talent. "

"What difference does that make to me?" Renovales' voice roared in thedarkness with an outbreak of wrath. 

"I'm telling you, so that you won't fool yourself. Master, you are goingto suffer a failure. You are very old, my good man, the years are goingby. So old and so ugly that if you had looked the way you do when I metyou, I should never have been your wife in spite of all your glory. "

After this thrust, satisfied and calm, she seemed to go to sleep. 

The master remained motionless, lying on his back with his head restingon his arms and his eyes wide open, seeing in the darkness a host of redspots that spread out in ceaseless rotation, forming floating, fieryrings. His wrath had set his nerves on edge; the final thrust made sleepimpossible. He felt restless, wide-awake after this cruel shock to hispride. He thought that in his bed, close to him, he had his worst enemy. He hated that frail form that he could touch with the slightestmovement, as if it contained the rancor of all the adversaries he hadmet in life. 

Old! Contemptible! Inferior to those young bloods that swarmed aroundthe Alberca woman; he, a man known all over Europe, and in whosepresence all the young ladies that painted fans and water-colors ofbirds and flowers, grew pale with emotion, looking at him withworshiping eyes!

"I will soon show you, you poor woman, " he thought, while a cruel laughshook silently in the darkness. "You'll soon see whether glory meansanything and people find me as old as you believe. "

With boyish joy, he recalled the twilight scene, the kiss on thecountess's hand, her gentle abandon, that mingling of resistance andpleasure which opened the way for him to go farther. He enjoyed thesememories with a relish of vengeance. 

Afterwards, his body, as he moved, touched Josephina, who seemed to beasleep, and he felt a sort of repugnance as if he had rubbed against ahostile creature. 

She was his enemy; she had distorted and ruined his life as an artist, she had saddened his life as a man. Now he believed that he might haveproduced the most remarkable works, if he had not known that littlewoman who crushed him with her weight. Her silent censure, her pryingeyes, that narrow, petty morality of a well-educated girl, blocked hiscourse and made him turn out of his way. Her fits of temper, her nervousattacks, made him lose his bearings, belittling him, robbing him of hisstrength for work. Must he always live like this? The thought of thelong years before him filled him with horror, the long road that lifeoffered him, monotonous, dusty, rough, without a shadow or a restingplace, a painful journey lacking enthusiasm and ardor, pulling at thechain of duty, at the end of which dragged the enemy, always fretful, always unjust, with the selfish cruelty of disease, spying on him withsearching eyes in the hours when his mind was off its guard, while heslept, violating his secrecy, forcing his immobility, robbing him of hismost intimate ideas, only to parade them before his eyes later with theinsolence of a successful thief. And that was what his life was to be!God! No, it was better to die. 

Then in the black recesses of his brain there rose, like a blue spark ofinfernal gleam, a thought, a desire, that made a chill of terror andsurprise run over his body. 

"If she would only die!"

Why not? Always ill, always sad, she seemed to darken his mind with thewings that beat ominously. He had a right to liberty, to break thechain, because he was the stronger. He had spent his life in thestruggle for glory, and glory was a delusion, if it brought only coldrespect from his fellows, if it could not be exchanged for somethingmore positive. Many years of intense existence were left; he could stillexult in a host of pleasures, he could still live, like some artistswhom he admired, intoxicated with worldly joys, working in mad freedom. 

"Oh, if she would only die!"

He recalled books he had read, in which other imaginary people haddesired another's death that they might be able to satisfy more fullytheir appetites and passions. 

Suddenly he felt as though he were awakening from a bad dream, as thoughhe were throwing off an overwhelming nightmare. Poor Josephina! Histhought filled him with horror, he felt the infernal desire burning hisconscience, like a hot iron that throws off a shower of sparks whentouched. It was not tenderness that made him turn again towards hiscompanion; not that; his old animosity remained. But he thought of heryears of sacrifice, of the privations she had suffered, following him inthe struggle with misery, without a complaint, without a protest, in thepains of motherhood, in the nursing of her daughter, that Milita whoseemed to have stolen all the strength of her body and perhaps was thecause of her decline. How terrible to wish for her death! He hoped thatshe would live. He would bear everything with the patience of duty. Shedie? Never, he would rather die himself. 

But in vain did he struggle to forget the thought. The atrocious, monstrous desire, once awakened, resisted, refused to recede, to hide, to die in the windings of his brain whence it had arisen. In vain did herepent his villainy, or feel ashamed of his cruel idea, striving tocrush it forever. It seemed as though a second personality had arisenwithin him, rebellious to his commands, opposed to his conscience, hardand indifferent to his sympathetic scruples, and this personality, thispower, continued to sing in his ear with a merry accent, as if itpromised him all the pleasures of life. 

"If she would only die! Eh, master? If she would only die!"

PART II

I

At the coming of spring López de Sosa, "the intrepid sportsman, " asCotoner called him, appeared at Renovales' house every afternoon. 

Outside the entrance gate stood his eighty-horsepower automobile, hislatest acquisition, of which he was intensely proud, a huge green car, that started and backed under the hand of the chauffeur while its ownerwas crossing the garden of the painter's house. 

Renovales saw him enter the studio, in a blue suit with a shining visorover his eyes, affecting the resolute bearing of a sailor or anexplorer. 

"Good afternoon, Don Mariano, I have come for the ladies. "

And Milita came down stairs in a long gray coat, with a white cap, around which she wound a long blue veil. After her came her mother cladin the same fashion, small and insignificant beside the girl, who seemedto overwhelm her with her health and grace. 

Renovales approved of these trips. Josephina's legs were troubling her;a sudden weakness sometimes kept her in her chair for days at a time. Finding any sort of movement difficult, she liked to ride motionless inthat car that fairly ate up space, reaching distant suburbs of Madridwithout the least effort, as if she had not moved from the house. 

"Have a good time, " said the painter with a sort of joy at the prospectof being left alone, completely alone, without the disturbance offeeling his wife's hostility near him. "I entrust them to you, Rafaelito; be careful, now. "

And Rafaelito assumed an expression of protest, as if he were shockedthat anyone could doubt his skill. There was no danger with him. 

"Aren't you coming, Don Mariano? Lay down your brushes for a while. We're only going to the Pardo. "

The painter declined; he had a great deal to do. He knew what it was, and he did not like to go so fast. There was no pleasure in swallowingspace with your eyes almost closed, unable to see anything but a hazyblur of the scenery, amid clouds of dust and crushed stone. He preferredto look at the landscape calmly, without haste, with the reflectivequiet of the student. Besides he was out of place in things that did notbelong to his time; he was getting old and these frightful novelties didnot agree with him. 

"Good-by, papa. "

Milita, lifting her veil, put out her red, tempting lips, showing herbright teeth as she smiled. After this kiss came the other, formal andcold, exchanged with the indifference of habit, without any noveltyexcept that Josephina's mouth drew back from his, as if she wanted toavoid any contact with him. 

They went out, the mother leaning on Rafaelito's arm with a sort oflanguor, as if she could hardly drag her weak body, --her pale faceunrelieved by the least sign of blood. 

When Renovales found himself alone in the studio he would feel as happyas a school-boy on a holiday. He worked with a lighter touch, he roaredout old songs, delighting to listen to the echoes that his voiceawakened in the high-studded rooms. Often when Cotoner came in, he wouldsurprise him by the serene shamelessness with which he sang some one ofthe licentious songs he had learned in Rome, and the painter of thePopes, smiling like a faun, joined in the chorus, applauding at the endthese ribald verses of the studio. 

Tekli, the Hungarian, who sometimes spent an afternoon with him, haddeparted for his native land with his copy of _Las Meninas_, but notbefore lifting Renovales' hands several times to his heart, withextravagant terms of affection and calling him "noble master. " Theportrait of the Countess of Alberca was no longer in the studio; in aglittering frame it hung on the walls of the illustrious lady'sdrawing-room, where it received the worship of her admirers. 

Sometimes of an afternoon when the ladies had left the studio and thedull mumble of the car and the tooting of the horn had died away, themaster and his friend would talk of López de Sosa. A good fellow, somewhat foolish, but well-meaning; this was the judgment of Renovalesand his old friend. He was proud of his mustache that gave him a certainlikeness to the German emperor, and when he sat down, he took care toshow his hands, by placing them prominently on his knees, in order thateveryone might appreciate their vigorous hugeness, the prominent veins, and the strong fingers, all this with the naïve satisfaction of aditch-digger. His conversation always turned on feats of strength andbefore the two artists he strutted as if he belonged to another race, talking of his prowess as a fencer, of his triumphs in the bouts, of theweights he could lift with the slightest effort, of the number of chairshe could jump over without touching one of them. Often he interruptedthe two painters when they were eulogizing the great masters of art, totell them of the latest victory of some celebrated driver in the contestfor a coveted cup. He knew by heart the names of all the Europeanchampions who had won the immortal laurel, in running, jumping, killingpigeons, boxing or fencing. 

Renovales had seen him come into the studio one afternoon, tremblingwith excitement, his eyes flashing, and showing a telegram. 

"Don Mariano, I have a Mercedes; they have just announced its shipment. "

The painter looked blank. Who was that personage with the woman's name?And Rafaelito smiled with pity. 

"The best make, a Mercedes, better than a Panhard; everyone knows that. Made in Germany; sixty thousand francs. There isn't another one inMadrid. "

"Well, congratulations. "

And the artist shrugged his shoulders and went on painting. 

López de Sosa was wealthy. His father, a former manufacturer of cannedgoods, had left him a fortune that he administered prudently, nevergambling, nor keeping mistresses (he had no time for such follies) butfinding all his amusement in sports that strengthen the body. He had acoach-house of his own, where he kept his carriages and his automobileswhich he showed to his friends with the satisfaction of an artist. Itwas his museum. Besides, he owned several teams of horses, for modernfads did not make him forget his former tastes, and he took as muchpride in his past glories as a horseman as he did in his skill as adriver of cars. At rare intervals, on the days of an importantbull-fight or when some sensational races were being run in theHippodrome, he won a triumph on the box by driving six cabs, coveredwith tassels and bells, that seemed to proclaim the glory and wealth oftheir owner with their noisy course. 

He was proud of his virtuous life; free from foolishness or petty loveaffairs, wholly devoted to sports and show. His income was less than hisexpenses. The numerous personnel of his stable-garage, his horses, gasoline and tailors' bills ate up even a part of the principal. ButLópez de Sosa was undisturbed in this ruinous course, --for he wasconscious of the danger, in spite of his extravagance. It was a mereyouthful folly, he would cut down his expenses when he married. Hedevoted his evenings to reading, for he could not sleep quietly, unlesshe went through his classics (sporting-papers, automobile catalogs, etc. ), and every month he made new acquisitions abroad, spendingthousands of francs and, complaining, like a serious business man, ofthe rise in the Exchange, of the exorbitant customs charges, of thestupidity of the Government that so shackled the development of thecountry. The price of every automobile was greatly increased on crossingthe frontier. And after that, politicians expected progress andregeneration!

He had been educated by the Jesuits at the University of Deusto and hadhis degree in law. But that had not made him over-pious. He was liberal, he lived the modern spirit; he had no use for fanaticism nor hypocrisy. He had said good-by to the good Fathers as soon as his own father, whowas a great admirer of them, had died. But he still preserved a certainrespect for them because they had been his teachers and he knew thatthey were great scholars. But modern life was different. He read withperfect freedom, he read a great deal; he had in his house a librarycomposed of at least a hundred French novels. He purchased all thevolumes that came from Paris with a woman's picture on the cover and inwhich, under pretext of describing Greek, Roman, or Egyptian customs, the author placed a large number of youths and maidens without anyother decorations of civilization than the fillets and the caps thatcovered their heads. 

He insisted on freedom, perfect freedom, but for him, men were dividedinto two castes, decent people and those who were not. Among the firstfigured en masse all the young fellows of the Gran Peña, the old men ofthe Casino, together with some people whose names appeared in thepapers, a certain evidence of their merit. The rest was the rabble, despicable and vulgar in the streets of the cities, repulsive anddispleasing on the road, whom he insulted with all of the coarseness ofill-breeding and threatened to kill when a child ran in front of his carwith the vicious purpose of letting itself be crushed under the wheels, to stir up trouble with a decent person, or when some workingman, pretending he could not hear the warnings of his horn, would not get outof the way and was run over--as if a man who makes two pesetas a daywere superior to machines that cost thousands of francs! What could youdo with such ignorant, commonplace people! And some wretches were stilltalking about the rights of man and revolutions!

Cotoner, who expended incredible care in keeping his single suitpresentable for calls and dinners, questioned López de Sosa withastonishment in regard to the progress of his wardrobe. 

"How many ties have you now, Rafael?"

"About seven hundred. " He had counted them recently. And ashamed that hedid not yet own the longed-for thousand, he spoke of fitting himself outon his next trip to London when the principal British automobilists wereto contend for the cup. He received his boots from Paris, but they weremade by a Swiss boot-maker, the same one who provided the foot-gear ofEdward of England; he counted his trousers by the dozen, and never woreone pair more than eight or ten times; his linen was given to his valetalmost before it was used, his hats all came from London. He had eightfrock-coats made every year, that often grew old without ever beingworn, of different colors to suit the circumstances and the hours whenhe must wear them. One in particular, dead black with long skirts, gloomy and austere, copied from the foreign illustrations thatrepresented duels, was his uniform on solemn occasions, which he worewhen some friend looked him up at the Peña, to get his assistance inrepresenting him with his customary skill in affairs of honor. 

His tailor admired his talent, his masterly command in choosing clothand deciding on the cut among the countless designs. Result, he spentsomething like five thousand dollars a year on his clothes, and saidingenuously to the two artists, "How much less can a decent person spend if he wants to be presentable?"

López de Sosa visited Renovales' house as a friend after the latter hadpainted his portrait. In spite of his automobiles, his clothes, and thefact that he chose his associates among people who bore noble titles, hecould not succeed in getting a foothold in society. He knew that behindhis back people nicknamed him, "Pickled Herring, " alluding to hisfather's trade, and that the young ladies, who counted him as a friend, rebelled at the idea of marrying the "Canned-goods Boy, " which wasanother of his names. The friendship of Renovales was a source of pride. 

He had requested him to make his portrait, paying him without haggling, in order that he might appear at the Exhibition, quite as good a way asany other of introducing his insignificance among the famous men whowere painted by the artist. After that he was on intimate terms with themaster, talking everywhere about "his friend, Renovales!" with a sort offamiliarity, as if he were a comrade who could not live without him. This raised him greatly in the estimation of his acquaintances. Besides, he had felt a real admiration for the master ever since one afternoonwhen tired out with the account of his prowess as a fencer, Renovaleshad laid aside his brushes and taking down two old foils, had hadseveral bouts with him. What a man he was! And how he remembered thepoints he had learned in Rome!

In his frequent visits to the artist's house, he finally felt attractedtoward Milita; he saw in her the woman he wanted to marry. Lacking moresonorous titles, it was something to be the son-in-law of Renovales. Besides, the painter enjoyed the reputation of being wealthy, he spokeof his enormous profits, and he still had many years before him, to addto his fortune, all of which would be his daughter's. 

López de Sosa began to pay court to Milita, calling on his greatresources, appearing every day in a different suit, coming everyafternoon, sometimes in a carriage drawn by a dashing pair, sometimes inone of his cars. The fashionable youth won the favor of her mother, --animportant part. This was the kind of a husband for her daughter. Nopainter! And in vain did Soldevilla put on his brightest ties and showoff shocking waistcoats; his rival crushed him and, what was worse, themaster's wife, who formerly used to have a sort of motherly concern forhim and called him by his first name, for she had known him as a boy, now received him coldly, as if she wished to discourage his suit forMilita. 

The girl fluctuated between her two admirers with a mocking smile. Oneseemed to interest her as much as the other. She drove the painter, thecompanion of her childhood, to despair, at times abusing him with herjests, at others attracting him with her effusive intimacy, as in thedays when they played together; and at the same time she praised Lópezde Sosa's stylishness, laughed with him, and Soldevilla even suspectedthat they wrote letters to each other as if they were engaged. 

Renovales rejoiced at the cleverness with which his daughter kept thetwo young men uncertain and eager about her. She was a terror, a boy inskirts, more manly than either of her worshipers. 

"I know her, Pepe, " he said to Cotoner. "We must let her do what shewants to. The day she decides in favor of one or the other we'll have tomarry her at once. She isn't one of the girls to wait. If we don't marryher soon and to her taste, she's likely to elope with her fiancé. "

The father excused Milita's impatience. Poor girl! Think what she saw inher home! Her mother always ill, terrifying her with her tears, hercries and her nervous attacks; her father working in his studio, and heronly companion the unsympathetic "Miss. " He owed his thanks to López deSosa for taking them outdoors on these dizzy rides from which Josephinareturned greatly quieted. 

Renovales preferred his pupil. He was almost his son, he had fought manya hard battle to give him fellowships and prizes. He was a trifledispleased at some of his slight infidelities, for as soon as he had wonsome renown, he bragged about his independence, praising everything thatthe master thought condemnable behind his back. But even so, the idea ofhis marrying his daughter pleased him; a painter as a son-in-law; hisgrandchildren painters, the blood of Renovales perpetuated in a dynastyof artists who would fill history with their glory. 

"But, oh, Pepe! I'm afraid the girl will choose the other. After all, she's a woman. And women appreciate only what they see, gallantry andyouth. "

And the master's words betrayed a certain bitterness, as though he werethinking of something very different from what he was saying. 

Then he began to discuss the merits of López de Sosa, as if he werealready a member of the family. 

"A good boy, isn't he, Pepe? A little stupid for us, unable to talk forten minutes without making us yawn, a fine fellow, but not our kind. "

There was scorn in Renovales' voice as he spoke of the vigorous healthyyoung men of the present, with their brains absolutely free fromculture, who had just assaulted life, invading every phase of it. Whatpeople! Gymnastics, fencing, kicking a huge bull, swinging a mallet onhorseback, wild flights in an automobile; from the royal family down tothe last middle-class scion everyone rushed into this life of childishjoy, as if a man's mission consisted merely in hardening his muscles, sweating and delighting in the shifting chances of a game. Activity fledfrom the brain to the extremities of the body. They were strong, buttheir minds lay fallow, wrapped in a haze of childish credulity. Modernmen seemed to stop growing at the age of fourteen; they never wentbeyond, content with the joys of movement and strength. Many of thesebig fellows were ignorant of women, or almost so, at the age when inother times they were turning back, satiated with love. Busy runningwithout direction or end, they had no time nor quiet to think aboutwomen. Love was about to go on a strike, unable to resist thecompetition of sports. The young men lived by themselves, finding inathletic exercise a satisfaction that left them without any desire orcuriosity for the other pleasures of life. They were big boys withstrong fists; they could fight with a bull and yet the approach of awoman filled them with terror. All the sap of their life was used up inviolent exercise. Intelligence seemed to have concentrated in theirhands, leaving their heads empty. What was going to become of this newpeople? Perhaps it would form a healthier, stronger human race, butwithout love or passion, without any other association than the blindimpulse of reproduction. 

"We are a different sort, eh, Pepe?" said Renovales with a sly wink. "When we were boys we didn't care for our bodies so well, but we hadbetter times. We weren't so pure, but we were interested in somethinghigher than automobiles and prize cups; we had ideals. "

Then he began to talk again of the young man who expected to become oneof his family and made sport of his mentality. 

"If Milita decides on him, I won't object. The important thing in suchmatters is that they should be congenial to each other. He's a good boy;I could almost give him my blessing. But I suspect that when thesensation of novelty has worn off, he will go back to his fads and poorMilita will be jealous of those machines that are eating up the greaterpart of his fortune. "

Sometimes, before the light died out in the afternoon, Renovales excusedhis model, if he had one, and laying aside his brushes went out of thestudio. When he came back, he would have on his coat and hat. 

"Pepe, let's take a walk. "

Cotoner knew where this walk would land them. 

They followed the iron fence of the Retiro and went down the Calle deAlcalá, walking slowly among the groups of strollers, some of whomturned round behind them to point out the master. "That taller one isRenovales, the painter. " In a few minutes, Mariano hastened his stepwith nervous impatience, he stopped talking and Cotoner followed himwith an ill-humored expression, humming between his teeth. When theyreached the Cibeles, the old painter knew that their walk was nearlyover. 

"I'll see you to-morrow, Pepe, I'm going this way. I've got to see thecountess. "

One day, he did not limit himself to this brief leave-taking. After hehad gone a few steps, he came back toward his companion and saidhesitatingly:

"Listen, if Josephina asks you where I went, don't say anything. I knowthat you are prudent but she is always worried. I tell you this so as toavoid any trouble. The two women don't get along together very well. Some woman's quarrel!"

II

At the opening of spring, when Madrid was beginning to think goodweather had really come, and people were impatiently getting out theirsummer clothes, there was an unexpected and treacherous return of winterthat clouded the sky and covered with a coat of snow the muddy groundand the gardens where the first flowers of spring were beginning tosprout. 

There was a fire once more in the fireplace in the drawing-room of theCountess of Alberca, where all the gentlemen who formed her coteriegathered to keep warm on days when she was "at home, " not having ameeting to preside over or calls to make. 

When Renovales came one afternoon, he spoke enthusiastically of the viewof Moncloa, covered with snow. He had just been there, a beautifulsight, the woods, buried in wintry silence, surprised by the whiteshroud when they were beginning to crack with the swelling of the sap. It was a pity that the camera craze filled the woods with so many peoplewho went back and forth with their outfits, sullying the purity of thesnow. 

The countess was as interested as a child. She wanted to see that, shewould go the next day. Her friends tried in vain to dissuade her, telling her the weather would probably change presently. To-morrow thesun would come out, the snow would melt; these unexpected storms werecharacteristic of the fickle climate of Madrid. 

"It makes no difference, " said Concha obstinately, "I've got the ideainto my head. It's years since I have seen it. My life is such a busyone. "

She would go to see the thaw in the morning; no, not in the morning. Shegot up late and had to receive all those Women's Rights ladies that cameto consult her. In the afternoon, she would go after luncheon. It wastoo bad that Renovales worked at that time and could not go with her. Hecould appreciate landscapes so well with his artist's eyes and had oftenspoken to her of the sunset from the palace of Moncloa, a sight almostequal to the one you can see in Rome from the Pinzio at dusk. Thepainter smiled gallantly. He would try to be at Moncloa the next day;they would meet. 

The countess seemed to take sudden fright at this promise and glanced atDoctor Monteverde. But she was disappointed in her hope of beingcensured for her fickleness and unfaithfulness, for the doctor remainedindifferent. 

Lucky doctor! How Renovales hated him. He was a young man, as fair andas fragile as a porcelain figure, a combination of such strikingbeauties that his face was almost a caricature. His hair, parted in twowaves over his pale forehead, was black, very black and shining withbluish reflections, his eyes, as soft as velvet, showed the read spot ofthe lachrymal on the polished ivory of the cornea, veritable odalisqueeyes, his bright red lips showed under his bristly mustache, hiscomplexion was as pale as a camellia, and his teeth flashed like pearl. Concha looked at him with ecstatic devotion, talked with her eyes onhim, consulting him with her glance, lamenting inwardly his lack ofmastery, eager to be his slave, to be corrected by him in all thecaprices of her giddy character. 

Renovales scorned him, questioning his manhood, making the mostatrocious comments on him in his rough fashion. 

He was a doctor of science and was waiting for a chair at Madrid to bedeclared vacant, that he might become a candidate for it. The Countessof Alberca had him under her high protection, talking about himenthusiastically to all the important gentlemen who exercised anyinfluence in University circles. She would break out into the mostextravagant praise of the doctor in Renovales' presence. He was ascholar and what made her admire him was the fact that all his learningdid not keep him from dressing well and being as fair as an angel. 

"For pretty teeth, look at Monteverde's, " she would say, looking at himin the crowded room, through her lorgnette. 

At other times, following the course of her ideas, she would interruptthe conversation, without noticing the irrelevancy of her words. 

"But did you notice the doctor's hands? They're more delicate than mine!They look like a woman's hands. "

The painter was indignant at these demonstrations of Concha's that oftenoccurred in her husband's presence. 

The calm of that honorable gentleman astounded him. Was the man blind?And the count with fatherly good humor always said the same thing. 

"That Concha! Did you ever hear such frankness! Don't mind her, Monteverde, it's my wife's way, childishness. "

The doctor would smile, flattered at the atmosphere of worship withwhich the countess surrounded him. 

He had written a book on the natural origin of animal organism, of whichthe fair countess spoke enthusiastically. The painter observed thischange in her tastes with surprise and envy. No more music, nor verses, nor plastic arts which had formerly occupied her flighty attention, thatwas attracted by everything that shines or makes a noise. Now she lookedon the arts as pretty, insignificant toys that were fit to amuse onlythe childhood of the human race. Times were changing, people must beserious. Science, nothing but science; she was the protectress, the goodfriend, the adviser of a scholar. And Renovales found famous books onthe tables and chairs, feverishly run through and laid aside because shegrew tired of them or could not understand them after the first impulseof curiosity. 

Her coterie, almost wholly composed of old gentlemen attracted by thebeauty of the countess, and in love with her though without hope, smiledto hear her talking so weightily about science. Men who were prominentin politics admired her frankly. How many things that woman knew! Manythat they did not know themselves. The others, well-known physicians, professors, lawyers, who had not studied anything for years, approvedcomplacently. For a woman it was not at all bad. And she, lifting herglasses to her eyes from time to time to relish the doctor's beauty, talked with a pedantic slowness about protoplasms, and the reproductionof the cells, the cannibalisms of the phagocytes, catarine, anthropoidand pithecoid apes, discoplacentary mammals and the Pithecanthropos, treating the mysteries of life with friendly confidence, repeatingstrange scientific words, as if they were the names of society folks, who had dined with her the evening before. 

The handsome Doctor Monteverde, according to her, was head and shouldersabove all the scholars of universal reputation. 

Their books made her tired, she could not make anything out of them, inspite of the fact that the doctor admired them greatly. To make up forthis, she had read Monteverde's book over and over, and she recommendedthis wonderful work to her lady friends, who in matters of reading neverwent beyond the novels in popular magazines. 

"He is a scholar, " said the countess one afternoon while talking alonewith Renovales. "He's just beginning now, but I will push him ahead andhe will turn out to be a genius. He has extraordinary talent. I wish youhad read his book. Are you acquainted with Darwin? You aren't, are you?Well, he is greater than Darwin, much greater. "

"I can believe that, " said the painter. "Your Monteverde is as pretty asa baby and Darwin was an ugly old fellow. "

The countess hesitated whether to get serious or to laugh, and finallyshe shook her lorgnette at him. 

"Keep still, you horrid man. After all, you're a painter. You can'tunderstand tender friendships, pure relations, fraternity based onstudy. "

How bitterly the painter laughed at this purity and fraternity! His eyeswere good and Concha, for her part, was no model of prudence in hidingher feelings. Monteverde was her lover, just as formerly a musician hadbeen, at a period when the countess talked of nothing but Beethoven andWagner, as if they were callers, and long before that a pretty littleduke, who gave private amateur bull-fights at which he slaughtered theinnocent oxen after greeting lovingly the Alberca woman, who, wrapped ina white mantilla, and decorated with pinks, leaned out of the box in thegrandstand. Her relations with the doctor were almost common talk. Thatwas amply proved by the fury with which the gentlemen of her coteriepulled him to pieces, declaring that he was an idiot and that his bookwas a Harlequin's coat, a series of excerpts from other men, poorlybasted together, with the daring of ignorance. They, too, were stung byenvy, in their senile, silent love, by the triumph of that stripling whocarried off their idol, whom they had worshiped with a contemplativedevotion that gave new life to their old age. 

Renovales was angry with himself. He tried in vain to overcome the habitthat made him turn his steps every afternoon toward the countess'shouse. 

"I'll never go there again, " he would say when he was back in hisstudio. "A pretty part you're playing, Mariano! Acting as a chorus to alove duet, in the company of all these senile imbeciles. A fine aim inlife, this countess of yours!"

But the next day he would go back, thinking with a sort of hope ofMonteverde's pretentious superiority, and the disdainful air with whichhe received his fair adorer's worship. Concha would soon get tired ofthis mustached doll and turn her eyes on him, a man. 

The painter observed the transformation of his nature. He was adifferent man, and he made every effort to keep his family from noticingthis change. He recognized mentally that he was in love, with thesatisfaction of a mature man who sees in this a sign of youth thebudding of a second life. He had felt impelled toward Concha by thedesire of breaking the monotony of his existence, of imitating othermen, of tasting the acidity of infidelity, in a brief escape from thestern imposing walls that shut in the desert of married life which wasevery day covered with more brambles and tares. Her resistanceexasperated him, increasing his desire. He was not exactly sure how hefelt; perhaps it was merely a physical attraction and added to that thewound to his pride, the bitterness of being repelled when he came downfrom the heights of virtue, where he had held his position with savagepride, believing that all the joys of the earth were waiting for him, dazzled by his glory and that he had only to hold out his arms and theywould run to him. 

He felt humiliated by his failure; a dumb rage filled him when hecompared his gray hair and his eyes, surrounded by growing wrinkles, with that pretty boy of science who seemed to drive the countess insane. Women! Their intellectual interest, their exaggerated admiration offame! A lie! They worshiped talent only when it was well presented in ayoung and beautiful covering. 

Impelled by his obstinacy, Renovales was determined to overcome theresistance. He recalled, without the least remorse, the scene with hiswife in the bedroom, and her scornful words that foretold his failurewith the countess. Josephina's disdain was only another spur to urge himto continue his course. 

Concha kept him off and led him on at the same time. There was no doubtthat the master's love flattered her vanity. She laughed at hispassionate protestations, taking them in jest, always answering them inthe same tone: "Be dignified, master. That isn't becoming to you. Youare a great man, a genius. Let the boys be the ones to play the part ofthe lovesick student. " But when enraged at her subtle mockery, he took amental oath not to come back again, she seemed to guess it and shesuddenly assumed an affectionate air, attracting him with an interestthat made him foresee the near approach of his triumph. 

If he was offended and kept silence, she was the one who talked of love, of eternal passions between two beings of lofty minds, based on theharmony of their thoughts; and she did not cease this dangerousconversation until the master, with a sudden renewal of confidence, came forward offering his love, only to be received with that kindly andstill ironical smile that seemed to look on him as a child whosejudgment was faulty. 

And so the master lived, fluctuating between hope and despair, nowfavored, now repelled, but always incapable of escaping from herinfluence, as if a crime were haunting him. He sought opportunities tosee her alone with the ingenuity of a college boy, he invented pretextsfor going to her house at unusual hours, when there were no callerspresent, and his courage failed him when he ran into the pretty doctorand felt around himself that sensation of uneasiness which always seizesan unwelcome guest. 

The vague hope of meeting the countess at Moncloa, of walking with her awhole afternoon, unmolested by that circle of insufferable people whosurrounded her with their drooling worship, kept him excited all nightand the next morning, as if a real rendezvous were awaiting him. Wouldshe go? Was not her promise a mere whim that she had immediatelyforgotten? He sent a note to an ex-minister of State, whose portrait hewas painting, to ask him not to come to the studio that afternoon, andafter luncheon he got into a cab, telling the cabby to beat the horse, to go full speed, for fear of being late. 

He knew that it would be hours before she came, if she did come; but amad, unreasonable impatience filled him. He thought without knowing whythat, by arriving ahead of time, he would hasten the countess's coming. 

He got out in the square in front of the little palace of Moncloa. Thecab disappeared in the direction of Madrid, up hill along an avenue thatwas lost in the distance behind an arch of dry branches. 

Renovales walked up and down, alone in the little square. The sun wasshining in a patch of blue sky, among the heavy clouds. In the placeswhich its rays did not reach, it was cold. The water ran down from thefoot of the trees, after dripping from the branches and trickling downthe trunks; it was melting rapidly. The wood seemed to weep with joyunder the caress of the sun, that destroyed the last traces of the whiteshroud. 

The majestic silence of Nature, abandoned to its own power, surroundedthe artist. The pines were swinging with the long gusts of wind, fillingspace with a murmur, like the sound of distant harps. The square washidden in the icy shadow of the trees. Up above in the front of thepalace some pigeons, seeking the sun above the tops of the pines, sweptaround the old flagpole and the classic busts blackened by the weather. Then, tired of flying, they settled down on the rusty iron balconies, adding to the old building a white fluttering decoration, a rustlinggarland of feathers. In the middle of the square a marble swan, with itsneck violently stretched toward the sky, threw out a jet, whose murmurseemed to heighten the impression of icy cold which he felt in theshadow. 

Renovales began to walk, crushing the frozen crust that cracked underhis feet in the shady places. He leaned over the circular iron rail thatsurrounds a part of the square. Through the curtain of black branches, where the first buds were beginning to open, he saw the ridge thatbounds the horizon; the mountains of Guadarrama, phantoms of snow thatwere mingled with the masses of clouds. Nearer, the mountains of Pardostood out with their dark peaks, black with pines, and to the leftstretched out the slopes of the hills of the Casa de Campo, where thefirst yellow touches of spring were beginning to show. 

At his feet lay the fields of Moncloa, the antique little gardens, thegrove of Viveros, bordering the stream. Carriages were moving in theroads below, their varnished tops flashing in the sun like fiery mortarboards. The meadows, the foliage of the woods, everything seemed cleanand bright after the recent storm. The all-pervading green tone, withits infinite variations from black to yellow, smiled at the touch of thesun after the chill of the snow. In the distance sounded the constantreports of shotguns that seemed to tear the air with the intensity thatis common in still afternoons. They were hunting in the Casa de Campo. Between the colonnades of trees and the green sheets of the meadows, thewater flashed in the sun, bits of ponds, glimpses of canals, pools ofmelted snow, like bright trembling edges of huge swords, lost in thegrass. 

Renovales hardly looked at the landscape; it had no message for him thatafternoon. He was preoccupied with other things. He saw a smart coupécome down the avenue, and he left the belvedere to go to meet it. Shewas coming! But the coupé passed by him, slowly and majestically withoutstopping and he saw through the window an old lady wrapped in furs, withsunken eyes and distorted mouth, trembling with old age, her headbobbing with the movement of the carriage. It disappeared in thedirection of the little church beside the palace and the painter wasalone again. 

No! She would not come! His heart began to tell him that there was nouse waiting. 

Some little girls, with battered shoes, and straight greasy hair thatfloated around their necks, began to run about the square. Renovales didnot see where they came from. Perhaps they were the children of theguardian of the palace. 

A guard came down the avenue with his gun hanging from his shoulder, andhis horn at his side. Beyond approached a man in black, who looked likea servant, escorted by two huge dogs, two majestic bluish-gray Danes, that walked with a dignified bearing, prudent and moderate but proud oftheir terrifying appearance. Not a carriage could be seen. Curses!

Seated on one of the stone benches, the master finally took out thelittle notebook that he always carried with him. He sketched the figuresof the children as they ran around the fountain. That was one way tokill time. One after the other he sketched all the girls, then he caughtthem in several groups, but at last they disappeared behind the palace, going down toward the Caño Gordo. Renovales, having nothing to distracthim, left his seat and walked about, stamping noisily. His feet werelike ice, this waiting in the cold was putting him in a terrible mood. Then he went and sat down on another bench near the servant in black, who had the two dogs at his knees. They were sitting on their hind paws, resting with as much dignity as real people, watching that gentlemanwith their gray eyes that winked intelligently, as he looked at themattentively and then moved his pencil on the book that rested on hisknee. The painter sketched the two dogs in different postures, givinghimself up to the work with such interest that he quite forgot hispurpose in coming there. Oh, what splendid creatures! Renovales lovedanimals in which beauty was united with strength. If he had lived aloneand could have consulted his own tastes, he would have converted hishouse into a menagerie. 

The servant went away with his dogs and the artist once more was leftalone. Several couples passed slowly, arm in arm, and disappeared behindthe palace toward the gardens below. Then a group of school boys thatleft behind them, as their cassocks fluttered, that odor of healthy, dirty flesh that is peculiar to barracks and convents. And still thecountess did not come!

The painter went again to rest his elbows on the balustrade of thebelvedere. He would only wait a half an hour longer. The afternoon waswearing away; the sun was still high, but from time to time thelandscape was darkened. The clouds that had been confined on the horizonhad been let loose and they were rolling through the field of the skylike a flock of sheep, assuming fantastic shapes, rushing eagerly intumultuous confusion as if they wished to swallow the ball of fire thatwas slipping slowly over a bit of clear blue sky. 

Suddenly, Renovales felt a sort of shock near his heart. No one hadtouched him; it was a warning of his nerves that for some time had beenespecially irritable. She was near, was coming he was sure. And turningaround, he saw her, still a long way off, coming down the avenue, inblack with a fur coat, her hands in a little muff and a veil over hereyes. Her tall, graceful silhouette was outlined against the yellowground as she passed the trees. Her carriage was returning up the hill, perhaps to wait for her at the top near the School of Agriculture. 

As she met him in the center of the square she held out her gloved hand, warm from the muff, and they turned toward the belvedere, chatting. 

"I'm in a furious mood, disgusted to death. I didn't expect to come; Iforgot all about it, upon my word. But as I was coming out of thePresident's house I thought of you. I was sure I would find you here. And so I have come to have you drive away my ill humor. "

Through the veil, Renovales saw her eyes that flashed hostilely and herdainty lips angrily tightened. 

She spoke quickly, eager to vent the wrath that was swelling her heart, without paying any attention to what was around her, as if she were inher own drawing room where everything was familiar. 

She had been to see the Prime-Minister to recommend her "affair" to hisattention; a desire of the count's on the fulfillment of which hishappiness depended. Poor Paco (her husband) dreamed of the GoldenFleece. That was the only thing that was lacking to crown the tower ofcrosses, keys and ribbons that he was raising about his person, from hisbelly to his neck, till not an inch of his body was without thisglorious covering. The Golden Fleece and then death! Why should they notdo this favor for Paco, such a good man, who would not hurt a fly? Whatwould it cost them to grant him this toy and make him happy?

"There aren't any friends any longer, Mariano, " said the countessbitterly. "The Prime-Minister is a fool who forgets his old friendshipsnow that he is head of the government. I who have seen him sighingaround me like a comic opera tenor, making love to me (yes, I tell thetruth to you) and ready to commit suicide because I scorned hisvulgarity and foolishness! This afternoon, the same old story; lots ofholding my hand, lots of making eyes, 'dear Concha, ' 'sweet Concha' andother sugary expressions, just such as he sings in Congress like an oldcanary. Sum total, the Fleece is impossible, he is very sorry, but atCourt they are unwilling. "

And the countess, as if she saw for the first time where she was, turnedher eyes angrily toward the dark hills of the Casa de Campo, where shotscould still be heard. 

"And they wonder that people think this way or that! I am an anarchist, do you hear, Mariano? Every day I feel more revolutionary. Don't laugh, for it is no jest. Poor Paco, who is a lamb of God, is horrified tohear me. 'Woman, think what we are! We must be on good terms with theroyal house. ' But I rise in rebellion; I know them; a crowd ofreprobates. Why shouldn't my Paco have the Fleece, if the poor man needsit. I tell you, master, this cowardly, meek country makes me raging mad. We ought to have what France had in '93. If I were alone, without allthese trifles of name and position, I would do to-day something thatwould stir people. I'd throw a bomb, no, not a bomb; I'd get a revolverand----"

"Fire!" shouted the painter, bursting into a laugh. 

Concha drew back indignantly. 

"Don't joke, master. I'll go away. I'll slap you. This is more seriousthan you think. This afternoon is no time for jokes. "

But her fickle nature contradicted the seriousness that she pretended togive her words, for she smiled slightly, as if pleased at some memory. 

"It wasn't wholly a failure, " she said after a long pause. "My handsaren't empty. The prime-minister didn't want to make me his enemy and sohe offered me a compensation, since the 'Lamb' affair was impossible. Adeputy's chair at the next election. "

Renovales' eyes opened in astonishment. "For whom do you want that? Towhom is that going to be given?"

"To whom?" mimicked Concha with mock astonishment. "To whom! To whom doyou suppose, you simpleton! Not for you, you don't know anything aboutthat or anything else, except your brushes. For Monteverde, for thedoctor, who will do great things. "

The artist's noisy laugh resounded in the silence of the square. 

"Darwin a deputy of the majority! Darwin saying 'Aye' and 'No. '"

And after these exclamations his laugh of mock astonishment continued. 

"Laugh, you old bear! Open that mouth wider; wag your apostolic beard!How funny you are! And what's strange about that? But don't laugh anylonger; you make me nervous. I'll go away, if you keep on like this. "

They remained silent for a long while. The countess was not long inforgetting her troubles; her bird-like brain never retained any oneimpression for long. She looked around her with disdainful eyes, eagerto mortify the painter. Was that what Renovales raved over so? Was therenothing more?

They began to walk slowly, going down to the terraced gardens behind thepalace. They descended the moss-covered slopes that were streaked withthe black flint of the flights of stairs. 

The silence was deathlike. The water murmured as it flowed from thetrunks of the trees, forming little streams that trickled down hill, almost invisible in the grass. In some shady spots there still remainedpiles of snow, like bundles of white wool. The shrill cries of the birdssounded like the scratching of a diamond on glass. At the edge of thestairways, the pedestals of black, crumbling stone recalled the statuesand urns they had once supported. The little gardens, cut in geometricfigures, stretched out the Greek square of their carpet of foliage oneach level of the terrace. In the squares, the fountains spurted inpools surrounded by rusted railings, or flowed down triple layers with aceaseless murmur. Water everywhere, --in the air, in the ground, whispering, icy, adding to the cold impression of the landscape, wherethe sun seemed a red blotch of color devoid of heat. 

They passed under arches of vines, between huge dying trees covered tothe top with winding rings of ivy that clung to the venerable trunks, veneered with a green and yellow crust. The paths were bounded on oneside by the slope of the hill, from the top of which came the invisibletinkling of a bell, and where from time to time there appeared on theblue background of the sky the massive outline of a slowly moving cow. On the other, a rustic railing of branches painted white bounded thepath and, beyond it, in the valley, lay the dark flower beds with theirmelancholy solitude and their fountains that wept day and night in anatmosphere of old age and abandon. The closely matted brambles stretchedfrom tree to tree along the slopes. The slender cypresses, the tallpines with their straight trunks, formed a thick colonnade, a latticethrough which the sunlight flitted, a false unearthly light, thatstriped the ground with bands of gold and bars of shadow. 

The painter praised the spot enthusiastically. It was the only cornerfor artists that could be found in Madrid. It was there that the greatDon Francisco had worked. It seemed as though at some turn in the paththey would run into Goya, sitting before his easel, scowlingill-naturedly at some dainty duchess who was serving as his model. 

Modern clothes seemed out of keeping with this background. Renovalesdeclared that the correct apparel for such a landscape was a brightcoat, a powdered wig, silk stockings, walking beside a Directoire gown. 

The countess smiled as she listened to the painter. She looked aboutwith great curiosity; that was not a bad walk; she guessed it was thefirst time she ever saw it. Very pretty! But she was not fond of thecountry. 

To her mind the best landscape was the silks of a drawing room and, asfor trees, she preferred the scenery at the Opera to the accompanimentof music. 

"The country bores me, master. It makes me so sad. If you leave Naturealone to itself it is very commonplace. "

They entered a little square in the center of which was a pool, on thelevel of the ground, with stone posts that marked where there had oncebeen a railing. The water, swollen by the melting snow, was overflowingthe stone curb, and reached out in a thin sheet as it started down hill. The countess stopped, afraid of wetting her feet. The painter wentahead, putting his feet in the driest places, taking her hand to guideher, and she followed him, laughing at the obstacle and picking up herskirts. 

As they continued their way down another path, Renovales kept that softlittle hand in his, feeling its warmth through the glove. She let himhold it, as if she did not notice his touch, but still with a faintexpression of mischievousness on her lips and in her eyes. The masterseemed undecided, embarrassed, as if he did not know how to begin. 

"Always the same?" he asked weakly. "Haven't you a little charity for meto-day?"

The countess broke out in a merry laugh. 

"There it comes. I was expecting it; that's why I hesitated to come. Inthe carriage I said to myself several times: 'My dear, you're making amistake in going to Moncloa; you will be bored to death; you may expectdeclaration number one thousand. '"

Then she assumed a tone of mock indignation. 

"But, master, can't you talk about anything else? Are we women condemnedto be unable to talk with a man without his feeling obliged to pour outa proposal?"

Renovales protested. She might say that to other men, but not to him, for he was in love with her. He swore it; he would say it on his knees, to make her believe it. Madly in love with her! But she mimicked himgrotesquely, raising one hand to her breast and laughing cruelly. 

"Yes, I know, the old story. There's no use in your repeating it; I knowit by heart. A volcano in my breast, impossible to live without you--ifyou do not love me, I will kill myself. They all say the same thing. Inever saw such a lack of originality. Master, for goodness sake, do notbe so commonplace! A man like you saying such things!"

Renovales was crushed by her mocking mimicry. But Concha, as if she tookpity on him, hastened to add, in an affectionate tone:

"Why should you have to be in love with me? Do you think I shall esteemyou less if I relieve you from an obligation that all men who surroundme feel under? I like you, master; I need to see you; I should be verysorry if we quarreled. I like you as a friend; the best of all, thefirst. I like you because you are good; a great big boy; a bearded babywho doesn't know even the least bit about the world, but who is very, _very_ talented. I've wanted for a long time to see you alone, to talkwith you quite freely, to tell you this. I like you as I like no oneelse. When I am with you, I feel a confidence such as no other maninspires in me. Good friends, brother and sister, if you will. But don'tput on such a gloomy face! Look pleasant, please! Give one of yourlaughs that cheer my soul, master!"

But the master remained sullen, looking at the ground, running thefingers of his hand through his thick beard. 

"All that's a lie, Concha, " he said rudely. "The truth is that you arein love, you're mad over that worthless Monteverde. "

The countess smiled, as if the rudeness of these words flattered her. 

"Well, yes, Mariano. We like each other; I believe I love him as Inever loved any man. I have never told anyone; you are the first one tohear it from me, because you are my friend, because somehow or other Itell you everything. We like each other or, rather, I like him much morethan he does me. There is something like gratitude in my love. I don'tdeceive myself, Mariano! Thirty-six years! I venture to confess my ageto you. However, I am still presentable; I keep my youth well, but he ismuch younger. Years younger and I could almost be his mother. "

She was silent for a moment, almost frightened at this differencebetween her lover's age and hers, but then she added with a suddenconfidence:

"He likes me, too, I know. I am his adviser, his inspiration; he saysthat with me he feels a new strength for work, that he will be a greatman, thanks to me. But I like him more, much more than he does me; thereis almost as great a difference in our affections as there is in ourages. "

"And why do you not love me?" said the master tearfully. "I worship you, the tables would be turned. I would be the one to surround you withconstant idolatry, and you would let me worship you, caress you, as Iwould an idol, my head bowed at its feet. "

Concha laughed again, mocking the artist's hoarse voice, his passionateexpression, and his eager eyes. 

"Why don't I love you? Master, don't be childish. There's no use inasking such things, you cannot dictate to Love. I do not like you as youwant me to, because it is impossible. Be satisfied to be my best friend. You know I show a confidence in you that I do not show to Monteverde. Yes, I tell you things I would never tell him. "

"But the other part!" exclaimed the painter violently. "What I need, what I am hungry for, --you, your beauty, real love!"

"Master, contain yourself, " she said with affected modesty. "How well Iknow you! You're going to say some of those horrid things that menalways say when they rave over a woman. I'm going away so as not to hearyou. "

Then she added with maternal seriousness, as if she wanted to reprimandhis violence:

"I am not so crazy as people think. I consider the consequences of myactions carefully. Mariano, look at yourself, think of your position. Awife, a daughter who will marry one of these days, the prospect of beinga grandfather. And you still think of such follies! I could not accedeto your proposal even if I loved you. How terrible! To deceiveJosephina, the friend of my school-days! Poor thing, so gentle, sokind, --always ill. No, Mariano, never. A man cannot enter suchcompromising affairs, unless he is free. I could never feel like lovingyou. Friends, nothing more than friends!"

"Well, we will not be that, " exclaimed Renovales impetuously. "I willleave your house forever. I will not see you any longer. I will doanything to forget you. It is an intolerable torment. My life will becalmer if I do not see you. "

"You will not go away, " said Concha quietly, certain of her power. "Youwill remain beside me just as you always have, if you really like me, and I shall have in you my best friend. Don't be a baby, master, youwill see that there is something charming about our friendship that youdo not understand now. I shall give you something that the rest do notknow, --intimacy, confidence. "

And as she said this, she put one hand on the painter's arm and drewcloser to him, searching him with her eyes in which there was a strange, mysterious light. 

A horn sounded near them; there was swift rush of heavy wheels. Anautomobile shot past them at full speed, following the highroad. Renovales tried to make out the figures in the car, hardly larger thandolls in the distance. Perhaps it was López de Sosa, who was driving, perhaps his wife and daughter were those two little figures, wrapped inveils, who occupied the seats. 

The possibility of Josephina's having passed through the background ofthe landscape without seeing him, without noticing that he was there, forgetful of everything, an imploring lover, overcame him with the senseof remorse. 

They remained motionless for a long while in silence, leaning on therough wooden railing, watching through the colonnade of the trees thebright, cherry-red sun, as it sank, lighting up the horizon with a blazeof fire. The leaden clouds, seeing it on the point of death, assailed itwith treacherous greed. 

Concha watched the sunset with the interest that a sight but seldom seenarouses. 

"Look at that huge cloud, master. How black it is! It looks like adragon; no, a hippopotamus; see its round paws, like towers. How itruns! It's going to eat the sun. It's eating it! It has swallowed itnow!"

The landscape grew dark. The sun had disappeared inside of that monsterthat filled the horizon. Its waving back was edged with silver, and asif it could not hold the burning star; it broke below, pouring out arain of pale rays. Then, burned by this digestion, it vanished in smoke, was torn into black tufts, and once more the red disc appeared, bathingsky and earth with gold, peopling the water of the pools with restlessfiery fishes. 

Renovales, leaning on the railing with one elbow beside the countess, breathed her subtle fragrance, felt the warm touch of her firm body. 

"Let's go back, master, " she said with a suggestion of uneasiness in hervoice. "I feel cold. Besides, with a companion like you, it's impossibleto stay still. "

And she hastened her step, realizing from her experience with men thedanger of remaining alone with Renovales. His pale, excited face warnedher that he was likely to make some reckless, impetuous advance. 

In the square of Caño Gordo they passed a couple going slowly down thehill, very close together, not yet daring to walk arm in arm, but readyto put their arms around each other's waists as soon as they disappearedin the next path. The young man carried his cloak under his arm, asproudly as a gallant in the old comedies; she, small and pale, withoutany beauty except that of youth, was wrapped in a poor cloak and walkedwith her simple eyes fixed on her companion's. 

"Some student with his girl, " said Renovales. "They are happier than weare, Concha. "

"We are getting old, master, " she said with feigned sadness, excludingherself from old age, loading the whole burden of years on hercompanion. 

Renovales turned toward her in a final outburst of protest. 

"Why should I not be as happy as that boy? Haven't I a right to it?Concha, you do not know who I am; you forget it, accustomed as you areto treat me like a child. I am Renovales, the painter, the famousmaster. I am known all over the world. "

And he spoke of his fame with brutal indelicacy, growing more and moreirritated at her coldness, displaying his renown like a mantle of lightthat should blind women and make them fall at his feet. And a man likehim had to submit to being put off for that simpleton of a doctor?

The countess smiled with pity. Her eyes, too, revealed a sort ofcompassion. The fool! The child! How absurd men of talent were!

"Yes, you are a great man, master. That is why I am proud of yourfriendship. I even admit that it gives me some importance. I like you. Ifeel admiration for you. "

"No, not admiration, Concha, love! To belong to each other! Completelove. "

She continued to laugh. 

"Oh, my boy; Love!"

Her eyes seemed to speak to him ironically. Love does not distinguishtalents; it is ignorant and therefore boasts of its blindness. It onlyperceives the fragrance of youth, of life in its flower. 

"We shall be friends, Mariano, friends and nothing more. You will growaccustomed to it and find our affection dear. Don't be material; itdoesn't seem as if you were an artist. Idealism, master, that is whatyou need. "

And she continued to talk to him from the heights of her pity, untilthey parted near the place where her carriage was waiting for her. 

"Friends, Mariano, nothing more than friends, but true friends. "

When Concha had gone, Renovales walked in the shadows of the twilight, gesticulating and clenching his fists, until he left Moncloa. Findinghimself alone, he was again filled with wrath and insulted the countessmentally, now that he was free from the loving subjection that hesuffered in her presence. How she amused herself with him! How hisfriends would laugh to see him helplessly submissive to that woman whohad belonged to so many! His pride made him insist on conquering her, at any cost, even of humiliation and brutality. It was an affair ofhonor to make her his, even if it were only once, and then to takerevenge by repelling her, throwing her at his feet, and saying with asovereign air, "That is what I do to people who resist me. "

But then he realized his weakness. He would always be beaten by thatwoman who looked at him coldly, who never lost her calm and consideredhim an inferior being. His dejection made him think of his family, ofhis sick wife, and the duties that bound him to her, and he felt thebitter joy of the man who sacrifices himself, taking up his cross. 

His mind was made up. He would flee from the woman. He would not see heragain. 

III

And he did not see her; he did not see her for two days. But on thethird there came a letter in a long blue envelope scented with a perfumethat made him tremble. 

The countess complained of his absence in affectionate terms. She neededto see him, she had many things to tell him. A real love-letter whichthe artist hastened to hide, for fear that if any one read it, he wouldsuspect what was not yet true. 

Renovales was indignant. 

"I will go to see her, " he said to himself, walking up and down thestudio. "But it will be only to give her a piece of my mind, and havedone with her once and for all. If she thinks she is going to play withme, she is mistaken; she doesn't know that, when I want to be, I am likestone. "

Poor master! While in one corner of his mind he was formulating thiscruel determination to be a man of stone, in the other a sweet voice wasmurmuring seductively:

"Go quickly, take advantage of the opportunity. Perhaps she hasrepented. She is waiting for you; she is going to be yours. "

And the artist hastened to the countess's anxiously. Nothing. Shecomplained of his absence with affected sadness. She liked him so much!She needed to see him, she could not have any peace as long as she feltthat he was offended with her on account of the other afternoon. Andthey spent nearly two hours together in the private room she used as anoffice, until at the end of the afternoon the serious friends of thecountess began to arrive, her coterie of mute worshipers and last ofall Monteverde with the calm of a man who has nothing to fear. 

The painter left the house. Nothing out of the ordinary had happenedexcept that he had twice kissed the countess's hand; the conventionalcaress and nothing more. Whenever he tried to go farther, moving hislips along her arm, she checked him imperiously. 

"I shall be angry, master, and not receive you any more alone! You arenot keeping the agreement!"

Renovales protested. They had not made any agreement; but Concha managedto calm him instantly by asking about Milita, praising her beauty, inquiring for poor Josephina, so good, so lovable, showing great concernfor her health and promising to call on her soon. And the master wasrestrained, tormented by remorse, not daring to make any new advances, until his discomfort had disappeared. 

He continued to visit the countess, as before. He felt that he must seeher; he had grown accustomed to her enthusiastic praise of his artisticmerits. 

Sometimes the impetuous nature of his youthful days awakened and helonged to rid himself of this shameful chain. The woman had bewitchedhim; she sent for him without any reason, she seemed to delight inmaking him suffer, she needed him for a plaything. She spoke ofMonteverde and their love with quiet cynicism, as if the doctor were herhusband. She had to confide the secrets of her life to some one, withthat imperious naïveté that forces the guilty to confess. Little bylittle she let the master into the secret of her passion, telling himunblushingly of the most intimate details of their meetings, which wereoften in her own house. They took advantage of the blindness of thecount, who seemed almost stunned by his failure to receive the Fleece;they took a morbid delight in the danger of being surprised. 

"I tell you this, Mariano, I don't know why it is I feel as I do towardyou; I like you as a brother. No, not as a brother, rather as aconfidential woman friend. "

When Renovales was alone, he despised Concha's frankness. It was just aspeople believed; she was very attractive, very pretty, but absolutelylacking in scruples. As for himself, he heaped insults on himself in theslang of his Bohemian days, comparing himself with all the hornedanimals he could think of. 

"I won't go there again. It's disgraceful. A pretty part you areplaying, master!"

But he had hardly been absent two days when Marie, the Countess's Frenchmaid, appeared with the scented letter, or it arrived in the mail, whereit stood out scandalously among the other envelopes of the master'scorrespondence. 

"Curse that woman!" exclaimed Renovales, hastening to hide the showynote. "What a lack of prudence. One of these fine days, Josephina willdiscover these letters. "

Cotoner, in his blind devotion to his idol whom he consideredirresistible, supposed that the Alberca woman was madly in love with themaster and shook his head sadly. 

"This will have a bad end, Mariano. You ought to break with her. Thepeace of your home! You are piling up trouble for yourself. "

The letters were always alike; endless complaints at his short absences. "_Cher maître_, I could not sleep last night, thinking of you, " and sheended with "Your admirer and good friend, Coquillerosse, " a _nom deguerre_ she had adopted for her correspondence with the artist. 

She wrote in a disordered style, at unusual hours, just as her fancyand her abnormal nervous system prompted. Sometimes she dated her letterat three in the morning, she could not sleep, got out of bed and to passthe sleepless hours filled four sheets of paper (with the facility ofdespair) in her fine hand, addressed to her good friend, talking to himof the count, of what her acquaintances said, telling him the latestgossip about the Court, lamenting the doctor's coldness. At other times, there were only four brief, desperate lines. "Come at once, dearMariano. A very urgent matter. "

And the master, leaving his tasks early in the morning, ran to thecountess' house, where she received him still in bed in her fragrantchamber which the gentleman with honorary crosses had not entered formany years. 

The painter came in in great anxiety, disturbed at the possibility ofsome terrible event, and Concha, tossing about between the embroideredsheets, tucking in the golden wisps of hair that escaped from her lacecap, talked and talked, as incoherently as a bird sings, as if thesilence of the night had hopelessly confused her ideas. A great idea hadoccurred to her; during her sleep she had thought out an absolutelyoriginal scientific theory that would delight Monteverde. And sheexplained it earnestly to the master, who nodded his approval withoutunderstanding a word, thinking it was a pity to see such an attractivemouth uttering such follies. 

At other times she would talk to him about the speech she was preparingfor a fair of the Woman's Association, the _magnum opus_ of herpresidency; and drawing her ivory arms from under the sheet with acalmness that dazed Renovales, she would pick up from the nearby tablesome sheets of paper scribbled with pencil, and ask her friend to tellher who was the greatest painter in the world, for she had left a blankto fill in with this name. 

After an hour of incessant chatter while the artist watched her silentlywith greedy eyes, he finally came to the urgent matter, the desperatesummons that had made the master leave his work. It was always an affairof life or death, compromises in which her honor was at stake. Sometimesshe wanted him to paint some little thing on the fan of a foreign ladywho was eager to take away from Spain some souvenir of the great master. The person in question had asked her at a diplomatic soirée the nightbefore, knowing her friendship with Renovales. Or she had sent for himto ask him for some little sketch, a daub, any one of the little thingsthat lay in the corner of his studio for a bazaar of the Association forthe Benefit of Fallen Women, whom the countess and her friends were veryeager to rescue. 

"Don't put on such a wry face, master, don't be stingy. You must expectto sacrifice something for friendship. Everybody thinks that I havegreat power over the famous artist, and they ask me favors and areconstantly getting me into difficulty. They don't know you, they don'trealize how perverse, how rebellious you are, you horrid man!"

And she let him kiss her hand, smiling condescendingly. But as she feltthe touch of his lips and his beard on her arm she struggled to freeherself, half-laughing, half-trembling. 

"Let me go, Mariano! I'll scream! I'll call Marie! I won't receive youagain in my bedroom. You aren't worthy of being trusted. Quiet, master, or I'll tell Josephina everything. "

Sometimes when Renovales came, full of alarm at her summons, he foundher pale, with dark circles under her eyes, as if she had spent thenight weeping. When she saw the master her tears began to flow again. Itwas pique, deep pain at Monteverde's coldness. He passed whole dayswithout seeing her; he even went so far as to say that women are ahindrance to serious study. Oh, these scholars! And she, madly devotedto him, submissive as a slave, putting up with his whimsical moods, worshiping him with that ardent passion of a woman who is older than herlover and appreciates her own inferiority!

"Oh, Renovales. Never fall in love. It is hell. You do not know thehappiness you enjoy in not understanding these things. "

But the master, indifferent to her tears, enraged by her confidences, walked up and down gesticulating, just as if he were in his studio, andhe spoke to the countess with brutal frankness, as he would to a womanwho had revealed all her secrets and weaknesses. What difference did allthat make to him? Had she sent for him to tell him such stuff? Shegrieved with childish sighs from the bed. She was alone in the world, she was very unhappy. The master was her only friend; he was her father, her brother. To whom could she tell her troubles if not to him? Andtaking courage at the painter's silence who finally was moved by hertears, she recovered her boldness and expressed her wish. He must go toMonteverde, give him a good, heart-to-heart lecture, so that he would begood and not make her suffer. The doctor respected him highly; he wasone of his greatest admirers; she was certain that a few words of themaster would be enough to bring him back like a lamb. He must show himthat she was not alone, that she had some one to defend her, that no onecould make sport of her with impunity. 

But before she finished her request, the painter was walking around thebed waving his arms, cursing in the violence of his excitement. 

"That's the last straw! One of these days you'll be asking me to shinehis boots. Are you mad, woman? What are you thinking of? You have enoughaccommodating people already in the count. Don't drag me into it!"

But she rolled over in bed, weeping disconsolately. She had no friendsleft! The master was like the others; if he would not accede to herrequests, their friendship was over. All talk, oaths, and then not theleast sacrifice!

Suddenly she sat up, frowning angrily with the coldness of an offendedqueen. She knew him at last, she had made a mistake in counting on him. And as Renovales, confused at her anger, tried to offer excuse, sheinterrupted him haughtily. 

"Will you, or will you not? One, two----"

Yes, he would do what she wanted; he had sunk so low that it did notmatter if he went a little farther. He would lecture the doctor, throwing in his face his stupidity in scorning such happiness, --he saidthis with all his heart, his voice trembling with envy. What else didhis fair despot want? She might ask without fear. If it was necessary hewould challenge the count, with all his decorations, to single combatand would kill him so that she might be free to join her little doctor. 

"You joker, " cried Concha, smiling at her triumph. "You are as nice ascan be but you are very perverse. Come here, you horrid man. "

And lifting a lock of his heavy hair with her hand, she kissed him onthe forehead, laughing at the start the painter gave at her caress. Hefelt his legs trembling, then his arms strove to embrace the warm, scented body, that seemed to slip from him in its delicate covering. 

"It was on the forehead, " cried Concha in protest. "A sister's caress, Mariano. Stop! You're hurting me! I'll call!"

And she called, realizing her weakness, seeing that she was on the pointof being overcome in his fierce, masterly grasp. The electric bellsounded out of the maze of corridors and rooms and the door opened. Marie entered in a black dress with a white apron and a lace cap, discreet and silent. Her pale, smiling face, accustomed to seeeverything, to guess everything, did not reveal the slightestimpression. 

The countess stretched out her hand to Renovales, calmly andaffectionately, as if the entrance of the maid had found her sayinggood-by. She was sorry that he must go so soon, she would see him in theevening at the Opera. 

When the painter breathed the air of the street and jostled against thepeople, he felt as if he were awakening from a nightmare. He loathedhimself. "You're showing off finely, master. " His weakness that made himgive in to all of the countess's demands, his base acquiescence inserving as an intermediary between her and her lover was sickening now. But he still felt the touch of her kiss on his forehead; he stillbreathed the atmosphere of the bedroom, heavy with perfume. Optimismovercame him. The affair was not going badly. However disagreeable thepath was, it would lead to the realization of his desire. 

Many evenings Renovales went to the Opera, in obedience to Concha, whowanted to see him, and spent whole acts in the back of her box, conversing with her. Milita laughed at this change in the habits of herfather, who used to go to bed early, so as to be able to work early inthe morning. She was the one who, charged with the household affairs onaccount of her mother's constant illness, helped him to put on hisdress-coat, and amid caresses and laughter combed his hair and adjustedhis tie. 

"Papa, dear. I shouldn't know you, you're getting dissipated. When areyou going to take me with you?"

The artist excused himself seriously. It was a duty of his profession;artists must go into society. And as for taking her with him--some othertime. He had to go alone this time, he had to talk to a great manypeople at the theater. 

Another change took place in him that provoked joyful comments on thepart of Milita. Papa was getting young. 

Under irreverent trimmings, every week his hair became shorter, hisbeard diminished until only a light remnant remained of that tangledgrowth that gave him such a ferocious appearance. He did not want tolook like other men, he must preserve the exterior that stamped him asan artist, so that people might not pass by the great Renovales withoutrecognizing him. But he managed, while keeping within this desire, toapproach and mingle with the fashionably dressed young men whofrequented the countess's house. 

Other people too noticed this change. Students in the School of FineArts pointed him out from the gallery of the Opera-house or stopped onthe sidewalk when they saw him at night, with a shining silk hat on hiscarefully trimmed hair and the expanse of shirt-front showing in hisunbuttoned overcoat. The boys in their simple admiration imagined thegreat master thundering before his easel, as savage, fierce andintractable as Michael Angelo in his studio. And so when they saw himlooking so differently, their eyes followed him enviously. "What a goodtime the master is having!" And they fancied the great ladies disputingover him, believing in perfect faith that no woman could resist a manwho painted so well. 

His enemies, established artists but who were inferior to him, growledin their conversations. "Four-flusher, prig! He wasn't satisfied withmaking so much money and now he's playing the sport among thearistocracy, to pick up more portraits, to get all he can out of hissignature. "

Cotoner, who sometimes stayed at the house in the evenings, to keep theladies company, smiled sadly as he saw him leave, shaking his head. "It's bad. Mariano married too soon. Now that he is almost an old man, he's doing what he didn't do in his youth in his fever for work andglory. " Many people were laughing at him already, divining his passionfor the Alberca woman, that love without practical results, that madehim live with her and Monteverde, acting as a good-natured mediator, atolerant kindly father. When the famous master took off his mask offierceness, he was a poor fellow about whom people talked with pity:they compared him with Hercules, dressed as a woman and spinning at thefeet of his fair seducer. 

He had contracted a close friendship with Monteverde as a result ofmeeting him so often at the countess's. He no longer seemed foolish andunattractive. Renovales found in him something of the woman he loved andtherefore his company was pleasing. He experienced that calm attraction, free from jealousy, that the husband of a mistress inspires in some men. They sat together at the theater, went to walk, conversing amiably, andthe doctor frequently visited the artist's studio in the afternoon. Thisintimacy quite disconcerted people, for they could no longer tell withcertainty which one was the Alberca woman's master and which theaspirant, even going so far as to believe that by a mutual agreementthey all three lived in an ideal world. 

Monteverde admired the master and the latter, from his years and thesuperiority of his fame, assumed a paternal authority over him. Hechided him when the countess complained of him. 

"Women!" the doctor would say with a bored expression. "You don't knowwhat they are, master. They are only a hindrance to obstruct a man'scareer. You have been successful because you haven't let them dominateyou because you are strong. "

And the poor strong man looked at Monteverde narrowly suspecting that hewas making sport of him. He felt tempted to knock him down at thethought that the doctor scorned what he craved so keenly. 

Concha was more communicative with the master. She confessed to him whatshe had never dared to tell the doctor. 

"I tell you everything, Mariano. I cannot live without seeing you. Doyou know what I think? The doctor is a sort of husband to me and you arethe lover of my heart. Don't get excited; don't move or I'll call. Ihave spoken from my heart. I like you too much to think of the coarsethings you want. "

Sometimes Renovales found her excited, nervous, speaking hoarsely, working her delicate fingers as if she wanted to scratch the air. Theywere terrible days that stirred up the whole house. Marie ran from roomto room with her silent step, pursued by the ringing of the bells; thecount slipped out of doors, like a frightened school-boy. Concha wasbored, felt tired of everything, hated her life. When the painterappeared she would almost throw herself in his arms. 

"Take me out of here, Mariano; I'm tired of it, I'm dying. This life iskilling me. My husband! He doesn't count. My friends! Fools that flayme as soon as I leave them. The doctor! as untrustworthy as aweathercock. All those men in my coterie, idiots. Master, have pity onme. Take me far away from here. You must know some other world; artistsknow everything. "

If she only was not such a familiar figure and if people only did notknow the master in Madrid! In her nervous excitement she formed thewildest projects. She wanted to go out at night arm in arm withRenovales. She in a shawl and a kerchief over her head and he in a capeand a slouch hat. She would be his grisette; she would imitate thecarriage and stride of a woman of the streets and they would go to thelowest districts like two night-hawks, and they would drink, would getinto a brawl; he would defend her and they would go and spend the nightin the police station. 

The painter looked shocked. What nonsense! But she insisted on her wish. 

"Laugh, master, open that great mouth of yours, you ugly thing. What isstrange about what I said? You, with all your artist's hair and softhats, are humdrum, a peaceful soul that is incapable of doing anythingoriginal in order to amuse yourself. "

When she thought of the couple they had seen one afternoon at Moncloa, she grew melancholy and sentimental. She, too, thought it would be funto play the grisette, to walk arm in arm with the master as if she werea poor dressmaker and he a clerk, to end the trip in a picnic park, andhe would give her a ride in the green swing, while she screamed withpleasure, as she went up and down with her skirts whirling around herfeet. That was not foolishness. Just the simplest, most rustic pleasure!

What a pity that they were both so well known. But what they would do, at least, was to disguise themselves some morning and go house-huntingin some low quarter, like the Rastro, as if they were a newly marriedcouple. No one would recognize them in that part of Madrid. Agreed, master?

And the master approved of everything. But the next day, Concha receivedhim with confusion, biting her lips, until at last she broke out intohearty laughter at the recollection of the follies she had proposed. 

"How you must laugh at me! Some days I am perfectly crazy. "

Renovales did not conceal his assent. Yes, she was a trifle crazy. Butwith all her absurdities that made him alternate between hope anddespair, she was more attractive, with her merry nonsense, and hertransitory fits of anger, than the woman at home, implacable, silent, shunning him with ceaseless repugnance, but following him everywherewith her weeping, uncanny eyes, that became as cutting as steel, as soonas, out of sympathy or remorse, he gave the least evidence offamiliarity. 

Oh, what a heavy, intolerable comedy! Before his daughter and hisfriends they had to talk to each other, and he, looking away, so thattheir eyes might not meet, scolded her gently, for not following theadvice of the doctors. At first they had said it was neurasthenia, nowit was diabetes, that was increasing the invalid's weakness. The masterlamented the passive resistance she opposed to all their curativemethods. She would follow them for a few days and then give them up withcalm obstinacy. Her health was better than they thought: doctors couldnot cure her trouble. 

At night, when they entered the bed-chamber, a deathly silence fell onthem; a leaden wall seemed to rise between their bodies. Here they nolonger had to dissemble; they looked at each other face to face withsilent hostility. Their life at night was sheer torment, but neither ofthem dared to change their mode of living. Their bodies could not leavethe common bed; they found in it the places they had occupied for years. The habit of their wills subjected them to this room and itsfurnishings, with all its memories of the happy days of their youth. 

Renovales would fall into the deep sleep of a healthy man, tired outwith work. His last thoughts were of the countess. He saw her in thatvague mist that shrouds the portal of unconsciousness; he went to sleep, thinking of what he would say to her the next day. And his dreams werein keeping with his desires, for he saw her standing on a pedestal, inall the majesty of her nakedness, surpassing the marble of the mostfamous statues with the life of her flesh. When he awakened suddenly andstretched out his arms, he touched the body of his companion, small, stiff, burning with the fire of fever or icy with deathly cold. Hedivined that she was not asleep. She spent the nights without closingher eyes, but she did not move, as if all her strength was concentratedon something that she watched in the darkness with a hypnotic stare. Shewas like a corpse. There was the obstacle, the leaden weight, thephantom that checked the other woman when sometimes in a moment ofhesitation, she leaned toward him, on the point of falling. And theterrible longing, the hideous thought came forth again in all itsugliness, announcing that it was not dead, that it had only hidden inthe den of his brain, to rise more cruelly, more insolently. 

"Why not?" argued the rejected spirit, scattering in his fancy thegolden dust of dreams. 

Love, fame, joy, a new artistic life, the rejuvenation of DoctorFaustus; he might expect everything, if kindly death would but come tohelp him, breaking the chain that bound him to sadness and sickness. 

But straightway a protest would arise within him. Though he lived likean infidel, he still had a religious soul that in the trying moments ofhis life led him to call on all the superhuman and miraculous powers asif they were under an inevitable obligation to come to his aid. "Lord, take this horrible thought from me. Take away this temptation. Don't lether die. Let her live, even if I perish. "

And the following day, filled with remorse, he would go to some doctors, friends of his, to consult with them minutely. He would stir up thehouse, organizing the cure according to a vast plan, distributing themedicines by hours. Then he would calmly return to his work, to hisartistic prejudices, to his passionate longing, forgetting hisdeterminations, thinking his wife's life was already saved. 

One afternoon after luncheon, she came into the studio and as the masterlooked at her, a sense of anxiety crept over him. It was a long timesince Josephina had entered the room while he was working. 

She would not sit down; standing beside the easel she spoke slowly andmeekly to her husband, without looking at him. Renovales was frightenedat this simplicity. 

"Mariano, I have come to talk to you about our daughter. "

She wanted her to be married: it must come some day and the sooner, thebetter. She would die before long and she wanted to leave the world withthe assurance that her daughter was well settled. 

Renovales felt forced to protest loudly with all the vehemence of a manwho is not very sure of what he is saying. Shucks! Die! Why should shedie? Her health was better now than it had ever been. The only thing sheneeded was to heed what the doctors told her. 

"I shall die before long, " she repeated coldly; "I shall die and youwill be left in peace. You know it. "

The painter tried to protest with a greater show of righteousindignation but his eyes met his wife's cold look. Then he contentedhimself with shrugging his shoulders in a resigned way. He did not wantto argue; he must keep calm. He had to paint; he must go out thatafternoon as usual on important business. 

"Very well, go ahead. Milita is going to be married. And to whom?"

Led by his desire to maintain his authority, to take the lead, andbecause of his long-standing affection for his pupil, he hastened tospeak of him. Was Soldevilla the suitor? A good boy with a future aheadof him. He worshiped Milita; his dejection when she treated him ill waspitiful. He would make an excellent husband. 

Josephina cut short her husband's chatter in a cold, contemptuous tone. 

"I don't want any painters for my daughter; you know it. Her mother hashad enough of them. "

Milita was going to marry López de Sosa. The matter was already settledas far as she was concerned. The boy had spoken to her and, assured ofher approval, would ask the father. 

"But does she love him? Do you think, Josephina, that these things canbe arranged to suit you?"

"Yes, she loves him; she is suited and wants to be married. Besides sheis your daughter; she would accept the other man just as readily. Whatshe wants is freedom, to get away from her mother, not to live in theunhappy atmosphere of my ill health. She doesn't say so, she doesn'teven know that she thinks it, but I see through her. "

And as if, while she spoke of her daughter, she could not maintain thecoldness she had toward her husband, she raised her hand to her eyes, to wipe away the silent tears. 

Renovales had recourse to rudeness in order to get out of thedifficulty. It was all nonsense; an invention of her diseased mind. Sheought to think of getting well and nothing else. What was she cryingfor! Did she want to marry her daughter to that automobile enthusiast?Well, get him. She did not want to? Well, let the girl stay at home. 

She was the one who had charge; no one was hindering her. Have themarriage as soon as possible? He was a mere cipher, and there was noreason for asking his advice. But steady, shucks! He had to work; he hadto go out. And when he saw Josephina leaving the studio to weepsomewhere else, he gave a snort of satisfaction, glad to have escapedfrom this difficult scene so successfully. 

López de Sosa was all right. An excellent boy! Or anyone else. He didnot have time to give to such matters. Other things occupied hisattention. 

He accepted his future son-in-law, and for several evenings he stayed athome to lend a sort of patriarchal air to the family parties. Milita andher betrothed talked at one end of the drawing-room. Cotoner, in thefull bliss of digestion, strove with his jests to bring a faint smile tothe face of the master's wife, but she stayed in the corner, shiveringwith cold. Renovales, in a smoking jacket, read the papers, soothed bythe charming atmosphere of his quiet home. If the countess could onlysee him!

One night the Alberca woman's name was mentioned in the drawing-room. Milita was running over from memory the list of friends of thefamily, --prominent ladies who would not fail to honor her approachingmarriage with some magnificent present. 

"Concha won't come, " said the girl. "It's a long time since she has beenhere. "

There was a painful silence, as if the countess's name chilled theatmosphere. Cotoner hummed a tune, pretending to be thinking ofsomething else; López de Sosa began to look for a piece of music on thepiano, talking about it to change the subject. He too seemed to be awareof the matter. 

"She doesn't come because she doesn't have to come, " said Josephina fromher corner. "Your father manages to see her every day, so that she won'tforget us. "

Renovales raised his eyes in protest, as if he were awakening from acalm sleep. Josephina's gaze was fixed on him, not angry, but mockingand cruel. It reflected the same scorn with which she had wounded him onthat unhappy night. She no longer said anything, but the master read inthose eyes:

"It is useless, my good man. You are mad over her, you pursue her, butshe belongs to other men. I know her of old. I know all about it. Oh, how people laugh at you! How I laugh! How I scorn you!"

IV

The beginning of summer saw the wedding of the daughter of Renovales toLópez de Sosa. The papers published whole columns on the event, inwhich, according to some of the reporters, "the glory and splendor ofart were united with the prestige of aristocracy and fortune. " No oneremembered now the nickname "Pickled Herring. "

The master Renovales did things well. He had only one daughter and hewas eager to marry her with royal pomp; eager that Madrid and all Spainshould know of the affair, that a ray of the glory her father had wonmight fall on Milita. 

The list of gifts was long. All the friends of the master, societyladies, political leaders, famous artists, and even royal personages, appeared in it with their corresponding presents. There was enough tofill a store. Both of the studios for visitors were converted into showrooms with countless tables loaded with articles, a regular fair ofclothes and jewelry, that was visited by all of Milita's girl friends, even the most distant and forgotten, who came to congratulate her, palewith envy. 

The Countess of Alberca, too, sent a huge, showy gift, as if she did notwant to remain unnoticed among the friends of the house. DoctorMonteverde was represented by a modest remembrance, though he had noother connection with the family than his friendship with the master. 

The wedding was celebrated at the house, where one of the studios wasconverted into a chapel. Cotoner had a hand in everything that concernedthe ceremony, delighted to be able to show his influence with the peopleof the Church. 

Renovales took charge of the arrangements of the altar, eager to displaythe touch of an artist even in the least details. On a background ofancient tapestries he placed an old triptych, a medieval cross; all thearticles of worship which filled his studio as decorations, cleaned nowfrom dust and cobwebs, recovered for a few moments their religiousimportance. 

A variegated flood of flowers filled the master's house. Renovalesinsisted on having them everywhere; he had sent to Valencia and Murciafor them in reckless quantities; they hung on the door-frames, and alongthe cornices; they lay in huge clusters on the tables and in thecorners. They even swung in pagan garlands from one column of the façadeto another, arousing the curiosity of the passers-by, who crowdedoutside of the iron fence, --women in shawls, boys with great baskets ontheir heads who stood in open-mouthed wonder before the strange sight, waiting to see what was going on in that unusual house, following thecoming and going of the servants who carried in music stands and twobase viols, hidden in varnished cases. 

Early in the morning Renovales was hurrying about with two ribbonsacross his shirt front and a constellation of golden, flashing starscovering one whole side of his coat. Cotoner, too, had put on theinsignia of his various Papal Orders. The master looked at himself inall the mirrors with considerable satisfaction, admiring equally hisfriend. They must look handsome; a celebration like this they wouldnever see again. He plied his companion with incessant questions, tomake sure that nothing had been overlooked in the preparations. Themaster Pedraza, a great friend of Renovales, was to conduct theorchestra. They had gathered all the best players in Madrid, for themost part from the Opera. The choir was a good one, but the only notableartists they had been able to secure were people who made the capitaltheir residence. The season was not the best; the theaters were closed. 

Cotoner continued to explain the measures he had taken. Promptly at tenthe Nuncio, Monsignore Orlandi, --a great friend of his--would arrive; ahandsome chap, still young, whom he had met in Rome when he was attachedto the Vatican. A word on Cotoner's part was all that was necessary topersuade him to do them the honor of marrying the children. Friends areuseful at times! And the painter of the popes, proud of his sudden riseto importance, went from room to room, arranging everything, followed bythe master who approved of his orders. 

In the studio, the orchestra and the table for the luncheon were set. The other rooms were for the guests. Was anything forgotten? The twoartists looked at the altar with its dark tapestries, and itscandelabra, crosses and reliquaries, of dull, old gold that seemed toabsorb the light rather than reflect it. Nothing was lacking. Ancientfabrics and garlands of flowers covered the walls, hiding the master'sstudies in color, unfinished pictures, profane works that could not betolerated in the discreet, harmonious atmosphere of that chapel-likeroom. The floor was partly covered with costly rugs, Persian andMoorish. In front of the altar were two praying desks and behind them, for the more important guests, all the luxurious chairs of the studio:white armchairs of the 18th Century, embroidered with pastoral scenes, Greek settles, benches of carved oak and Venetian chairs with highbacks, the bizarre confusion of an antique shop. 

Suddenly Cotoner started back as if he were shocked. How careless! Afine thing it would have been if he had not noticed it! At the end ofthe studio, opposite the altar that screened a large part of the window, and directly in its light, stood a huge, white, naked woman. It was the"Venus de Medici, " a superb piece of marble that Renovales had broughtfrom Italy. Its pagan beauty in its dazzling whiteness seemed tochallenge the deathly yellow of the religious objects that filled theother end of the studio. Accustomed to see it, the two artists hadpassed in front of it several times without noticing its nakedness thatseemed more insolent and triumphant now that the studio was convertedinto an oratory. 

Cotoner began to laugh. 

"What a scandal if we hadn't seen it! What would the ladies have said!My friend Orlandi would have thought that you did it on purpose, for heconsiders you rather lax morally. Come, my boy, let's get something tocover up this lady. "

After much searching in the disorder of the studio, they found a pieceof Indian cotton, scrawled with elephants and lotus flowers; theystretched it over the goddess's head, so that it covered her down to herfeet and there it stood, like a mystery, a riddle for the guests. 

They were beginning to arrive. Outside of the house, at the fencesounded the stamping of the horses, the slam of doors as they closed. Inthe distance rumbled other carriages, drawing nearer every minute. Theswish of silk on the floor sounded in the hall, and the servants ranback and forth, receiving wraps and putting numbers on them, as at thetheater, to stow them away in the parlor that had been converted into acoat-room. Cotoner directed the servants, smooth shaven or wearingside-whiskers, and clad in faded dress-suits. Renovales meanwhile waswreathed in smiles, bowing graciously, greeting the ladies who came intheir black or white mantillas, grasping the hands of the men, some ofwhom wore brilliant uniforms. 

The master felt elated at this procession which ceremoniously passedthrough his drawing-rooms and studios. In his ears, the swish of skirts, the movement of fans, the greetings, the praise of his good tastesounded like caressing music. Everyone came with the same satisfactionin seeing and being seen, which people reveal on a first night at thetheater or at some brilliant reception. Good music, presence of theNuncio, preparations for the luncheon which they seemed to sniffalready, and besides, the certainty of seeing their names in print thenext day, perhaps of having their picture in some illustrated magazine. Emilia Renovales' wedding was an event. 

Among the crowd of people that continued to pour in were seen severalyoung men, hastily holding up their cameras. They were going to havesnap-shots! Those who retained some bitterness against the artist, remembering how dearly they had paid him for a portrait, now pardonedhim generously and excused his robbery. There was an artist that livedlike a gentleman! And Renovales went from one side to another, shakinghands, bowing, talking incoherently, not knowing in which direction toturn. For a moment, while he stood in the hall, he saw a bit of sunlitgarden, covered with flowers and beyond a fence a black mass: theadmiring, smiling throng. He breathed the odor of roses and subtleperfumes, and felt the rapture of optimism flood his breast. Life was agreat thing. The poor rabble, crowded together outside, made him recallwith pride the blacksmith's son. Heavens, how he had risen! He feltgrateful to those wealthy, idle people who supported his well-being; hemade every effort so that they might lack nothing, and overwhelmedCotoner with his suggestions. The latter turned on the master with thearrogance of one who is in authority. His place was inside, with theguests. He need not mind him, for he knew his duties. And turning hisback on Mariano, he issued orders to the servants and showed the way tothe new arrivals, recognizing their station at a glance. "This way, gentlemen. "

It was a group of musicians and he led them through a servants' hallwayso that they might get to their stands without having to mingle with theguests. Then he turned to scold a crowd of bakerboys, who were late inbringing the last shipments of the luncheon and advanced through theassemblage, raising the great, wicker baskets over the heads of theladies. 

Cotoner left his place when he saw rising from the stairway a plush hatwith gold tassels over a pale face, then a silk cassock with purple sashand buttons, flanked by two others, black and modest. 

_"Oh, monsignore! Monsignore Orlandi! Va bene? Va bene?"_

He kissed his hand with a profound reverence, and after inquiringanxiously for his health, as if he had not seen him the day before, started off, opening a passage way in the crowded drawing-rooms. 

"The Nuncio! The Nuncio of His Holiness!"

The men, with the decorum of decent persons, who know how to showrespect for dignitaries, stopped laughing and talking to the ladies, andbent forward, as he passed, to take that delicate, pale hand, whichlooked like the hand of a lady of the olden days, and kiss the hugestone of its ring. The ladies, with moist eyes, looked for a moment atMonsignor Orlandi, --a distinguished prelate, a diplomat of the Church, a noble of the Old Roman nobility, --tall, thin, pale as chalk, withblack hair and imperious eyes in which there was an intense flash offlame. 

He moved with the haughty grace of a bull-fighter. The lips of the womenrested eagerly on his hand, while he gazed with enigmatical eyes at theline of graceful necks bowed before him. Cotoner continued ahead, opening a passage, proud of his part, elated at the respect which hisillustrious friend inspired. What a wonderful thing religion was!

He accompanied him to the sacristy, which once was the dressing-room forthe models. He remained outside, discreetly, but every other minute someone of the Nuncio's attendants came out in search of him, --sprightlyyoung fellows with a feminine carriage and a faint suggestion of perfumeabout them, who looked on the artist with respect, believing he was animportant personage. They called to Signor Cotoner, asking him to helpthem find something Monsignor had sent the day before, and the Bohemian, in order to avoid further requests, finally went into the dressing-room, to assist in the sacred toilette of his illustrious friend. 

In the drawing-rooms the company suddenly eddied, the conversationceased, and a throng of people, after crowding in front of one of thedoors, opened to leave a passage. 

The bride, leaning on the arm of a distinguished gentleman, who was thebest man, entered, clad in white, ivory white her dress, snow white herveil, pearl white her flowers. The only bright color she showed was thehealthy pink of her cheeks and the red of her lips. She smiled to herfriends, not bashfully nor timidly, but with an air of satisfaction atthe festivity and the fact that she was its principal object. After hercame the groom, giving his arm to his new mother, the painter's wife, smaller than ever in her party-gown that was too large for her, dazed bythis noisy event that broke the painful calm of her existence. 

And the father? Renovales was missing in the formal entrance; he wasvery busy attending to the guests; a gracious smile, half hidden behinda fan, detained him at one end of the drawing-room. He had felt some onetouch his shoulder and, turning around, he saw the solemn Count ofAlberca with his wife on his arm. The count had congratulated him on theappearance of the studios; all very artistic. The countess hadcongratulated him too, in a jesting tone, on the importance of thisevent in his life. The moment of retiring, of saying good-by to youthhad come. 

"They are shelving you, dear master. Pretty soon they will be callingyou grandfather. "

She laughed with pleasure at the flush of pain these pitying wordscaused him. But before Mariano could answer the countess, he felthimself dragged away by Cotoner. What was he doing there? The bride andgroom were at the altar; Monsignor was beginning the service; thefather's chair was still vacant. And Renovales passed a tiresomehalf-hour following the ceremonies of the prelate with an absent-mindedglance. Far away in the last of the studios, the stringed instrumentsstruck a loud chord and a melody of earthly mysticism poured forth fromroom to room in the atmosphere laden with the perfume of crumpled roses. 

Then a sweet voice, supported by others more harsh, began a prayer thathad the voluptuous rhythm of an Italian serenade. A passing wave ofsentimentality seemed to stir the guests. Cotoner, who stood near thealtar, in case Monsignor should need something, felt moved to tendernessby the music, by the sight of that distinguished gathering, by thedramatic gravity with which the Roman prelate conducted the ceremoniesof his profession. Seeing Milita so fair, kneeling, with her eyeslowered under her snowy veil, the poor Bohemian blinked to keep back thetears. He felt just as if he were marrying his own daughter. He who hadnot had one!

Renovales sat up, seeking the countess's eyes above the white and blackmantillas. Sometimes he found them resting on him with a mockingexpression, at other times he saw them seeking Monteverde in the crowdof gentlemen that filled the doorway. 

There was one moment when the painter paid attention to the ceremony. How long it was! The music had ceased; Monsignor, with his back to thealtar, advanced several steps toward the newly married couple, holdingout his hands, as if he were going to speak to them. There was aprofound hush and the voice of the Italian began to sound in the silencewith a sing-song mellowness, hesitating over some words, supplying themwith others of his own language. He explained to the man and wife theirduties and expatiated, with oratorical fire, in his praises of theirfamilies. He spoke little of him; he was a representative of the upperclasses, from which rise the leaders of men; he knew his duties. She wasthe descendant of a great painter whose fame was universal, of anartist. 

As he mentioned art, the Roman prelate was fired with enthusiasm, as ifhe were speaking of his own stock, with the deep interest of a man whoselife had been spent among the splendid half-pagan decorations of theVatican. "Next to God, there is nothing like art. " And after thisstatement, with which he attributed to the bride a nobility superior tothat of many of the people who were watching her, he eulogized thevirtues of her parents. In admirable terms, he commended their pure loveand Christian fidelity, ties with which they approached together, Renovales and his wife, the portal of old age and which surely wouldaccompany them till death. The painter bowed his head, afraid that hewould meet Concha's mocking glance. He could hear Josephina's stifledsobs, with her face hidden in the lace of her mantilla. Cotoner feltcalled upon to second the prelate's praises with discreet words ofapproval. 

Then the orchestra noisily began Mendelssohn's "Wedding March"; thechairs ground on the floor as they were pushed back; the ladies rushedtoward the bride and a buzz of congratulations, shouted over the headsof the company, and of noisy efforts to be the first to reach her, drowned out the vibration of the strings and the heavy blast of thebrasses. Monsignor, whose importance disappeared as soon as the ceremonywas over, made his way with his attendants to the dressing-room, passingunnoticed through the throng. The bride smiled with a resigned air amidthe circle of feminine arms that squeezed her and friendly lips thatshowered kisses on her. She expressed surprise at the simplicity of theceremony. Was that all there was to it? Was she really married?

Cotoner saw Josephina making her way across the room, lookingimpatiently among the shoulders of the guests, her face tinged with ahectic flush. His instinct of a master of ceremonies warned him thatdanger was at hand. 

"Take my arm, Josephina. Let's go outside for a breath of fresh air. This is unbearable. "

She took his arm but instead of following him, she dragged him among thepeople who crowded around her daughter until at last, seeing theCountess of Alberca, she stopped. Her prudent friend trembled. Just whathe thought--she was looking for the other woman. 

"Josephina, Josephina! Remember that this is Milita's wedding!"

But his advice was useless. Concha, seeing her old friend, ran towardher. "Dear! So long since I've seen you! A kiss--another. " And shekissed her effusively. The little woman made one attempt to resist; butthen she submitted, dejectedly, smiling sadly, overcome by habit andtraining. She returned her kisses coldly with an indifferent expression. She did not hate Concha. If her husband did not go to her, he would goto some one else; the real, the dangerous enemy was within him. 

The bride and groom, arm in arm, smiling and somewhat fatigued by theviolent congratulations, passed through the groups of people anddisappeared, followed by the last chords of the triumphal march. 

The music ceased, and the company crowded around the tables covered withbottles, cold meats and confections, behind which the servants hurriedin confusion, not knowing how to serve so many a black glove or whitehand that seized the gold-bordered plates and the little pearl knivescrossed on the dishes. It was a smiling, well-bred riot, but they pushedand trod on the ladies' trains and used their elbows, as if, now theceremony was over, they were all gnawed with hunger. 

Plate in hand, stifled and breathless after the assault, they scatteredthrough the studios, eating even on the very altar. There were notservants enough for so great a gathering; the young men, seizing bottlesof champagne, ran in all directions, filling the ladies' glasses. Amidgreat merriment the tables were pillaged. The servants covered themhastily and with no less speed the pyramids of sandwiches, fruits, andsweets came down and the bottles disappeared. The corks popped two andthree at a time, in ceaseless crossfire. 

Renovales ran about like a servant, loaded with plates and glasses, going back and forth from the crowded tables to the corners where someof his friends were seated. The Alberca woman assumed the airs of amistress; she made him go and come with constant requests. 

On one of these trips he ran into his beloved pupil, Soldevilla. He hadnot seen him for a long time. He looked rather gloomy, but he found someconsolation in looking at his waistcoat, a novelty that had made a "hit"among the younger set; of black velvet with embroidered flowers and goldbuttons. 

The master felt that he ought to console him, --poor boy! For the firsttime he gave him to understand that he was "in the secret. "

"I wanted something else for my daughter, but it was impossible. Work, Soldevilla! Courage! We must not have any mistress except painting. "

And content to have delivered this kindly consolation, he returned tothe countess. 

At noon, the reception ended. López de Sosa and his wife reappeared intraveling costume; he in a fox-skin overcoat, in spite of the heat, aleather cap and high leggings; she in a long mackintosh that reached toher feet and a turban of thick veils that hid her face, like a fugitivefrom a harem. 

At the door, the groom's latest acquisition was waiting for them--aneighty horse-power car that he had bought for his wedding trip. Theyintended to spend the night some hundred miles away in a corner of oldCastile, at an estate inherited from his father which he had nevervisited. 

A modern wedding, as Cotoner said, a honeymoon at full speed, withoutany witness except the discreet back of the chauffeur. The next day theyexpected to start for a tour of Europe. They would go as far as Berlin;perhaps farther. 

López de Sosa shook hands with his friends vigorously, like a proudexplorer, and went out to look over his car, before leaving. Militasubmitted to her friends' caresses, carrying away her mother's tears onher veil. 

"Good-by, good-by, my daughter!"

And the wedding was over. 

Renovales and his wife were left alone. The absence of their daughterseemed to increase the solitude, widening the distance between them. They looked at each other hostilely, reserved and gloomy, without asound to break the silence and serve as a bridge to enable them toexchange a few words. Their life was going to be like that of convicts, who hate each other and walk side by side, bound with the same chain, intormenting union, forced to share the same necessities of life. 

As a remedy for this isolation that filled them with misgivings theyboth thought of having the newly married couple come to live with them. The house was large, there was room for them all. But Milita objected, gently but firmly, and her husband seconded her. He must live near hiscoach house, his garage. Besides, where could he, without shocking hisfather-in-law, put his collection of treasures, his museum of bull'sheads and bloody suits of famous toreadors, which was the envy of hisfriends and an object of great curiosity for many foreigners. 

When the painter and his wife were alone again, it seemed as though theyhad aged many years in a month; they found their house more huge, moredeserted, --with the echoing silence of abandoned monuments. Renovaleswanted Cotoner to move to the house, but the Bohemian declined with asort of fear. He would eat with them; he would spend a great part of theday at their house; they were all the family he had; but he wanted tokeep his freedom; he could not give up his numerous friends. 

Well along in the summer, the master induced his wife to take her usualvacation. They would go to a little known Andalusian watering-place, afishing village where the artist had painted many of his pictures. Hewas tired of Madrid. The Countess of Alberca was at Biarritz with herhusband. Doctor Monteverde had gone there too, dragged along by her. 

They made the trip, but it did not last more than a month. The masterhardly finished two canvases. Josephina felt ill. When they reached thewatering-place, her health improved greatly. She appeared more cheerful;for hours at a time she would sit in the sand, getting tanned in thesun, craving the warmth with the eagerness of an invalid, watching thesea with her expressionless eyes, near her husband who painted, surrounded by a semicircle of wretched people. She sang, smiledsometimes to the master, as if she forgave him everything and wanted toforget, but suddenly a shadow of sadness had fallen on her; her bodyseemed paralyzed once more by weakness. She conceived an aversion to thebright beach, and the life of the open air, with that repugnance forlight and noise which sometimes seizes invalids and makes them hide inthe seclusion of their beds. She sighed for her gloomy house in Madrid. There she was better, she felt stronger, surrounded with memories; shethought she was safer from the black danger that hovered about her. Besides, she longed to see her daughter. Renovales must telegraph to hisson-in-law. They had toured Europe long enough; it was time for them tocome back; she must see Milita. 

They returned to Madrid at the end of September, and a little later thenewly married couple joined them, delighted with their trip and stillmore delighted to be at home again. López de Sosa had been greatly vexedby meeting people wealthier than he, who humiliated him with theirluxury. His wife wanted to live among friends who would admire herprosperity. She was grieved at the lack of curiosity in those countrieswhere no one paid any attention to her. 

With the presence of her daughter, Josephina seemed to recover herspirits. The latter frequently came in the afternoon, dressed in hershowy gowns, which were the more striking at that season when most ofthe society folk were away from Madrid, and took her mother to ride inthe motor in the suburbs of the capital, sweeping along the dusty roads. Sometimes, too, Josephina summoning her courage, overcame her bodilyweakness and went to her daughter's house, a second-story apartment inthe Calle de Olòzaga, admiring the modern comforts that surrounded her. 

The master seemed to be bored. He had no portraits to paint; it wasimpossible for him to do anything in Madrid while he was still saturatedwith the radiant sun and the brilliant colors of the Mediterraneanshore. Besides, he missed the company of Cotoner, who had gone to ahistoric little town in Castile, where with a comic pride he receivedthe honors due to genius, living in the palace of the prelate andruining several pictures in the Cathedral by an infamous restoration. 

His loneliness made Renovales remember the Alberca woman with all thegreater longing. She, on her part, with a constant succession of lettersreminded the painter of her every day. She had written to him while hewas at the little village on the coast and now she wrote to him inMadrid, asking him what he was doing, taking an interest in the mostinsignificant details of his daily life and telling him about her ownwith an exuberance that filled pages and pages, till every envelopecontained a veritable history. 

The painter followed her life minute by minute, as if he were with her. She talked to him about Darwin, concealing Monteverde under this name;she complained of his coldness, of his indifference, of the air ofcommiseration with which he submitted to her love. "Oh, master, I amvery unhappy!" At other times her letter was triumphant, optimistic; sheseemed radiant, and the painter read her satisfaction between the lines;he divined her intoxication after those daring meetings in her ownhouse, defying the count's blindness. And she told him everything, withshameless, maddening familiarity, as if he were a woman, as if he couldnot be moved in the least by her confidences. 

In her last letter, Concha seemed mad with joy. The count was at SanSebastian, to take leave of the king and queen, --an important diplomaticmission. Although he was not "in line, " they had chosen him as arepresentative of the most distinguished Spanish nobility to take theFleece to a petty prince of a little German state. The poor gentleman, since he could not win the golden distinction, had to be contented withtaking it to other men with great pomp. Renovales saw the countess'shand in all this. Her letters were radiant with joy. She was going to beleft alone with Darwin, for the noble gentleman would be absent for along time. Married life with the doctor, free from risk and disturbance!

Renovales read these letters merely out of curiosity; they no longerawakened in him an intense or lasting interest. He had grown accustomedto his situation as a confidant; his desire was cooled by the franknessof that woman who put herself in his power, telling him all her secrets. Her body was the only thing he did not know; her inner life he possessedas did none of her lovers and he began to feel tired of this possession. When he finished reading these letters, he would always think the samething. "She is mad. What do I care about her secrets?"

A week passed without any news from Biarritz. The papers spoke of thetrip of the eminent Count of Alberca. He was already in Germany with allhis retinue, getting ready to put the noble lambskin around the princelyshoulders. Renovates smiled knowingly, without emotion, without envy, ashe thought of the countess's silence. She had a great deal to take upher time, no doubt, since she was left alone. 

Suddenly one afternoon he heard from her in the most unexpected manner. He was going out of his house, just at sunset, to take a walk on theheights of the Hippodrome along the Canalillo to view Madrid from thehill, when at the gate a messenger boy in a red coat handed him aletter. The painter started with surprise on recognizing Concha'shandwriting. Four hasty, excited lines. She had just arrived thatafternoon on the French express with her maid, Marie. She was alone athome. "Come, hurry. Serious news. I am dying. " And the master hurried, though the announcement of her death did not make much impression onhim. It was probably some trifle. He was used to the countess'sexaggeration. 

The spacious house of the Albercas was dark, dusty and echoing like alldeserted buildings. The only servant who remained was the concierge. Hischildren were playing beside the steps as if they did not know that thelady of the house had returned. Upstairs the furniture was wrapped ingray covers, the chandeliers were veiled with cheese-cloth, the houseand glass of the mirrors were dull and lifeless under the coating ofdust. Marie opened the door for him and led the way through the dark, musty rooms, the windows closed, and the curtains down, without anylight except what came through the cracks. 

In the reception hall he ran into several trunks, still unpacked, dropped and forgotten in the haste of arrival. 

At the end of this pilgrimage, almost feeling his way through thedeserted house, he saw a spot of light, the door of the countess'sbedroom, the only room that was alive, lighted up by the glow of thesetting sun. Concha was there beside the window, buried in a chair, herbrow contracted, her glance lost in the distance, her face tinged withthe orange of the dying light. 

Seeing the painter she sprang to her feet, stretched out her arms andran toward him, as if she were fleeing from pursuit. 

"Mariano! Master! He has gone! He has left me forever!"

Her voice was a wail; she threw her arms around him, burying her face inhis shoulder, wetting his beard with the tears that began to fall fromher eyes drop by drop. 

Renovales, under the impulse of his surprise, repelled her gently and hemade her go back to her chair. 

"Who has gone away? Who is it? Darwin?"

Yes; he. It was all over. The countess could hardly talk; a painful sobinterrupted her words. She was enraged to see herself deserted and herpride trampled on; her whole body trembled. He had fled at the height oftheir happiness, when she thought that she was surest of him, when theyenjoyed a liberty they had never known. He was tired of her; he stillloved her, --as he said in a letter, --but he wanted to be free tocontinue his studies. He was grateful to her for her kindness, surfeitedwith so much love, and he fled to go into seclusion abroad and become agreat man, not thinking any more about women. This was the purpose ofthe brief lines he had sent her on his disappearance. A lie, an absolutelie! She saw something else. The wretch had run away with a cocotte whowas the cynosure of all eyes on the beach at Biarritz. An ugly thing, who had some vulgar charm about her, for all the men raved over her. That young "sport" was tired of respectable people. He probably wasoffended because she had not secured him the professorship, because hehad not been made a deputy. Heavens! How was she to blame for herfailure? Had she not done everything she could?

"Oh, Mariano. I know I am going to die. This is not love; I no longercare for him. I detest him! It is rage, indignation. I would like to gethold of the little whipper-snapper, to choke him. Think of all thefoolish things I have done for him. Heavens! Where were my eyes!"

As soon as she discovered that she had been deserted, her only thoughtwas to find her good friend, her counselor, her "brother, " to go toMadrid, to see Renovales and tell him everything, everything! impelledby the necessity of confessing to him even secrets whose memory made herblush. 

She had no one in the world who loved her disinterestedly, no one exceptthe master, and with the panicky haste of a traveler who is lost atnight, in the midst of a desert, she had run to him, seeking warmth andprotection. 

This longing for protection came back to her in the master's presence. She went to him again, clinging to him, sobbing in hysteric fear, as ifshe were surrounded by dangers. 

"Master, you are all I have; you are my life! You won't ever leave me, will you? You will always be my brother?"

Renovales, bewildered at the unexpectedness of this scene, at thesubmission of that woman who had always repelled him and now suddenlyclung to him, unable to stand unless her arms were clasped about hisneck, tried to free himself from her arms. 

After the first surprise, the old coldness came over him. He wasirritated at this proud despair that was another's work. 

The woman he had longed for, the woman of his dreams came to him, seemedto give herself to him with hysteric sobs, eager to overwhelm him, perhaps without realizing what she was doing in the thoughtlessness ofher abnormal state; but he pushed her back, with sudden terror, hesitating and timid in the face of the deed, pained that therealization of his dreams came, not voluntarily but under the influenceof disappointment and desertion. 

Concha pressed close to him, eager to feel the protection of hispowerful body. 

"Master! My friend! You won't leave me! You are so good!"

And closing her eyes that no longer wept, she kissed his strong neck, and looked up with her eyes still moist, seeking his face in the shadow. They could hardly see each other; the room was dim with mysterioustwilight, --all its objects indistinct as in a dream, the dangerous hourthat had attracted them for the first time in the seclusion of thestudio. 

Suddenly she drew away in terror, fleeing from him, taking refuge in thegloom, pursued by his eager hands. 

"No, not that. We'll be sorry for it! Friends! Nothing more than friendsand always!"

Her voice, as she said this, was sincere, but weak, faint, the voice ofa victim who resists and has not the strength to defend himself. 

When the painter awakened it was night. The light from the street lampsshone through the window with a distant, reddish glow. 

He shivered with a sensation of cold, as if he were emerging from underan enticing wave where he had lain, he could not remember how long. Hefelt weak, humiliated, with the anxiety of a child who has donesomething wrong. 

Concha was sobbing. What folly! It had been against her will; she knewthey would be sorry for it. But she was the first to recover hercalmness. Her outline rose on the bright background of the window. Shecalled the painter who stood in the shadow, ashamed. 

"After all, there was no escape, " she said firmly. "It was a dangerousgame and it could not end in any other way. Now I know that I cared foryou; that you are the only man for whom I can care. "

Renovales was beside her. Their two forms made a single outline on thebright background of the window, in a supreme embrace as though theydesired to take refuge in each other. 

Her hands gently parted the heavy locks that hid the master's forehead. She gazed at him rapturously. Then she kissed his lips with an endlesscaress, whispering:

"Mariano, dear. I love you, I worship you. I will be your slave. Don'tever leave me. I will seek you on my knees. You don't know how I willcare for you. You shall not escape me. You wanted it, --you ugly darling, you big giant, my love. "

V

One afternoon at the end of October, Renovales noticed that his friendCotoner was rather worried. 

The master was jesting with him, making him tell about his labors asrestorer of paintings in the old church. He had come back fatter andmerrier, with a greasy, priestly luster. According to Renovales he hadbrought back all the health of the clerics. The bishop's table with itssucculent abundance was a sweet memory for Cotoner. He extolled it anddescribed it, praising those good gentlemen who, like himself, livedfree from passion with no other voluptuousness in life than a refinedappetite. The master laughed at the thought of the simplicity of thosepriests who in the afternoon, after the choir, formed a group aroundCotoner's scaffold, following the movements of his hands with wonderingeyes; at the respect of the attendants and other servants of theepiscopal palace, hanging on Don José's words, astonished to find suchmodesty in an artist who was a friend of cardinals and had studied inRome. 

When the master saw him so serious and silent that afternoon afterluncheon he wanted to know what was worrying him. Had they complained ofhis restoration? Was his money gone? Cotoner shook his head. It was nothis affairs; he was worrying over Josephina's condition. Had he notnoticed her?

Renovales shrugged his shoulders. It was the usual trouble:neurasthenia, diabetes, all those chronic ailments of which she did notwant to be cured, refusing to obey the physicians. She was thinner, buther nerves seemed calmer; she cried less; she maintained a sad silence, simply wanting to be alone and stay in a corner, staring into space. 

Cotoner shook his head again. Renovales' optimism was not to be wonderedat. 

"You are leading a strange life, Mariano. Since I came back from mytrip, you are a different man; I wouldn't know you. Once, you could notlive without painting and now you spend weeks at a time without takingup a brush. You smoke, sing, walk up and down the studio and all at oncerush off, out of the house and go--well. I know where, and perhaps yourwife suspects it. You seem to be having a good time, master. The deucetake the rest! But, man alive, come down from the clouds. See what isaround you; have some charity. "

And good Cotoner complained bitterly of the life the master wasleading--disturbed by sudden impatience and hasty departures, from whichhe returned absent-minded, with a faint smile on his lips and a vaguelook in his eyes, as if he still relished the feast of memories hecarried in his mind. 

The old painter seemed alarmed at Josephina's increasing delicacy, acuteconsumption that still found matter to destroy in her organism wasted byyears of illness. The poor little woman coughed constantly and thiscough, that was not dry but prolonged and violent, alarmed Cotoner. 

"The doctors ought to see her again. "

"The doctors!" exclaimed Renovales, "What's the use? A whole medicalfaculty has been here and to no avail. She doesn't mind them; sherefuses everything, perhaps to annoy me, to oppose me. There's nodanger; you don't know her. Weak and small as she is, she will outliveyou and me. "

His voice shook with wrath, as if he could not stand the atmosphere ofthat house where the only distractions he found were the pleasantmemories that took him away from it. 

Cotoner's insistence finally forced him to call a doctor who was afriend of his. 

Josephina was provoked, divining the cause of their anxiety. She feltstrong. It was nothing but a cold; the coming of winter. And in herglances at the artist there was reproach and insult for his attentionwhich she regarded as hypocrisy. 

When the doctor and the painter returned to the studio after theexamination of the patient and stood face to face, the former hesitatedas if he was afraid to formulate his ideas. He could not say anythingwith certainty; it was easy to make a mistake in regard to that weaksystem that maintained itself only by its extraordinary reserve power. Then he had recourse to the usual evasive measure of his profession. Headvised him to take her away from Madrid, a change of air, --a change oflife. 

Renovales objected. Where could she go, now that winter was beginning, when at the height of summer she had wanted to come home? The doctorshrugged his shoulders and wrote out a prescription, revealing in hisexpression the desire to write something, not to go away without leavinga piece of paper as a trace. He explained various symptoms to thehusband in order that he might observe them in the patient and he wentaway shrugging his shoulders again with a gesture that revealedindecision and dejection. 

Pshaw! Who knows? Perhaps! The system sometimes has unexpectedreactions, wonderful reserve power to resist disease. 

This enigmatic consolation alarmed Renovales. He spied on his wife, studying her cough, watching her closely when she did not see him. Theyno longer spent the night together. Since Milita's marriage, the fatheroccupied her room. They had broken the slavery of the common bed thattormented their rest. Renovales made up for this departure by going intoJosephina's chamber every morning. 

"Did you have a good night? Do you want something?"

His wife's eyes greeted him with hostility. 

"Nothing. "

And she accompanied this brief statement by turning over in the bed, disdainfully, with her back to the master. 

The painter received these evidences of hostility with quietresignation. It was his duty; perhaps she might die! But thispossibility of death did not stir him; it left him cold and he was angryat himself, as if two distinct personalities existed within him. Hereproached himself for his cruelty, his icy indifference before theinvalid who now produced in him only a passing remorse. 

One afternoon at the Alberca woman's house, after one of their daringmeetings with which they defied the holy calm of the noble, who had nowreturned from his trip, the painter spoke timidly of his wife. 

"I shall have to come less; don't be surprised. Josephina is very ill. "

"Very?" asked Concha. 

And in the flash of her glance, Renovales thought he saw somethingfamiliar, a blue gleam that had danced before him in the darkness of thenight with infernal glow, troubling his conscience. 

"No, maybe it isn't anything. I don't believe there is any danger. "

He felt forced to lie. It consoled him to discount her illness. He feltthat, by this voluntary deceit, he was relieving himself of the anxietythat goaded him. It was the lie of the man who justifies himself bypretending not to know the depth of the harm he has caused. 

"It isn't anything, " he said to his daughter, who, greatly alarmed ather mother's appearance, came to spend every night with her. "Just acold. It will disappear as soon as good weather comes. "

He had a fire in every fireplace in the house; the rooms were as hot asa furnace. He declared loudly, without any show of excitement, that hiswife was merely suffering from a slight cold, and as he spoke with suchassurance, a strange voice seemed to cry within him: "You lie, she isdying; she is dying and you know it. "

The symptoms of which the doctor had spoken began to appear with ominousregularity in fatal succession. At first he noticed only a constant highfever that seemed to grow worse with severe chills at the end of theafternoon. Then he observed sweats that were terrifying in theirfrequency--sweats at night that left the print of her body on thesheets. And that poor body, which grew more fragile, more like askeleton, as if the fire of the fever were devouring the last particleof fat and muscle, was left without any other covering and protectionthan the skin, and that too seemed to be melting away. She coughedfrequently; at all hours of the day and night her painful hackingdisturbed the silence of the house. She complained of a continual painin the lower part of her chest. Her daughter made her eat by dint ofcoaxing, lifting the spoon to her mouth, as if she were a child. Butcoughing and nausea made nutrition impossible. Her tongue was dry; shecomplained of an infernal thirst that was devouring her. 

Thus passed a month. Renovales, in his optimistic mood, strove tobelieve that her illness would not last long. 

"She is not dying, Pepe, " he would say in a convinced tone, as if hewere disposed to quarrel with anyone who opposed this statement. "She isnot dying, doctor. You don't think she is, do you?"

The doctor would answer with his everlasting shrug. "Perhaps, --it'spossible. " And as the patient refused to submit to an internalexamination, he was forced to inquire of the daughter and husband aboutthe symptoms. 

In spite of her extreme emaciation, some parts of her body seemed to beundergoing an abnormal swelling. Renovales questioned the doctorfrankly. What did he think of these symptoms? And the doctor bowed hishead. He did not know. They must wait: Nature has surprises. Butafterward, with sudden decision, he pretended that he wanted to write aprescription, in order that he might talk with the husband alone in hisworking studio. 

"To tell you the truth, Renovales, this pitiful comedy is gettingtiresome. It may be all right for the others but you are a man. It isacute consumption; perhaps a matter of days, perhaps a matter of a fewmonths; but she is dying and I know no remedy. If you want to, get someone else. "

"She is dying!" Renovales was dazed with surprise as if the possibilityof this outcome had never occurred to him. "She is dying!" And when thedoctor had gone away, with a firmer step than usual, as if he had freedhimself of a weight, the painter repeated the words to himself, withouttheir producing any other effect than leaving him abstracted insenseless stupidity. She is dying! But was it really possible that thatlittle woman could die, who had so weighed on his life and whoseweakness filled him with fear?

Suddenly he found himself walking up and down the studio, repeatingaloud, "She is dying! She is dying!"

He said it to himself in order that he might make himself feel sorry, and break out into sobs of grief, but he remained mute. 

Josephina was going to die--and he was calm. He wanted to weep; itseemed to him a duty. He blinked, swelling out his chest, holding hisbreath, trying to take in the whole meaning of his sorrow; but his eyesremained dry; his lungs breathed the air with pleasure; his thoughts, hard and refractory, did not shudder with any painful image. It was anexterior grief that found expression only in words, gestures and excitedwalking, his interior continued its old stolidness, as if the certaintyof that death had congealed it in peaceful indifference. 

The shame of his villainy tormented him. The same instinct that forcesascetics to submit themselves to mortal punishments for their imaginarysins dragged him with the power of remorse to the sick chamber. He wouldnot leave the room; he would face her scornful silence; he would staywith her till the end, forgetting sleep and hunger. He felt that he mustpurify himself by some noble, generous sacrifice from this blindness ofsoul that now was terrifying. 

Milita no longer spent the nights caring for her mother and would gohome, somewhat to the discomfiture of her husband, who had been ratherpleased at this unexpected return to a bachelor's life. 

Renovales did not sleep. After midnight when Cotoner went away he walkedin silence through the brilliantly lighted rooms; he prowled around thechamber--entered it to see Josephina in bed, sweating, shaken from timeto time by a fit of coughing or in a deathlike lethargy, so thin andsmall that the bed-clothes hardly showed the childlike outline of herbody. Then the master passed the rest of the night in an armchair, smoking, his eyes staring but his brain drowsy with sleep. 

His thoughts were far away. There was no use in feeling ashamed of hiscruelty; he seemed bewitched by a mysterious power that was superior tohis remorse. He forgot the sick woman; he wondered what Concha was doingat that time; he saw her in fancy; he remembered her words, hercaresses; he thought of their nights of abandon. And when, with aviolent effort, he threw off these dreams, in expiation he would go tothe door of the sick chamber and listen to her labored breathing, putting on a gloomy face, but unable to weep or feel the sadness helonged to feel. 

After two months of illness, Josephina could no longer stay in bed. Herdaughter would lift her out of it without any effort as if she were afeather, and she would sit in a chair, --small, insignificant, unrecognizable, her face so emaciated that its only features seemed tobe the deep hollows of her eyes and her nose, sharp as the edge of aknife. 

Cotoner could hardly keep back the tears when he saw her. 

"There isn't anything left of her!" he would say as he went away. "Noone would know her!"

Her harrowing cough scattered a deathly poison about her. White foamcame to her lips where it seemed to harden in the corners. Her eyes grewlarger, they took on a strange glow as if they saw through persons andthings. Oh, those eyes! What a shudder of terror they awakened inRenovales!

One afternoon they fell on him, with the intense, searching glance thathad always terrified him. They were eyes that pierced his forehead, thatlaid bare his thoughts. 

They were alone; Milita had gone home; Cotoner was sleeping in a chairin the studio. The sick woman seemed more animated, eager to talk, looking on her husband with a sort of pity as he sat beside her, almostat her feet. 

She was going to die; she was certain of death. And a last revolt oflife that recoils from the end, the horror of the unknown, made thetears rise to her eyes. 

Renovales protested violently, trying to conceal his deceit by hisshouts. Die? She must not think of that! She would live; she still hadbefore her many years of happy existence. 

She smiled as if she pitied him. She could not be deceived; her eyespenetrated farther than his; she divined the impalpable, the invisiblethat hovered about her. She spoke weakly but with that inexplicablesolemnity that is characteristic of a voice that emits its last sounds, of a soul that unbosoms itself for the last time. 

"I shall die, Mariano, sooner than you think, later than I desire. Ishall die and you will be free. "

He! He desire her death! His surprise and remorse made him jump to hisfeet, wave his arms in angry protest, writhe, as if a pair of invisiblehands had just laid him bare with a rude wrench. 

"Josephina, don't rave. Calm yourself. For God's sake don't talk suchnonsense!"

She smiled with a painful, horrible expression, but immediately her poorface became beautiful with the serenity of one who is departing thislife without hallucinations or delirium, in perfect mental poise. Shespoke to him with the immense sympathy, the superhuman compassion of onewho contemplates the wretched stream of life, departing from itscurrent, already touching with her feet the shores of eternal shadow, ofeternal peace. 

"I should not want to go away without telling you. I die knowingeverything. Do not move; do not protest. You know the power I have overyou. More than once I have seen you watching me in terror, so easily doI read your thoughts. For years I have been convinced that all was overbetween us. We have lived like good creatures of God--eating together, sleeping together, helping each other in our needs. But I peered withinyou; I looked at your heart. Nothing! Not a memory, not a spark of love. I have been your woman, the good companion who cares for the house, andrelieves a man of the petty cares of life. You have worked hard tosurround me with comforts, in order that I might be contented and notdisturb you. But Love? Never. Many people live as we have--many of them;almost all. I could not; I thought that life was something different andI am not sorry to go away. Don't go into a rage; don't shout. You aren'tto blame, poor Mariano--It was a mistake for us to marry. "

She excused him gently with a kindness that seemed not of this world, generously passing over the cruelty and selfishness of a life she wasabout to leave. Men like him were exceptional; they ought to live alone, by themselves, like those great trees that absorb all the life from theground and do not allow a single plant to grow in the space which theirroots reach. She was not strong enough to stand isolation; in order tolive she must have the shadow of tenderness, the certainty of beingloved. She ought to have married a man like other men; a simple beinglike herself, whose only longings were modest and commonplace. Thepainter had dragged her into his extraordinary path out of the easy, well-beaten roads that the rest follow and she was falling by thewayside, old in the prime of her youth, broken because she had gone withhim in this journey which was beyond her strength. 

Renovales was walking about with ceaseless protests. 

"Why, what nonsense you are talking! You are raving! I have always lovedyou, Josephina. I love you now. "

Her eyes suddenly became hard. A flash of anger crossed their pupils. 

"Stop; don't lie. I know of a pile of letters that you have in yourstudio, hidden behind the books in your library. I have read them one byone. I have been following them as they came; I discovered your hidingplace when you had only three of them. You know that I see through you;that I have a power over you, that you can hide nothing from me. I knowyour love affairs. "

Renovales felt his ears buzzing, the floor slipping from under his feet. What astounding witchcraft! Even the letters so carefully hidden hadbeen discovered by that woman's divining instinct!

"It's a lie!" he cried vehemently to conceal his agitation. "It isn'tlove! If you have read them, you know what it is as well as I; justfriendship; the letters of a friend who is somewhat crazy. "

The sick woman smiled sadly. At first it was friendship--even less thanthat, the perverse amusement of a flighty woman who liked to play with acelebrated man, exciting in him the enthusiasm of youth. She knew herchildhood companion; she was sure it would not go any farther; and soshe pitied the poor man in the midst of his mad love. But afterwardsomething extraordinary had certainly happened; something that she couldnot explain and which had upset all of her calculations. Now her husbandand Concha were lovers. 

"Do not deny it; it is useless. It is this certainty that is killing me. I realized it when I saw you distracted, with a happy smile as if youwere relishing your thoughts. I realized it in the merry songs you sangwhen you awoke in the morning, in the perfume with which you wereimpregnated and which followed you everywhere. I did not need to findany more letters. The odor around you, that perfume of infidelity, ofsin, which always accompanied you, was enough. You, poor man, came homethinking that everything was left outside the door, and that odorfollows you, denounces you; I think I can still perceive it. "

And her nostrils dilated, as she breathed with a pained expression, closing her eyes as though she wished to escape the images which thatperfume called up in her. Her husband persisted in his denials, now thathe was convinced that she had no other proof of his infidelity. A lie!An hallucination!

"No, Mariano, " murmured the sick woman. "She is within you; she fillsyour head; from here I can see her. Once a thousand mad fancies occupiedher place, --illusions of your taste, naked women, a wantonness that wasyour religion. Now it is she who fills it. It is your desire incarnated. Go on and be happy. I am going away--there is no place for me in theworld. "

She was silent for a moment and the tears came to her eyes again at thememory of the first years of their life together. 

"No one has cared for you as I have, Mariano, " she said with tenderregret. "I look on you now as a stranger, without affection and withouthate. And still, there was never a woman who loved her husband sopassionately. "

"I worship you. Josephina, I love you just as I did when we first meteach other. Do you remember?"

But in spite of the emotion he pretended to show, his voice had a falsering. 

"Don't try to bluff, Mariano; it is useless; everything is over. You donot care for me nor have I either any of the old feeling. "

In her face there was an expression of wonder, of surprise; she seemedterror-stricken at her own calmness that made her forgive thusindifferently the man who had caused her so much suffering. In herfancy, she saw a wide garden, flowers that seemed immortal and they werewithering and falling with the advent of winter. Then her thoughts wentbeyond, over the chill of death. The snow was melting; the sun wasshining once more; the new spring was coming with its court of love andthe dry branches were growing green once more with another life. 

"Who knows!" murmured the sick woman with her eyes closed. "Perhaps, after I am dead, you will remember me. Perhaps you will care for methen, and be grateful to one who loved you so. We want a thing when itis lost. "

The invalid was silent, exhausted by such an effort; she relapsed intothat lethargy which for her took the place of rest. Renovales, afterthis conversation, felt his vile inferiority beside his wife. She kneweverything and forgave him. She had followed the course of his love, letter by letter, look by look, seeing in his smiles the memory of hisfaithlessness. And she was silent! She was dying without a protest! Andhe did not fall at her feet to beg her forgiveness! And he remainedunmoved, without a tear, without a sigh!

He was afraid to stay alone with her. Milita came back to stay at thehouse to care for her mother. The master took refuge in his studio; hewanted to forget in work the body that was dying under the same roof. 

But in vain he poured colors on his palette and took up brushes andprepared canvases. He did nothing but daub; he could make no progress, as if he had forgotten his art. He kept turning his head anxiously, thinking that Josephina was going to enter suddenly, to continue thatinterview in which she had laid bare the greatness of her soul and thebaseness of his own. He felt forced to return to her apartments, to goon tiptoe to the door of the chamber, in order to be sure that she wasthere. 

Her emaciation was frightful; it had no limits. When it seemed that itmust stop, it still surprised them with new shrinking, as if after thedisappearance of her flesh, her poor skeleton was melting away. 

Sometimes she was tormented with delirium, and her daughter, holdingback her tears, approved of the extravagant trips she planned, of herproposals to go far away to live with Milita in a garden, where theywould find no men; where there were no painters--no painters. 

She lived about two weeks. Renovales, with cruel selfishness, wasanxious to rest, complaining of this abnormal existence. If she mustdie, why did she not end it as soon as possible, and restore the wholehouse to tranquillity!

The end came one afternoon when the master, lying on a couch in hisstudio, was re-reading the tender complaints of a scented little letter. So long since she had seen him! How was the patient getting on? She knewthat his duty was there; people would talk if he came to see her. Butthis separation was hard!

He did not have a chance to finish it. Milita came into the studio, inher eyes that expression of horror and fright, which the presence ofdeath, the touch of his passage, always inspires, even if his arrivalhas been expected. 

Her voice came breathlessly, broken. Mamma was talking with her; she wasamusing her with the hope of a trip in the near future, --and all at oncea hoarse sound, --her head bent forward before it fell onto hershoulder--a moment--nothing--just like a little bird. 

Renovales ran to the bedroom, bumping into his friend Cotoner who cameout of the dining-room, running too. They saw her in an armchair, shrunken, wilted, in the deathly abandon that converts the body into alimp mass. All was over. 

Milita had to catch her father, to hold him up. She had to be the onewho kept her calmness and energy at the critical moment. Renovales lethis daughter lead him; he rested his face on her shoulder, with sublime, dramatic grief, with beautiful, artistic despair, still holdingabsent-mindedly in his hand the letter of the countess. 

"Courage, Mariano, " said poor Cotoner, his voice choked with tears. "Wemust be men. Milita, take your father to the studio. Don't let him seeher. "

The master let his daughter guide him, sighing deeply, trying in vain toweep. The tears would not come. He could not concentrate his attention;a voice within him was distracting him, --the voice of temptation. 

She was dead and he was free. He would go on his way, light-hearted, master of himself, relieved of troublesome hindrances. Before him laylife with all its joys, love without a fear or a scruple; glory with itssweet returns. 

Life was going to begin again. 

PART III

I

Until the beginning of the following winter Renovales did not return toMadrid. The death of his wife had left him stunned, as if he doubted itsreality, as if he felt strange at finding himself alone and master ofhis actions. Cotoner, seeing that he had no ambition for work and wouldlie on the couch in the studio with a blank expression on his face, asif he were in a waking dream, interpreted his condition as a deep, silent grief. Besides, it irritated him that as soon as Josephina wasdead, the countess began to come to the house frequently to see themaster and her dear Milita. 

"You ought to go away, "--the old artist advised. "You are free; you willbe just as well off anywhere as here. What you need is a long journey;that will take your mind off your trouble. "

And Renovales started on his journey with the eagerness of a school-boy, free for the first time from the vigilance of a family. Alone, rich, master of his actions, he believed that he was the happiest being onearth. His daughter had her husband, a family of her own; he saw himselfin welcome seclusion, without cares or duties, without any other tiesthan the constant letters of Concha, which met him on his travels. Oh, happy freedom!

He lived in Holland, studying its museums, which he had never seen:then, with the caprice of a wandering bird, he went down to Italy wherehe enjoyed several months of easy life, without any work, visitingstudios, receiving the honors due a famous master, in the same placeswhere once he had struggled, poor and unknown. Then he moved to Paris, finally attracted by the countess, who was spending the summer atBiarritz with her husband. 

Concha's epistolary style grew more urgent. She had numerous objectionsto a prolongation of the period of their separation. He must come back;he had traveled enough. She could not stand it without seeing him; sheloved him; she could not live without him. Besides, as a last resource, she spoke to him of her husband, the count, who, in his eternalblindness, joined in his wife's requests asking her to invite the artistto spend a while at their house in Biarritz. The poor painter must bevery sad in his bereavement and the kindly nobleman insisted onconsoling him in his loneliness. In his house, they would divert him;they would be a new family for him. 

The painter lived for a great part of the summer and all the autumn inthe welcome atmosphere of that home which seemed created for him. Theservants respected him, seeing in him the true master. The countess, delirious after his long absence, was so reckless that the artist had torestrain her, urging her to be prudent. The noble Count of Alberca wasunceasing in his sympathy. Poor friend! Deprived of his companion! Andby his expression he shared the horror he felt at the possibility ofbeing left a widower, without that wife who made him so happy. 

At the beginning of winter Renovales returned to his house. He did notexperience the slightest emotion on entering the three great studios, onpassing through those rooms, which seemed more icy, larger, more hollow, now that they were stirred by no other steps than his own. He could notbelieve that a year had passed. All was the same as if he had beenabsent for only a few days. Cotoner had taken good care of the house, setting to work the concierge and his wife and the old servant who hadcharge of cleaning the studios, --the only servants that Renovales hadkept. There was no dust, none of the close atmosphere of a house thathas long been closed. Everything appeared bright and clean, as if lifehad not been interrupted in that house. The sun and air had been pouringin the windows, driving out that atmosphere of sickness which Renovaleshad left when he went away and in which he fancied he could feel thetrace of the invisible garb of death. 

It was a new house, like the one he had known before in form, but asfresh as a recently constructed building. 

Outside of his studio nothing reminded him of his dead wife. He avoidedgoing into her chamber; he did not even ask who had the key. He slept inthe room that had formerly been his daughter's in a small, iron bed, delighted to lead a modest, sober life in that princely mansion. 

He took breakfast in the dining room at one end of the table, on anapkin, oppressed by the size and luxury of the room which now seemedvast and useless. He looked at the chair beside the fireplace, where thedead woman had often sat. That chair with its open arms seemed to bewaiting for her trembling, bird-like little body. But the painter didnot feel any emotion. He could not even remember Josephina's faceexactly. She had changed so much! The last, that skeleton-like mask, wasthe one he recalled the best, but he thrust it aside, with theselfishness of a strong, happy man, who does not want to sadden his lifewith unpleasant memories. 

He did not see her picture anywhere in the house. She seemed to haveevaporated forever without leaving the least trace of her body on thewalls that had so often supported her tottering steps, on the stairwaysthat hardly felt the weight of her feet. Nothing; she was quiteforgotten. Within Renovales, the only trace of the long years of theirunion that remained was an unpleasant feeling, an annoying memory thatmade him relish all the more his new existence. 

His first days in the solitude of the house brought new, intense joys. After luncheon he would lie down on the couch in the studio, watchingthe blue spirals of cigar smoke. Complete liberty! Alone in the world!Life wholly to himself, without any care or fear. He could go and comewithout a pair of eyes spying on his actions, without being reproachedwith bitter words. That little door of the studio, which he used towatch in terror, no longer opened, to let in his enemy. He could closeit, shutting out the world; he could open it and summon in a noisy, scandalous stream, all that he fancied--hosts of naked beauties, topaint in a wild bacchanalian rout, strange, black-eyed Oriental girls todance in morbid abandon on the rugs of the studio, all the disorderedillusions of his desire--the monstrous feasts of fancy which he haddreamed of in his days of servitude. He was not sure where he could findall this, he was not very eager to look for it. But the consciousnessthat he could realize it without any obstacle was enough. 

This consciousness of his absolute freedom, instead of urging him intoaction, kept him in a state of calm, satisfied that he could doeverything, without the least desire to try anything. Formerly he usedto rage, complaining of his fetters. What things he would do if he werefree! What scandals he would cause with his daring! Oh, if he only werenot married to a slave of convention who tried to apply rules to his artwith the same formality which she had for her calls and her householdexpenses!

And now that the slave of convention was gone, the artist remained insleepy comfort, looking like a timid lover, at the canvases he had beguna year before, at his neglected palette, saying with false energy, "Thisis the last day. To-morrow I will begin. "

And the next day, noon came, and with it luncheon, before Renovales hadtaken up a brush. He read foreign papers, magazines on art, looking up, with professional interest, what the famous painters of Europe wereexhibiting or working on. He received a call from some of his humblecompanions, and in their presence he lamented the insolence of theyounger generation, their disrespectful attacks, with the surliness of afamous artist who is getting old and thinks that talent has died outwith him and that no one can take his place. Then the drowsiness ofdigestion seized him, as it did Cotoner, and he submitted to the blissof short naps, the happiness of doing nothing. His daughter--all thefamily he had--would receive more than she expected at his death. He hadworked enough. Painting, like all the arts, was a pretty deceit, for theadvancement of which men strove as if they were mad, until they hated itlike death. What folly! It was better to keep calm, enjoying your ownlife, intoxicated with the simple animal joys, living for life's sake. What good were a few more pictures in those huge palaces filled withcanvases, disfigured by the centuries, in which hardly a single strokewas left as the author had made it? What good did it do the human race, which changes its dwelling place every dozen centuries and has seen theproud works of man, built of marble or granite, fall in ruins, --if acertain Renovales produced a few beautiful toys of cloth and colors, which a cigar stub could destroy, or a puff of wind, a drop of waterleaking through the wall, might ruin in a few years?

But this pessimistic attitude disappeared when some one called him"Illustrious Master, " or when he saw his name in a paper, and a pupil oradmirer manifested an interest in his work. 

At present he was resting. He had not yet recovered from the shock. PoorJosephina! But he was going to work a great deal; he felt a new strengthfor works greater than any that he had thus far produced. And afterthese exclamations, he would be seized with a mad desire for work andwould enumerate the pictures he had in mind, dwelling upon theiroriginality. They were bold problems in color, new technical methodsthat had occurred to him. But these plans never passed the limits ofspeech, they never reached the brush. The springs of his will, oncevibrant and vigorous, seemed broken or rusted. He did not suffer, he didnot desire. Death had taken away his fever for work, his artisticrestlessness, leaving him in the limbo of comfort and tranquillity. 

In the afternoon, when he succeeded in throwing off his comfortabletorpor, he went to see his daughter, if she was in Madrid, for she veryfrequently went with her husband on his automobile trips. Then he endedthe afternoon at the Albercas', where he often stayed till midnight. 

He dined there almost every day. The count, accustomed to his society, seemed as eager to see him as his wife. He spoke enthusiastically of theportrait which Renovales was painting of him to go with Concha's. Hewould make more progress when he secured some insignia of foreign ordersthat were still lacking in his catalogue of honors. And the artist felta twinge of remorse as he listened to the good gentleman's simplicity, while his wife, with mad recklessness, caressed him with her eyes, leaned toward him as if she were on the point of falling into his arms. 

Then, as soon as the husband went away, she would throw her arms abouthim, hungry for him, defying the curiosity of the servants. Love thatwas threatened with dangers seemed sweeter to her. And the artist tookpride in letting her worship him. He, who at first was the one whoimplored and pursued, assumed now an air of passive superiority, accepting Concha's homage. 

Lacking enthusiasm for work, in order to keep up his reputationRenovales took refuge in the official honors which are granted torespected masters. He put off till the next day the new work, the greatwork that was to call forth new cries of admiration over his name. Hewould paint his famous picture of Phryne on a beach, when summer came, and he could retire to the solitary shore, taking with him the perfectbeauty to serve as his model. Perhaps he could persuade the countess. Who knows! She smiled with satisfaction every time she heard from hislips the praise of her beauty. But meanwhile the master demanded thatpeople should remember his name for his earlier works, that they shouldadmire him for what he had already produced. 

He was irritated at the papers, which extolled the younger generation, remembered him only to mention him in passing, like a consecrated glory, like a man who was dead and had his pictures in the Museo del Prado. Hewas gnawed with dumb anger, like an actor who is tortured with envy, seeing the stage occupied by others. 

He wanted to work; he was going to work immediately. But as time passed, he felt an increasing laziness, which incapacitated him for work, anumbness in his hands, which he concealed even from his most intimatefriends, ashamed when he recalled his lightness of touch in the olddays. 

"This will not last, " he said to himself with the confidence of a manwho does not doubt his ability. 

In one of his fanciful moods, he compared himself with a dog, restless, fierce and aggressive when he is tormented with hunger, but gentle andpeaceable when he is surrounded with comforts. He needed his periods ofgreed and restlessness, when he desired everything, when he could notfind peace for his work, and in the midst of his marital troublesattacked the canvas as if it were an enemy, hurling colors on itfuriously, in slaps of light. Even after he was rich and famous, he hadhad something to long for. "If I only were free! If I were master of mytime! If I lived alone, without a family, without cares; as a trueartist should live!" And now his wishes were fulfilled, he had nothingto hope for, but he was a victim of laziness that amounted toexhaustion, absolutely without desire, as if only wrath and restlessnesswere for him the internal goad of inspiration. 

The longing for fame tormented him; as the days went by and his name wasnot mentioned, he believed that he had come to an obscure death. Hefancied that the youths turned their backs on him, to look in theopposite direction, storing him away among the respected dead, admiringother masters. His artistic pride made him seek opportunities fornotoriety, with the guilelessness of a tyro. He, who scoffed so at theofficial honors and the "sheepfold" of the academies, suddenlyremembered that several years before, after one of his successes, theyhad elected him a member of the Academy of Fine Arts. 

Cotoner was astonished to see the importance he began to attach to thisunsolicited distinction, at which he had always laughed. 

"That was a boy's joking, " said the master gravely. "Life cannot alwaysbe taken as a laughing matter. We must be serious, Pepe; we are gettingon in years, and we must not always make fun of things that areessentially respectable. "

Besides, he charged himself with rudeness. Those worthy personages, whomhe had often compared with all kinds of animals, no doubt thought itstrange that the years went by without his caring to occupy his seat. Hemust go to the academic reception. And Cotoner, at his bidding, attendedto all the details, from taking the news to those worthies, in orderthat they might set the date for the function, to arranging the speechof the new Academician. For Renovales learned with some misgiving thathe must read a speech. He, accustomed to handling the brush and poorlytrained in his childhood, took up the pen with timidity, and even in hisletters to the Alberca woman preferred to represent his passionatephrases with amusing pictures, to embodying them in words. 

The old Bohemian got him out of this difficulty. He knew his Madridwell. The secrets of the world which are detailed in the newspapers hadno mysteries for him. Renovales should have as magnificent a speech asany one. 

And one afternoon he brought to the studio a certain Isidro Maltrana, [A]a diminutive, ugly young fellow with a huge head, and an air ofself-satisfaction and boldness that disgusted Renovales from the veryfirst. He was well dressed but the lapels of his coat were dirty withashes, and its collar was strewn with dandruff. The painter observedthat he smelt of wine. At first he pompously styled him master, butafter a few words he called him by name with disconcerting familiarity. He moved about the studio as if it were his own, as if he had spent hiswhole life in it, indifferent to its beautiful decorations. 

It would not be any trouble for him to undertake the preparation of aspeech. That was his specialty. Academic receptions and works formembers of Congress were his best field. He understood that the masterneeded him--a painter!

And Renovales, who was beginning to find this Maltrana fellow attractivein spite of his insolence, drew himself up to his full height in themajesty of his fame. If it was a question of doing a picture foradmission, he was the man. But a speech!

"Agreed: you shall have the speech, " said Maltrana. "It's an easymatter, I know the recipe. We shall speak of the holy traditions of thepast, we shall despise certain daring innovations on the part of theinexperienced youth, which were perfectly proper twenty years ago, whenyou were beginning, but which now are out of place. Do you care for athrust at modernism?"

Renovales smiled, enchanted at the frankness with which this youngfellow spoke of his task, and he moved one hand to suggest a balance. "Man alive! Like this. A just mean is what we want. "

"Of course, Renovales; flatter the old men and not quarrel with theyoung. You are a real master. You will be pleased with my work. "

With the calmness of a shopkeeper, before the artist had a chance tospeak of the charge, he broached the matter. It would be two thousand_reales_; he had already told Cotoner. The low tariff; the one he setfor people he liked. 

"A man must live, Renovales. I have a son. "

And his voice grew serious as he said this; his face, ugly and cynical, became noble for a moment, reflecting the cares of paternal love. 

"A son, dear master, for whom I do anything that turns up. If it isnecessary I will steal. He is the only thing I have in the world. Hismother died in misery in the hospital. I dreamt of being something, butyou can't think of nonsense when you have a baby. Between the hope ofbeing famous and the certainty of eating--eating is the first. "

But his tenderness was not of long duration. He recovered the cold, mercenary expression of a man who goes through life in an armor ofcynicism, disillusioned by misfortune, setting a price on all his acts. They agreed on the sum; he should receive it when he handed over thespeech. 

"And if you print it, as I hope, " he said as he went away, "I will readthe proof without any extra charge. Of course that is a special favor toyou, because I am one of your admirers. "

Renovales spent several weeks in the preparations for his reception, asif it were the most important event in his life. The countess also tooka great interest in the matter. She would see to it that it was adistinguished function, something like the receptions of the FrenchAcademy, described in the papers or in novels. All of her friends wouldbe present. The great painter would read his speech, the cynosure of ahundred interested eyes, amid the fluttering of fans and the buzz ofconversation. An immense success which would enrage many artists whowere eager to get a foothold in high society. 

A few days before the function, Cotoner handed him a bundle of papers. It was a copy of the speech, --in a fair hand; it was already paid for. And Renovales, with the instinct of an actor anxious to make a goodshow, spent an afternoon, striding from studio to studio, with themanuscript in one hand and making energetic gestures with the other, while he read the paragraphs aloud. That impudent Maltrana was gifted!It was a work that filled the simple artist with enthusiasm, in hisignorance of everything except printing, a series of glorious trumpetblasts, in which were scattered names, many names; appreciations intremulous rhetoric, historical summaries, so well rounded, so completethat it seemed as though mankind had been living since the beginning ofthe world with no other thought than Renovates' speech, and judging itsacts in order that he might give them a definite interpretation. 

The artist felt a thrill of elevation as he repeated in eloquentsuccession Greek names, many of which were mere sounds to him, for hewas not certain whether they were great sculptors or tragic poets. Again, he experienced a sensation of self-satisfaction when heencountered the names of Dante and Shakespeare. He knew that they hadnot painted, but they ought to appear in every speech which was worthyof respect. And when he came to the paragraphs on modern art, he seemedto touch terra firma, and smiled with a superior air. Maltrana did notknow much about that subject; superficial appreciation of a layman; buthe wrote well, very well; he could not have done better himself. And hestudied his speech, till he could repeat whole paragraphs by heart, paying particular attention to the pronunciation of the difficult names, taking lessons from his most cultured friends. 

"It is for appearance's sake, " he said naïvely. "It is because I don'twant people to poke fun at me, even if I am only a painter. "

The day of the reception he had luncheon long before noon. He scarcelytouched the food; this ceremony, which he had never seen, made himrather worried. To his anxiety was added the irritation he always feltwhen he had to attend to the care of his person. 

His long years of married life had accustomed him to neglect all thetrivial, everyday needs of life. If he had to appear in differentclothes than usual, the hands of his wife and daughter deftly arrangedthem for him. Even at the times of greatest ill-feeling, when he andJosephina hardly spoke to each other, he noticed around him thescrupulous order of that excellent housekeeper who removed all obstaclesfrom his way, relieving him of the ordinary cares of life. 

Cotoner was away; the servant had gone to the countess's to take hersome invitations which she had asked for, at the last minute, for somefriends. Renovales decided to dress alone. His son-in-law and daughterwere going to come for him at two. López de Sosa had insisted on takinghim to the Academy in his car, seeking, no doubt, by this a little rayof the splendor of official glory that was to be showered on hisfather-in-law. 

Renovales dressed himself, after struggling with the many difficultiesthat arose from his lack of habit. He was as awkward as a child withouthis mother's help. When at last he looked at himself in the mirror, withhis dress coat on and his cravat neatly tied, he heaved a sigh ofrelief. At last! Now the insignia--the ribbon. Where could he find thosehonorary trinkets? Since Milita's wedding he had not had them on, thepoor departed had put them away. Where could he find them? And hastily, fearing the time would go by and his children would surprise him beforehe finished the decoration of his person, out of breath, swearing withimpatience, wandering around in hopeless confusion, unable to rememberanything definitely, he entered the room his wife had used as awardrobe. Perhaps she had put away his insignia there. He opened thedoors of the great clothes-closets with a nervous pull. Clothes! Nothingbut clothes. 

The odor of balsam, which made him think of the silent calm of thewoods, was mingled with a subtle, mysterious perfume, a perfume of yearsgone by, of dead beauties, of forgotten memories, like the fragrance ofdried flowers. This odor came from the mass of clothes that hung there, white, black, pink and blue dresses, with their colors dull andindistinct, the lace crumpled and yellow, retaining in their foldssomething of the living fragrance of the form they once had covered. Thewhole past of the dead woman was there. With superstitious care, she hadstored away the gowns of the different periods of her life, as if shehad been afraid to get rid of them, to tear out a part of her life. 

As the painter looked at some of these gowns, he felt the same emotionas if they were old friends who had suddenly appeared like an unexpectedsurprise. A pink skirt recalled the happy days in Rome; a blue suitbrought to his memory the Piazza di san Marco, and he thought he heardthe fluttering of the doves and the distant rumble of the noisy _Ride ofthe Valkyries_. The dark, cheap suits that belonged to the cruel days ofstruggle hung at the back of the closet, like the garb of suffering andsacrifice. A straw hat, bright as a summer wood, covered with redflowers and with cherries, seemed to smile to him from a shelf. Oh, heknew that too! Many a time its sharp edge of straw had stuck into hisforehead, when at sunset on the roads of the Roman Compagna he used tobend down, with his arm around his little wife's waist, to kiss her lipsthat trembled softly, while from the distance in the blue mist came thetinkle of the bells of the flocks and the mournful songs of thedrivers. 

That youthful perfume, grown old in its confinement, which poured fromthe closets in waves, with the rush of an old wine that escapes from thedusty bottle in spurts, spoke to him of the past, calling up the joysthat were dead. His senses trembled, a subtle intoxication crept overhim. He fancied he had fallen into a sea of perfume that buffeted himwith its waves, playing with him as if he were an inert body. It was thescent of youth that came back to him; the incense of the happy days, fainter, more subtle with the regret of dead years. It was the perfumeof her beauty which one night in Rome had made him sigh admiringly. 

"I worship you, Josephina. You are as fair as Goya's little _Maja_. Youare the _Maja Desnuda_. "

Holding his breath like a swimmer, he delved into the depths of theclosets, reaching out his hands greedily, yet eager to get out of there, to return, as soon as he could, to the surface, to the pure air. He cameupon card-board boxes, bundles of belts and old lace, without findingwhat he was seeking. And every time that his trembling arms shook theold clothes, the swinging of the skirts seemed to throw in his face awave of that dead, indefinable perfume which he breathed more with hisfancy than with his senses. 

He wanted to get out as soon as possible. The insignia were not in thewardrobe. Perhaps he would find them in the chamber. And for the firsttime since the death of his wife, he ventured to turn the door key. Theperfume of the past seemed to go with him; it had penetrated through allthe pores of his body. He fancied he felt the pressure of a pair ofdistant, enormous arms, that came from the infinite. He was no longerafraid to enter the chamber. 

He groped his way, looking for one of the windows. When the shutterscreaked and the sunlight rushed in, the painter's eyes, after a momentof blinking, saw, like a sweet, faint smile, the glow of the Venetianfurniture. 

What a beautiful artistic chamber! After a year of absence, the painteradmired the great clothes-press with its three mirrors, deep and blue asonly the mirror-makers of Murano could make them and the ebony of thefurniture inlaid with tiny bits of pearl and bright jewels, a specimenof the artistic genius of ancient Venice in contact with Orientalpeoples. This furniture had been for Renovales one of the greatundertakings of his youth; the whim of a lover, eager to bestow princelyhonors on his companion after years of strict economy. 

They had always had their luxurious bedroom wherever they were, even atthe time of their poverty. In those hard days when he painted in theattic and Josephina did the cooking, they had no chairs, they ate fromthe same plate; Milita played with rag-dolls; but in their miserable, whitewashed alcove were piled up with sacred respect all that furnitureof the fair-haired wife of some Doge, like a hope for the future, apromise of better times. She, poor woman, with her simple faith, cleanedit, worshiped it, waiting for the hour of magic transformation to movethem to a palace. 

The painter glanced about the chamber calmly. He found nothing unusualthere, nothing that moved him. Cotoner had prudently hidden the chair inwhich Josephina died. 

The princely bed, with its monumental head and foot of carved ebony andbrilliant mosaic, looked vulgar with the mattresses piled in a heap. Renovales laughed at the terror which had so often made him stop infront of the locked door. Death had left no trace. Nothing therereminded him of Josephina. In the atmosphere floated that smell ofcloseness, that odor of dust and dampness which one finds in all roomsthat have long been closed. 

The time was passing, the insignia must be found, and Renovales, alreadyaccustomed to the room, opened the clothes-press, expecting to find themin it. 

There, too, the wood seemed to scatter, as he opened the door, a perfumelike that of the other room. It was fainter, more vague, more distant. 

Renovales thought it was an illusion of his senses. But no; from thedepths of the clothes-press came an invisible vapor wrapping him in itscaressing breath. There were no clothes there. His eyes recognizedimmediately in the bottom of a compartment the boxes he was looking for;but he did not reach out his hands for them; he stood motionless, lostin the contemplation of a thousand trivial objects that reminded him ofJosephina. 

She was there, too; she came forth to meet him, more personal, more realthan from among the heap of old clothes. Her gloves seemed to preservethe warmth and the outline of those hands which once had run caressinglythrough the artist's hair, her collars reminded him of her warm ivoryneck where he used to place his kisses. 

His hands turned over everything with painful curiosity. An old fan, carefully put away, seemed to move him in spite of its sorry appearance. Among its broken folds he could see a trace of old colors--a head he hadpainted when his wife was only a friend--a gift for Señorita deTorrealta who wanted to have something done by the young artist. At thebottom of a case shone two huge pearls, surrounded by diamonds; apresent from Milan, the first jewel of real worth which he had boughtfor his wife, as they were walking through the Piazza del Duomo; a wholeremittance from his manager in Rome invested in this costly trinketwhich made the little woman flush with pleasure while her eyes restedon him with intense gratitude. 

His eager fingers, as they turned over boxes, belts, handkerchiefs andgloves, came upon souvenirs with which her person was forever connected. That poor woman had lived for him, only for him, as if her own existencewere nothing, as if it had no meaning unless it were joined with his. Hefound carefully put away among belts and band-boxes--photographs of theplaces where she had spent her youth; the buildings of Rome; themountains of the old Papal States, the canals of Venice--relics of thepast which no doubt were of great value to her because they called upthe image of her husband. And among these papers he saw dry, crushedflowers, proud roses, or modest wild flowers, withered leaves, namelesssouvenirs whose importance Renovales realized, suspecting that theyrecalled some happy moment completely forgotten by him. 

The artist's portraits, at different ages, rose from all the corners, entangled among belts or buried under the piles of handkerchiefs. Thenseveral bundles of letters appeared, the ink reddened with time, writtenin a hand that made the artist uneasy. He recognized it; it was dimlyassociated in his memory with some person whose name had escaped him. Fool! It was his own handwriting, the laborious heavy hand of his youthwhich was dexterous only with the brush. There in those yellow folds wasthe whole story of his life, his intellectual efforts to say "prettythings" like men who write. Not one was missing; the letters of theirearly engagement when, after they had seen and talked to each other, they still felt that they must put on paper what their lips did notventure to say; others with Italian stamps, exuberant with extravagantexpressions of love, short notes he sent her when he was going to spenda few days with some other artists at Naples, or to visit some deadcity in the Marcha; then the letters from Paris to the old Venetianpalace, inquiring anxiously for the little girl, asking about thenursing, trembling with fear at the possibility of the inevitablediseases of childhood. 

Not one was lacking; all were there, put away like fetishes, perfumedwith love, tied up with ribbons like the balsam and swathings of amummified life. Her letters had had a different fate, her written lovehad been scattered, lost in the void. They had been left forgotten inold suits, burned in the fireplaces, or had fallen into strange hands, where they provoked laughter at their tender simplicity. The onlyletters he kept were a few of the other woman's and, as he thought ofthis, he was seized with remorse, with infinite shame at his evildoings. 

He read the first lines of some of them, with a strange feeling, as ifthey were written by another man, wondering at their passionate tone. And it was he who had written that! How he loved Josephina then! It didnot seem possible that this affection could have ended so coldly. He wassurprised at the indifference of the last years; he no longer rememberedthe troubles of their life together; he saw his wife now as she was inher youth, with her calm face, her quiet smile and admiration in hereyes. 

He continued to read, passing eagerly from letter to letter. He wonderedat his own youth, virtuous in spite of his passionate nature, at thechastity of his devotion to his wife, the only, the unquestionable one. He experienced the joy, tinged with melancholy, which a decrepit old manfeels at the contemplation of his youthful portrait. And he had beenlike that! From the bottom of his soul, a stern voice seemed to rise ina reproachful tone, "Yes, like that, when you were good, when you werehonorable. "

He became so absorbed in his reading that he did not notice the lapse oftime. Suddenly he heard steps in the distant hallway, the rustle ofskirts, his daughter's voice. Outside the house a horn was tooting; hishaughty son-in-law telling him to hurry; trembling with fear at theprospect of being discovered, he took the insignia and the ribbons outof their cases and hastily closed the door of the clothes-press. 

The reception of the Academy was almost a failure for Renovales. Thecountess found him very interesting, with his face pale with excitement, his breast starred with jewels and his shirt front cut with severalbright lines of colors. But as soon as he stood up amid generalcuriosity, with his manuscript in his hand, and began to read the firstparagraphs, a murmur arose which kept increasing and finally drowned outhis voice. He read thickly, with the haste of a school-boy who wants tohave it over, without noticing what he was saying, in a monotonoussing-song. The sonorous rehearsals in the studio, the carefulpreparation of dramatic gestures was forgotten. His mind seemed to besomewhere else, far away from that ceremony; his eyes saw nothing butthe letters. The fashionable assemblage went out, glad they had gatheredand seen each other again. Many lips laughed at the speech behind theirgauze fans, delighted to be able to scratch indirectly his friend theAlberca woman. 

"Awful, my dear! Insufferably boring!"

II

As soon as he awoke the next day, Renovales felt that he must have openair, light, space, and he went out of the house, not stopping in hiswalk, up the Castellana, until he reached the clearing near theExhibition Hall. 

The night before he had dined at the Albercas'--almost a formal banquetin honor of his entrance into the Academy, at which many of thedistinguished gentlemen who formed the countess's coterie were present. She seemed radiant with joy, as if she were celebrating a triumph of herown. The count treated the famous master with greater respect than ever;he had just advanced another step in glory. His respect for all honorarydistinctions made him admire that Academic medal, the only distinctionhe could not add to his load of insignia. 

Renovales spent a bad night. The countess's champagne did not agree withhim. He had gone home with a sort of fear, as if something unusual wasawaiting him which his uneasiness could not explain. He took off thedress clothes which had been torturing him for several hours and went tobed, surprised at the vague fear that followed him even to thethreshhold of his room. He saw nothing unusual around him, his roompresented the same appearance it always did. He feel asleep, overcome byweariness, by the digestive torpor of that extraordinary banquet, and hedid not awake at all during the night; but his sleep was cruel, tossedwith dreams that perhaps made him groan. 

On awakening, late in the morning, at the steps of his servant in thedressing room, he realized by the tumbled condition of the bed-clothes, by the cold sweat on his forehead and the weariness of his body what arestless night he had passed amid nervous starts. 

His brain, still heavy with sleep, could not unravel the memories of thenight. He knew only that he had had unpleasant dreams; perhaps he hadwept. The one thing he could recall was a pale face, rising from amongthe black veils of unconsciousness, around which all his dreams werecentered. It was not Josephina; the face had the expression of a personof another world. 

But as his mental numbness gradually disappeared, while he was washingand dressing, and while the servant was helping him on with hisovercoat, he thought, summoning his memories with an effort, that itmight be she. Yes, it was she. Now he remembered that in his dream hehad been conscious of that perfume which had followed him since the daybefore, which accompanied him to the Academy, disturbing his reading, and which had gone with him to the banquet, running between his eyes andConcha's like a mist, through which he looked at her, without seeingher. 

The coolness of the morning cleared his mind. The wide prospect from theheights of the Exhibition Hall seemed to blot out instantly the memoriesof the night. 

A wind from the mountains was blowing on the plateau near theHippodrome. As he walked against the wind, he felt a buzz in his ears, like the distant roar of the sea. In the background, beyond the slopeswith their little red houses and wintry poplars, bare as broomsticks, the mountains of Guadarrama stood out, luminously clear against the bluesky, with their snowy crests and their huge peaks which seemed made ofsalt. In the opposite direction, sunk in a deep cut, appeared thecovering of Madrid; the black roofs, the pointed towers--all indistinctin a haze that gave the buildings in the background the vague blue ofthe mountains. 

The plateau, covered with wretched, thin grass, its furrows stifflyfrozen, flashed here and there in the sunlight. The bits of tile on theground, broken pieces of china and tin cans reflected the light as ifthey were precious metals. 

Renovales looked for a long while at the back of the Exhibition Palace;the yellow walls trimmed with red brick which hardly rose above the edgeof the clearing; the flat zinc roofs, shining like dead seas; thecentral cupola, huge, swollen, cutting the sky with its black curves, like a balloon on the point of rising. From one wing of the Palace camethe sound of bugles, prolonging their warlike notes to the accompanimentof the hoofbeats amid clouds of dust. Beside one door swords wereflashing and the sun was reflected on patent-leather hats. 

The painter smiled. That palace had been erected for them, and now therural police occupied it. Once every two years Art entered it, claimingthe place from the horses of the guardians of peace. Statues were set upin rooms that smelt of oats and stout shoes. But this anomaly did notlast long; the intruder was driven out, as soon as the place wasbeginning to have a semblance of European culture, and there remained inthe Exhibition Palace the true, the national, the privileged police, thesorry jades of holy authority which galloped down to the streets ofMadrid when its slothful peace was at rare intervals disturbed. 

As the master looked at the black cupola, he remembered the days ofexhibitions; he saw the long-haired, anxious youths, now gentle andflattering, now angry and iconoclastic, coming from all the cities ofSpain with their pictures under their arms and mighty ambitions intheir minds. He smiled at the thought of the unpleasantness and disgusthe had suffered under that roof, when the turbulent throng of artistscrowded around him, annoyed him, admiring him more because of hisposition as an influential judge than because of his works. It was hewho awarded the prizes in the opinion of those young fellows whofollowed him with looks of fear and hope. On the afternoon when theprizes were awarded, groups rushed out to meet him in the portico at thenews of his arrival; they greeted him with extravagant demonstrations ofrespect. Some walked in front of him, talking loudly. "Who? Renovales?The greatest painter in the world. Next to Velásquez. " And at the end ofthe afternoon, when the two sheets of paper were placed on the columnsof the rotunda, with the lists of winners, the master prudently slippedout to avoid the final explosion. The childish soul that every artisthas within him burst out frankly at the announcement. False pretenceswere over; every man showed his true nature. Some hid between thestatues, dejected and ashamed, with their fists in their eyes, weepingat the thought of the return to their distant home, of the long miserythey had suffered with no other hope than that which had just vanished. Others stood straight as roosters, their ears red, their lips pale, looking toward the entrance of the palace with flaming eyes, as if theywanted to see from there a certain pretentious house with a Greek façadeand a gold inscription. "The fossil! It is a shame that the fortunes ofthe younger men, who really amount to something, are entrusted to an oldfogey who has run out, a 'four-flusher' who will never leave anythingworth while behind him!" Oh, from those moments had arisen all theannoyances of his artistic activity. Every time that he heard of anunjust censure, a brutal denial of his ability, a merciless attack insome obscure paper, he remembered the rotunda of the Exhibition, thatstormy crowd of painters around the bits of paper which contained theirsentences. He thought with wonder and sympathy of the blindness of thoseyouths who cursed life because of a failure, and were capable of givingtheir health, their vigor, in exchange for the sorry glory of a picture, less lasting even than the frail canvas. Every medal was a rung on theladder; they measured the importance of these awards, giving them ameaning like that of a soldier's stripes. And he too had been young! Hetoo had embittered the best years of his life in these combats, likeamoebæ who struggle together in a drop of water, fancying they mayconquer a huge world! What interest had eternal beauty in theseregimental ambitions, in this ladder-climbing fever of those who stroveto be her interpreters?

The master went home. The walk had made him forget his anxiety of thenight before. His body, weakened by his easy life, seemed to acknowledgethis exercise with a violent reaction. His legs itched slightly, theblood throbbed in his temples, it seemed to spread through his body in awave of warmth. He exulted in his power and tasted the joy of everyorganism that is performing its functions in harmonious regularity. 

As he crossed the garden, he was humming a song. He smiled to theconcierge's wife who had opened the gate for him and to the uglywatchdog who came up with a caressing whine to lick his trousers. Heopened the glass door, passing from the noise outside into deep, convent-like silence. His feet sank in the soft rugs; the only soundswere the mysterious trembling of the pictures which covered the walls upto the ceiling, the creaking of invisible wood-borers in the pictureframes, the swing of the hangings in a breath of air. Everything thatthe master had painted; studies or whims, finished or unfinished, wasplaced on the ground floor, together with pictures and drawings by somefamous companions or favorite pupils. Milita had amused herself for along time before she was married, in this decoration which reached evento poorly lighted hallways. 

As he left his hat and stick on the hat-rack, the eyes of the masterfell on a nearby water-color, as if this picture attracted his attentionamong the others which surrounded it. He was surprised that he shouldnow notice it of a sudden, after passing by it so many times withoutseeing it. It was not bad; but it was timid; it showed lack ofexperience. Whose could it be? Perhaps Soldevilla's. But as he drew nearto see it better, he smiled. It was his own! How differently he paintedthen! He tried to remember when and where he had painted it. To help hismemory, he looked closely at that charming woman's head, with its dreamyeyes, wondering who the model could have been. 

Suddenly a cloud came over his face. The artist seemed confused, ashamed. How stupid! It was his wife, the Josephina of the early days, when he used to gaze at her admiringly, delighting in reproducing herface. 

He threw the blame for his slowness on Milita and determined to have thestudy taken away from there. His wife's portrait ought not be in thehall, beside the hat-rack. 

After luncheon he gave orders to the servant to take down the pictureand move it into one of the drawing-rooms. The servant looked surprised. 

"There are so many portraits of the mistress. You have painted her somany times, sir. The house is full. "

Renovales mimicked the servant's expression. "So many! So many!" He knewhow many times he had painted her! With a sudden curiosity before goingto the studio, he entered the parlor where Josephina received hercallers. There, in the place of honor, he saw a large portrait of hiswife, painted in Rome, a dainty woman with a lace mantilla, a blackruffled skirt and, in her hand, a tortoise-shell fan--a veritable Goya. He gazed for a moment at that attractive face, shaded by the black lace, its oriental eyes in sharp contrast to its aristocratic pallor. Howbeautiful Josephina was in those days!

He opened the windows the better to see the portrait and the light fellon the dark red walls making the frames of other smaller pictures flash. 

Then the painter saw that the Goyesque picture was not the only one. Other Josephinas accompanied him in the solitude. He gazed withastonishment at the face of his wife, which seemed to rise from allsides of the parlor. Little studies of women of the people or ladies ofthe 18th century; water-colors of Moorish women; Greek women with thestiff severity of Alma-Tadema's archaic figures; everything in theparlor, everything he had painted, was Josephina, had her face, orshowed traces of her with the vagueness of a memory. 

He passed to the adjoining parlor and there, too, his wife's face, painted by him, came to meet him among other pictures by his friends. 

When had he done all that? He could not remember; he was surprised atthe enormous quantity of work he had performed unconsciously. He seemedto have spent his whole life painting Josephina. 

Afterwards, in all the hallways, in all the rooms where pictures werehung, his wife met his gaze, under the most varied aspects, frowning orsmiling, beautiful or sad with sickness. They were sketched, simple, unfinished charcoal drawings of her head in the corner of a canvas, butalways that glance followed him, sometimes with an expression ofmelancholy tenderness, sometimes with intense reproach. Where had hiseyes been? He had lived amid all this without seeing it. Every day hehad passed by Josephina without noticing her. His wife was resurrected;henceforth, she would sit down at table, she would enter his chamber, hewould pass through the house always under the gaze of two eyes which inthe past had pierced into his soul. 

The dead woman was not dead; she hovered about him, revived by his hand. He could not take a step without seeing her face on every side. Shegreeted him from above the doors, from the ends of the rooms she seemedto call him. 

In his three studios, his surprise was still greater. All his mostintimate painting, which he had done as study, from impulse, without anydesire for sale, was stored away there, and all was a memory of the deadwoman. The pictures which dazzled the callers were hung low, down on thelevel of the eyes, on easels, or fastened to the wall, amid thesumptuous furniture; up above, reaching to the ceiling were arranged thestudies, memories, unframed canvases, like old, forgotten works, and inthis collection at the first glance Renovales saw the enigmatic facerising towards him. 

He had lived without lifting his eyes, accustomed as he was toeverything about him, and looking around, without seeing, withoutnoticing those women, different in appearance but alike in expression, who watched him from above. And the countess had been there severalafternoons, to see him alone in the studio! And the Persian silkdraperies, hung on lances before the deep divan, had not hidden themfrom that sad, fixed gaze which seemed to multiply in the upper stretchof the walls. 

To forget his remorse, he amused himself by counting the canvases whichreproduced his wife's dainty little face. They were many--the whole lifeof an artist. He tried to remember when and where he had painted them. In the first days of his love, he felt that he must paint her, with anirresistible impulse to transfer to the canvas everything he delightedto see, everything he loved. Afterwards, it had been a desire to flatterher, to coax her with a false show of affection, to convince her thatshe was the only object of his artistic worship, copying her in a vaguelikeness, giving to her features, marred by illness, a soft veil ofidealism. He could not live without working and, like many painters, heused as models the people around him. His daughter had carried to hernew home a load of paintings, all the pictures, rough sketches, water-colors and panels which represented her from the time she used toplay with the cat, dressing him in baby clothes, until she was a proudyoung lady, courted by Soldevilla and the man who was now her husband. 

The mother had remained there, rising after death about the artist inoppressive profusion. All the little incidents in life had givenRenovales an occasion to paint new pictures. He recalled his enthusiasmevery time he saw her in a new dress. The colors changed her; she was anew woman, so he would declare with a vehemence which his wife took foradmiration and which was merely the desire for a model. 

Josephina's whole life had been fixed by her husband's hand. In onecanvas she appeared dressed in white, walking through a meadow with thepoetic dreaminess of an Ophelia; in another, wearing a large, plumed hatcovered with jewels, she showed the self-satisfaction of amanufacturer's wife, secure in her well-being; a black curtain served asa background for her bare neck and shoulders. In another picture she hadher sleeves rolled up; a white apron covered her from her breast to herfeet, on her forehead was a little wrinkle of care and weariness, and inher whole mien the carelessness of one who has no time to attend to theadornment of her person. This last was the portrait of the bitter days, the image of the courageous housekeeper, without servants, working withher delicate hands in a wretched attic, striving that the artist mightlack nothing, that the petty annoyances of life might not come todistract him from his supreme efforts for success. 

This portrait filled the artist with the melancholy which the memory ofbitter days inspires in the midst of comfort. His gratitude toward hisbrave companion brought with it once more remorse. 

"Oh, Josephina! Josephina!"

When Cotoner arrived, he found the master lying face down on the couchwith his head in his hands, as if he were asleep. He tried to interesthim by talking about the function of the day before. A great success;the papers spoke of him and his speech, declaring that he was a greatwriter and could win as marked a success in literature as in art. Had henot read them?

Renovales answered with a bored expression. He had found them, when hewent out in the morning, on a table in the reception-room. He had cast aglance at his picture surrounded by the solid columns of his speech buthe had put off reading the praises until later. They did not interesthim; he was thinking of something else--he was sad. 

And in answer to Cotoner's anxious questions, who thought he must beill, he said quietly:

"I am well enough. It's melancholy. I'm tired of doing nothing. I wantto work and haven't the strength. "

Suddenly he interrupted his old friend, pointing to all the portraitsof Josephina, as if they were new works which he had just produced. 

Cotoner expressed surprise. He knew them all; they had been there foryears. What was strange about them?

The master told him of his recent surprise. He had lived beside themwithout seeing them, he had just discovered them two hours before. AndCotoner laughed. 

"You are rather unsettled, Mariano. You live without noticing what isaround you. That is why you don't know of Soldevilla's marriage to arich girl. The poor boy was disappointed because his master was notpresent at the wedding. "

Renovales shrugged his shoulders. What did he care for such follies?There was a long pause and the master, pensive and sad, suddenly raisedhis head with a determined expression. 

"What do you think of those portraits, Pepe?" he asked anxiously. "Is itshe? I couldn't have made a mistake in painting them, I couldn't haveseen her different from what she really was, could I?"

Cotoner broke out laughing. Really, the master was out of his mind. Whatquestions! Those portraits were marvels, like all of his work. ButRenovales insisted with the impatience of doubt. His opinion! Were thoseJosephinas like his wife!

"Exactly, " said the Bohemian. "Why, man alive, their fidelity to life isthe most astonishing thing about your portraits!"

He declared this confidently, but a shadow of doubt worried him. Yes, itwas Josephina, but there was something unusual, idealized about her. Herfeatures looked the same, but they had an inner light that made themmore beautiful. It was a defect he had always found in these pictures, but he said nothing. 

"And she, " insisted the master, "was she really beautiful? What did youthink of her as a woman? Tell me, Pepe, --without hesitating. It'sstrange, I can't remember very well what she was like. "

Cotoner was disconcerted by these questions, and answered with someembarrassment. What an odd thing! Josephina was very good--an angel; healways remembered her with gratitude. He had wept for her as for amother, though she might almost have been his daughter. She had alwaysbeen very considerate and thoughtful of the poor Bohemian. 

"Not that, " interrupted the master. "I want to know if you thought shewas beautiful, if she really was beautiful. "

"Why, man, yes, " said Cotoner resolutely. "She was beautiful or, rather, attractive. At the end she seemed a bit changed. Her illness! But all inall, an angel. "

And the master, calmed by these words, stood looking at his own works. 

"Yes, she was very beautiful, " he said slowly, without turning his eyesfrom the canvases. "Now I recognize it; now I see her better. It'sstrange, Pepe. It seems as if I have found Josephina to-day after a longjourney. I had forgotten her; I was no longer certain what her face waslike. "

There was another long pause, and once more the master began to ply hisfriend with anxious questions. 

"Did she love me? Do you think she really loved me? Was it love thatmade her sometimes act so--strangely?"

This time Cotoner did not hesitate as he had at the former questions. 

"Love you? Wildly, Mariano. As no man has been loved in this world. Allthat there was between you was jealousy--too much affection. I know itbetter than anyone else; old friends, like me, who go in and out of thehouse just like old dogs, are treated with intimacy and hear things thehusband does not know. Believe me, Mariano, no one will ever love you asshe did. Her sulky words were only passing clouds. I am sure you nolonger remember them. What did not pass was the other, the love she boreyou. I am positive; you know that she told me everything, that I was theonly person she could tolerate toward the end. "

Renovales seemed to thank his friend for these words with a glance ofjoy. 

They went out to walk at the end of the afternoon, going toward thecenter of Madrid. Renovales talked of their youth, of their days inRome. He laughed as he reminded Cotoner of his famous stock of Popes, herecalled the funny shows in the studios, the noisy entertainments, andthen, after he was married, the evenings of friendly intercourse in thatpretty little dining-room on the Via Margutta; the arrival of theBohemian and the other artists of his circle to drink a cup of tea withthe young couple; the loud discussions over painting, which made theneighbors protest, while she, his Josephina, still surprised at findingherself the mistress of a household, without her mother, and surroundedby men, smiled timidly to them all, thinking that those fearfulcomrades, with hair like highwaymen but as innocent and peevish aschildren, were very funny and interesting. 

"Those were the days, Pepe! Youth, which we never appreciate till it hasgone!"

Walking straight ahead, without knowing where they were going, absorbedin their conversation and their memories, they suddenly found themselvesat the Puerta del Sol. Night had fallen; the electric lights werecoming out; the shop windows threw patches of light on the sidewalks. 

Cotoner looked at the clock on the Government Building. 

"Aren't you going to the Alberca woman's house to-night?"

Renovales seemed to awaken. Yes, he must go; they expected him. But hewas not going. His friend looked at him with a shocked expression, as ifhe considered it a serious error to scorn a dinner. 

The painter seemed to lack the courage to spend the evening betweenConcha and her husband. He thought of her with a sort of aversion; hefelt as if he might brutally repel her constant caresses and telleverything to the husband in an outburst of frankness. It was adisgrace, treachery--that life _à trois_ which the society womanaccepted as the happiest of states. 

"It's intolerable, " he said to dissipate his friend's surprise. "I can'tstand her. She's a regular barnacle, and won't let me go for a minute. "

He had never spoken to Cotoner of his affair with the Alberca woman, buthe did not have to tell him anything, he assumed that he knew. 

"But she's pretty, Mariano, " said he. "A wonderful woman! You know Iadmire her. You might use her for your Greek picture. "

The master cast at him a glance of pity for his ignorance. He felt adesire to scoff at her, to injure her, thus justifying his indifference. 

"Nothing but a façade. A face and a figure. "

And bending over toward his friend he whispered to him seriously as ifhe were revealing the secret of a terrible crime. 

"She's knock-kneed. A regular swindle. "

A satyr-like smile spread over Cotoner's lips and his ears wriggled. Itwas the joy of a chaste man; the satisfaction of knowing the secretdefects of a beauty who was out of his reach. 

The master did not want to leave his friend. He needed him, he lookedat him with tender sympathy, seeing in him something of his dead wife. When she was sad, he had been her confidant. When her nerves were onedge, this simple man's words ended the crisis in a flood of tears. Withwhom could he talk about her better?

"We will dine together, Pepe; we will go to the _Italianos_--a Romanbanquet, _ravioli_, _piccata_, anything you want and a bottle of Chiantior two, as many as you can drink, and at the end sparkling Asti, betterthan champagne. Does that suit you, old man?"

Arm in arm they walked along, their heads high, a smile on their lips, like two young painters, eager to celebrate a recent sale with agluttonous relief from their misery. 

Renovales went back into his memories and poured them out in a torrent. He reminded Cotoner of a _trattoria_ in an alley in Rome, beyond thestatue of Pasquino, before you reach the Via Governo Vecchio, a chophouse of ecclesiastical quiet, run by the former cook of a cardinal. Theshelves of the establishment were always covered with the headgear ofthe profession, priestly tiles. The merriment of the artists shocked thesedate frugality of the habitues, priests of the Papal palace orvisitors who were in Rome scheming advancement; loud-mouthed lawyers indirty frock-coats from the nearby Palace of Justice, loaded with papers. 

"What _maccheroni!_ Remember, Pepe? How poor Josephina liked it!"

They used to reach the _trattoria_ at night in a merry company--she onhis arm and around them the friends whose admiration for the promisingyoung painter attracted them to him. Josephina worshiped the mysteriesof the kitchen, the traditional secrets of the solemn table of theprinces of the Church, which had come down to the street, taking refugein that little room. On the white table cloth trembled the amberreflection of the wine of Orvieto in decanters, a thick, yellow, goldenliquid, of clerical sweetness, a drink of old-time pontiffs, whichdescended to the stomach like fire and more than once had mounted toheads covered with the tiara. 

On moonlit nights, they used to go from there and walk to the Colosseumto look at the gigantic, monstrous ruin under the flood of blue light. Josephina, shaking with nervous excitement, went down into the darktunnels, groping along among the fallen stones, till she was on the openslope, facing the silent circle, which seemed to enclose the corpse of awhole people. Looking around with anxiety, she thought of the terriblebeasts which had trod upon that sand. Suddenly came a frightful roar anda black beast leaped forth from the deep vomitory. Josephina clung toher husband, with a shriek of terror, and all laughed. It was Simpson, an American painter, who bent over, walking on all fours, to attack hiscompanions with fierce cries. 

"Do you remember, Pepe?" Renovales kept saying, "What days! What joy!What a fine companion the little girl was before her illness saddenedher!"

They dined, talking of their youth, mingling with their memories theimage of the dead. Afterwards, they walked the streets till midnight, and Renovales was always going back to those days, recalling hisJosephina, as if he had spent his life worshiping her. Cotoner was tiredof the conversation and said "Good-by" to the master. What new hobby wasthis? Poor Josephina was very interesting, but they had spent the wholeevening without talking of anything else, as though memory of her wasthe only thing in the world. 

Renovales started home impatiently; he took a cab to get there sooner. He felt as anxious as if some one were waiting for him; that showyhouse, cold and solitary before, seemed animated with a spirit he couldnot define, a beloved soul which filled it, pervading all like perfume. 

As he entered, preceded by the sleepy servant, his first glance was forthe water-color. He smiled; he wanted to bid good-night to that headwhose eyes rested on him. 

For all the Josephinas who met his gaze, rising from the shadow of thewalls, as he turned on the electric lights in the parlors and hallways, he had the same smile and greeting. He no longer was uneasy in thepresence of those faces which he had looked at in the morning withsurprise and fear. She saw him; she read his thoughts; she forgave him, surely. She had always been so good!

He hesitated a moment on his way, wishing to go to the studios and turnon the lights. There he could see her full length, in all her grace; hewould talk to her, he would ask her forgiveness in the deep silence ofthose great rooms. But the master stopped. What was he thinking of? Washe going to lose his senses? He drew his hand across his forehead, as ifhe wanted to wipe these ideas out of his mind. No doubt it was the Astithat led him to such absurdities. To sleep!

When he was in the dark, lying in his daughter's little bed, he feltuneasy. He could not sleep, he was uncomfortable. He was tempted to goout of the room and take refuge in the deserted bed-chamber as if onlythere could he find rest and sleep. Oh, the Venetian bed, that princelypiece of furniture which kept his whole history, where he had whisperedwords of love; where they had talked so many times in low tones of hislonging for glory and wealth; where his daughter was born!

With the energy which showed in all his whims, the master put on hisclothes, and quietly, as if he feared to be overheard by his servantwho slept nearby, made his way to the chamber. 

He turned the key with the caution of a thief, and advanced on tiptoe, under the soft, pink light which an old lantern shed from the center ofthe ceiling. He carefully stretched out the mattresses on the abandonedbed. There were no sheets nor pillows. The room so long deserted wascold. What a pleasant night he was going to spend! How well he wouldsleep there! The gold-embroidered cushions from a sofa would serve as apillow. He wrapped himself in an overcoat and got into bed, dressed, putting out the light so as not to see reality, to dream, peopling thedarkness with the sweet deceits of his fancy. 

On those mattresses, Josephina had slept. He did not see her as in thelast days, --sick, emaciated, worn with physical suffering. His mindrepelled that painful image, bent on beautiful illusions. The Josephinawhom he saw, the Josephina within him, was the other, of the first daysof their love, and not as she had been in reality but as he had seenher, as he had painted her. 

His memory passed over a great stretch of time, dark and stormy; itleaped from the regret of the present to the happy days of youth. He nolonger recalled the years of trying confinement, when they quarreledtogether, unable to follow the same path. They were unimportantdisturbances in life. He thought only of her smiling kindness, hergenerosity, and submissiveness. How tenderly they had lived together fora part of their life, in that bed which now knew only the loneliness ofhis body. 

The artist shivered under his inadequate covering. In this abnormalsituation, exterior impressions called up memories--fragments of thepast that slowly came to his mind. The cold made him think of the rainynights in Venice, when it poured for hour after hour on the narrowalleys and deserted canals in the deep, solemn silence of a city withouthorses, without wheels, without any sound of life, except the lapping ofthe solitary water on the marble stairways. They were in the same calm, under the warm eider-down, amid the same furniture which he now half sawin the shadow. 

Through the slits of the lowered blind shone the glow of the lamp whichlighted the nearby canal. On the ceiling a spot of light flickered withthe reflection of the dead water, constantly crossed by lines of shadow. They, closely embraced, watched this play of light and water above them. They knew that outside it was cold and damp; they exulted in theirphysical warmth, in the selfishness of being together, with thatdelicious sense of comfort, buried in silence as if the world were athing of the past, as if their chamber were a warm oasis, in the midstof cold and darkness. 

Sometimes they heard a mournful cry in the silence. _Aooo!_ It was thegondolier giving warning before he turned the corner. Across the spot oflight which shimmered on the ceiling slipped a black, Lilliputiangondola, a shadow toy, on the stern of which bent a manikin the size ofa fly, wielding the oar. And, thinking of those who passed in the rain, lashed by the icy gusts, they experienced a new pleasure and clungcloser to each other under the soft cider-down and their lips met, disturbing the calm of their rest with the noisy insolence of youth andlove. 

Renovales no longer felt cold. He turned restlessly on the mattresses;the metallic embroidery of the cushions stuck in his face; he stretchedout his arms in the darkness, and the silence was broken by a despairingcry, the lament of a child who demands the impossible, who asks for themoon. 

"Josephina! Josephina!"

III

One morning the painter sent an urgent summons to Cotoner and the latterarrived in great alarm at the terms of the message. 

"It's nothing serious, " said Renovales. "I want you to tell me whereJosephina was buried. I want to see her. "

It was a desire which had been slowly taking form in his mind duringseveral nights; a whim of the long hours of sleeplessness through whichhe dragged in the darkness. 

More than a week before, he had moved into the large chamber, choosingamong the bed linen, with a painstaking care that surprised theservants, the most worn sheets, which called up old memories with theirembroidery. He did not find in this linen that perfume of the closetswhich had disturbed him so deeply; but there was something in them, theillusion, the certainty that she had many a time touched them. 

After soberly and severely telling Cotoner of his wish, Renovales feltthat he must offer some excuse. It was disgraceful that he did not knowwhere Josephina was; that he had not yet gone to visit her. His grief ather death had left him helpless and afterward, the long journey. 

"You always know things, Pepe! You had charge of the funeralarrangements. Tell me where she is; take me to see her. "

Up to that time he had not thought of her remains. He remembered the dayof the funeral, his dramatic grief which kept him in a corner with hisface buried in his hands. His intimate friends, the elect, whopenetrated to his retreat, clad in black, and wearing gloomy faces, caught his hand and pressed it effusively. "Courage, Mariano. Be strong, master. " And outside the house, a constant trampling of horses' feet;the iron fence black with the curious crowd, a double file of carriagesas far as the eye could see; reporters going from group to group, takingdown names. 

All Madrid was there. And they had carried her away to the slow step ofa pair of horses with waving plumes, amid the undertaker's men in whitewigs and gold batons--and he had forgotten her, had felt no interest inseeing the corner of the cemetery where she was buried forever, underthe glare of the sun, under the night rains that dripped upon her grave. He cursed himself now for this outrageous neglect. 

"Tell me where she is, Pepe. Take me. I want to see her. "

He implored with the eagerness of remorse; he wanted to see her once, assoon as possible, like a sinner who fears death and cries forabsolution. 

Cotoner acceded to this immediate trip. She was in the Almudenacemetery, which had been closed for some time. Only those who had longstanding titles to a lot went there now. Cotoner had desired to buryJosephina beside her mother in the same inclosure where the stone thatcovered the "lamented genius of diplomacy" was growing tarnished. Hewanted her to rest among her own. 

On the way, Renovales felt a sort of anguish. Like a sleep-walker he sawthe streets of the city passing by the carriage window, then they wentdown a steep hill, ill-kempt gardens, where loafers were sleeping, leaning against the trees, or women were combing their hair in the sun;a bridge; wretched suburbs with tumble-down houses; then the opencountry, hilly roads and at last a grove of cypress trees beyond anadobe wall and the tops of marble buildings, angels stretching out theirwings with a trumpet at their lips, great crosses, torch-holders mountedon tripods, and a pure, blue sky which seemed to smile with superhumanindifference at the excitement of that ant, named Renovales. 

He was going to see her; to step on the ground which covered her body;to breathe an atmosphere in which there was still perhaps some of thatwarmth which was the breath of the dead woman's soul. What would he sayto her?

As he entered the graveyard he looked at the keeper, an ugly, dismal oldfellow, as pale and yellow and greasy as a wax candle. That man livedconstantly near Josephina! He was seized with generous gratitude; he hadto restrain himself, thinking of his companion, or he would have givenhim all the money he had with him. 

Their steps resounded in the silence. They felt the murmuring calm of anabandoned garden about them, where there were more pavilions and statuesthan trees. They went down ruined colonnades, which echoed their stepsstrangely; over slabs which sounded hollow under their feet, --the void, trembling at the light touch of life. 

The dead who slept there were dead indeed, without the leastresurrection of memory, completely deserted, sharing in the universaldecay, --unnamed, separated from life forever. From the beehive close by, no one came to give new life with tears and offerings to the ephemeralpersonality they once had, to the name which marked them for a moment. 

Wreaths hung from the crosses, black and unraveled, with a swarm ofinsects in their fragments. The exuberant vegetation, where no one everpassed, stretched in every direction, loosening the tombstones with itsroots, springing the steps of the resounding stairways. The rain, slowlyfiltering through the ground, had produced hollows. Some of the slabswere cracked open, revealing deep holes. 

They had to walk carefully, fearing that the hollow ground wouldsuddenly open; they had to avoid the depressions where a stone withletters of pale gold and noble coats-of-arms lay half on its side. 

The painter walked trembling with the sadness of an immensedisappointment, questioning the value of his greatest interests. Andthis was life! Human beauty ended like this! This was all that the humanmind came to and here it must stop in all its pride!

"Here it is!" said Cotoner. 

They had entered between two rows of tombs so close together that asthey passed they brushed against the old ornaments which crumbled andfell at the touch. 

It was a simple tomb, a sort of coffin of white marble which rose a fewinches above the ground, with an elevation at one end, like the bolsterof a bed and surmounted by a cross. 

Renovales was cold. There was Josephina! He read the inscription severaltimes, as if he could not convince himself. It was she; the lettersreproduced her name, with a brief lament of her inconsolable husband, which seemed to him senseless, artificial, disgraceful. 

He had come trembling with anxiety at the thought of the terrible momentwhen he should behold Josephina's last resting place. To feel that hewas near her, to tread upon the ground in which she rested! He would notbe able to resist this critical moment, he would weep like a child, hewould fall on his knees, sobbing in deadly anguish. 

Well, he was there; the tomb was before his eyes and still, they weredry; they looked about coldly in surprise. 

She was there! He knew it from his friend's statement, from thedeclamatory inscription on the tomb, but nothing warned him of herpresence. He remained indifferent, looking curiously at the adjoininggraves, filled with a monstrous desire to laugh, seeing in death onlyhis sardonic buffoon's mask. 

At one side, a gentleman who rested under the endless list of his titlesand honors, a sort of Count of Alberca, who had fallen asleep in thesolemnity of his greatness, waiting for the angel's trumpet-blast toappear before the Lord with all his parchments and crosses. On theother, a general who rotted under a marble slab, engraved with cannon, guns and banners, as though he hoped to terrify death. In what ludicrouspromiscuity Josephina had come to sleep her last sleep, mingled with, forms she had not known in life! They were her eternal, her finallovers; they carried her off from his very presence and forever, indifferent to the pressing concerns of the living. Oh, Death! What acruel mocker! The earth! How cold and cynical!

He was sad and disgusted at human insignificance--but he did not weep. He saw only the external and material--the form, always the concern ofhis thoughts. Standing before the tomb he felt merely his vulgarmeanness, with a sort of shame. She was his wife; the wife of a greatartist. 

He thought of the most famous sculptors, all friends of his; he wouldtalk to them, they should erect an imposing sepulcher with weepingstatues, symbolical of fidelity, gentleness and love, a sepulcher worthyof the companion of Renovales. And nothing more; his thought went nofarther; his imagination could not pass beyond the hard marble norpenetrate the hidden mystery. The grave was speechless and empty, in theair there was nothing which spoke to the soul of the painter. 

He remained indifferent, unmoved by any emotion, without ceasing for asingle moment to see reality. The cemetery was a hideous, gloomy, repulsive place, with an odor of decay. Renovales thought he couldperceive a stench of putrefaction scattered in the wind which bent thepointed tops of the cypresses, and swayed the old wreaths and thebranches of the rose bushes. 

He looked at Cotoner with a sort of displeasure. He was to blame for hiscoldness. His presence was a check on him which prevented him fromshowing his feelings. Though a friend, he was a stranger, an obstaclebetween him and the dead. He interfered with that silent dialogue oflove and forgiveness of which the master had dreamed as he came. Hewould come back alone. Perhaps the cemetery would be different insolitude. 

And he came back; he came back the next day. The keeper greeted him witha smile, realizing that he was a profitable visitor. 

The cemetery seemed larger, more imposing in the silence of the bright, quiet morning. He had no one to talk with; he heard no human sound butthat of his own steps. He went up stairways, crossed galleries, leavingbehind him his indifference, thinking anxiously that every step took himfarther from the living, that the gate with its greedy keeper wasalready far away and that he was the only living being, the only one whothought and could feel fear in the mournful city of thousands andthousands of beings, wrapped in a mystery which made them imposing amidthe strange, dull sounds of the land beyond that terrifies with theblackness of its bottomless abyss. 

When he reached Josephina's grave, he took off his hat. 

No one. The trees and the rose bushes trembled in the wind among thecross paths. Some birds were twittering above him in an acacia, and thesound of life, disturbing the rustling of the solitary vegetation, sheda certain calm over the painter's spirit, blotted out the childish fearhe had felt before he reached there, as he crossed the echoing pavementsof the colonnades. 

For a long time he remained motionless, absorbed in the contemplation ofthat marble case obliquely cut by a ray of sunlight, one part golden, the other blue in the shadow. Suddenly he shivered, as if he hadawakened at the sound of a voice, --his own. He was talking, aloud, driven to cry out his thoughts, to stir this deathly silence withsomething that meant life. 

"Josephina. It is I. Do you forgive me?"

It was a childish longing to hear the voice from beyond that might pouron his soul a balm of forgiveness and forgetting; a desire of humblinghimself, of weeping, of having her listen to him, smile to him from thedepth of the void, at the great revolution which had been carried out inhis spirit. He wanted to tell her--and he did tell her silently with thespeech of his feelings--that he loved her, that he had resuscitated herin his thoughts, now that he had lost her forever, with a love which hehad never had for her in her earthly life. He felt ashamed before hergrave; ashamed of the difference of their fates. 

He begged her forgiveness for living, for still feeling vigorous andyoung, for now loving her without reality, in a wild hope, when he hadbeen cold and indifferent at her departure, with his thoughts on anotherwoman, hoping for her death with criminal craving. Wretch! And he wasstill alive! And she, so kind, so sweet, buried forever, lost in thedepths of eternal, ruthless death!

He wept; at last he wept those hot, sincere tears which compelforgiveness. It was the weeping which he had so long desired. Now hefelt that they approached each other, that they were almost together, separated only by a strip of marble and a little earth. His fancy sawher poor remains and in their decay he loved them, he worshiped themwith a calm passion that rose above earthly miseries. Nothing which hadonce been Josephina's could cause him repugnance or horror. If he couldbut open that white case! If he could kiss her, take her ashes with him, that they might go with him on his pilgrimage, like the household godsof the ancients! He no longer saw the cemetery, he did not hear thebirds nor the rustling of the branches; he seemed to live in a cloud, looking only at that white grave, the marble slab, --the last restingplace of his beloved. 

She forgave him; her body rose before him, such as it had been in heryouth, as he had painted it. Her deep eyes were fixed on his, eyes thatshone with love. He seemed to hear her childish voice laughing, admiringlittle trifles, as in the happy days. It was a resurrection, --the imageof the dead woman was before him, formed no doubt by the invisible atomsof her being which floated over her grave, by something of the essenceof her life which still fluttered around the material remains, reluctantto say farewell before they started on the way that leads to the depthsof the infinite. 

His tears continued to fall in the silence, in sweet relief; his voice, broken by sobs, stilled the birds with fear. "Josephina! Josephina!" Andthe echo answered with dull, mocking cries, from the smooth walls of themausoleums, from the invisible end of the colonnades. 

The artist could not resist the temptation to step over the rustedchains which surrounded the grave. To feel her nearer! To overcome theshort distance which separated them! To mock death with a loving kiss ofintense gratitude for forgiveness!

The huge frame of the master covered the slab of marble, his armsencircled it as if he would pick it up from the ground and carry it awaywith him. His lips eagerly sought the highest part of the stone. 

He wished to find the spot which covered her face and he began to kissit, moving his head as if he were going to dash it against the marble. 

A sensation of stone, warmed by the sun, on his lips; a taste of dust, insipid and repulsive in his mouth. Renovales sat up, rose to his feetas if he had awakened, as if the cemetery, until then invisible, wassuddenly restored to reality. The faint odor of decay once more struckhim. 

Now he saw the grave, as he had seen it the day before. He no longerwept. The immense disappointment dried his tears, though within him hefelt the longing for weeping increased. Horrible awakening! Josephinawas not there; only the void was about him. It was useless to seek thepast in the field of death. Memories could not be aroused in that coldground, stirred by worms and decay. Oh, where had he come to seek hisdreams! From what a foul dunghill he had tried to raise the roses of hismemories!

In fancy he saw her beneath that repugnant marble in all therepulsiveness of death, and this vision left him cold, indifferent. Whathad he to do with such wretchedness? No; Josephina was not there. Shewas truly dead, and if he ever was to see her it would not be beside hergrave. 

Once more he wept--not with external tears but within; he mourned thebitterness of solitude, the inability to exchange a single thought withher. He had so many things to tell her which were burning his soul! Howhe would talk with her, if some mysterious power would bring her backfor an instant. He would implore her forgiveness; he would throw himselfat her feet, lamenting the error of his life, the painful deceit ofhaving remained beside her, indifferent, fostering hopes which had nofulfillment, only to groan now in the torment of irreparable loss, witha mad, thirsting love which worshiped the woman in death after scoringher in life. 

He would swear a thousand times the truth of this posthumous worship, this desire aroused by death. And then he would lay her once more in hereternal bed, and would depart in peace after his wild confession. 

But it was impossible. The silence between them would last forever. Hemust remain for all eternity with this confession of his thoughts, unable to tell it to her, crushed beneath its weight. She had gone awaywith rancor and scorn in her soul, forgetting their first love, and shewould never know that it had blossomed once more after her death. 

She could not cast one glance back; she did not exist; she would neveragain exist. All that he was doing and thinking, the sleepless nightswhen he called to her in loving appeal, the long hours when he stoodgazing at her pictures, --all would be unknown to her. And when he diedin his turn, the silence and loneliness would be still greater. Thethings which he had been unable to tell her would die with him and theywould both crumble away in the earth, strangers to each other, prolonging their grievous error in eternity, unable to approach eachother, or see each other, without a saving word, condemned to thefearful, unbounded void, over whose limitless firmament passed unnoticedthe desires and griefs of men. 

The unhappy artist walked up and down enraged at his impotence. Whatcruelty surrounded them? What dark, hard-hearted, implacable mockery wasthat which drove them toward one another and then separated themforever, forever! forbidding them to exchange a look of forgiveness, aword to rectify their errors and to permit them to return to theireternal sleep with new peace?

Lies--deceit that hovers about man, like a protecting atmosphere thatshields him in his path through the void of life. That grave with itsinscription was a lie; she was not there; it contained merely a fewremnants, like those of all the others, which no one could recognize, not even he, who had loved her so dearly. 

His despair made him lift his eyes to the pure, shining sky. Ah, theheavens! A lie, too! That heavenly blue with its golden rays andfanciful clouds was an imperceptible film, an illusion of the eyes. Beyond the deceitful web which wraps the earth was the true heaven, endless space, and it was black, ominously obscure, with the sputteringspark of burning tears, of infinite worlds, little lamps of eternity inwhose flame lived other swarms of invisible atoms, and the icy, blind, and cruel soul of shadowy space laughed at their passions and longings, at the lies they fabricated incessantly to protect their ephemeralexistence, striving to prolong it with the illusion of an immortal soul. 

All were lies which death came to unmask, interrupting men's course onthe pleasant path of their illusions, throwing them out of it with asmuch indifference as their feet had crushed and driven to flight thelines of ants which advanced amid the grass that was sowed with bonyremains. 

Renovales was forced to flee. What was he doing there? What did thatdeserted, empty spot of earth mean to him? Before he went away, with thefirm determination not to return again, he looked around the grave fora flower, a few blades of grass, something to take with him as aremembrance. No, Josephina was not there; he was sure, but like a lover, he felt that longing, that passionate respect for anything which thewoman he loves had touched. 

He scorned a cluster of wild-flowers which grew in abundance at the footof the grave. He wanted them from near the head and he picked a fewwhite buds close to the cross, thinking that perhaps their roots hadtouched her face, that they preserved in their petals something of hereyes, of her lips. 

He went home downcast and sad, with a void in his mind and death in hissoul. 

But in the warm air of the house, his love came forth to meet him; hesaw her beside him, smiling from the walls, rising out of the greatcanvases. Renovales felt a warm breath on his face, as if those pictureswere breathing at once, filling the house with the essence of memorieswhich seemed to float in the atmosphere. Everything spoke to him of her, everything was filled with that vague perfume of the past. Over there onthe graveyard hill was the wretched perishable covering. He would notreturn. What was the use? He felt her around him, all that was left ofher in the world was enclosed in the house, as the strong odor remainsin a broken, forgotten perfume bottle. No, not in the house. She was inhim, he felt her presence within him, like those wandering souls of thelegends who took refuge in another's body, struggling to share thedwelling with the soul which was mistress of the body. They had notlived in vain so many years together--at first united by love andafterward by habit. For half a lifetime, their bodies had slept in closecontact, exchanging through their open pores that warmth which is likethe breath of the soul. She had taken away a part of the artist's life. In her remains, crumbling in the lonely cemetery, there was a part ofthe master and he, in turn, felt something strange and mysterious whichchained him to her memory, which made him always long for that body--thecomplement of his own--which had already vanished in the void. 

Renovales shut himself up in the house, with a taciturn air and a gloomyexpression which terrified his valet. If Señor Cotoner came, he was totell him that the master had gone out. If letters came from thecountess, he could leave them in an old terra-cotta jar in the anteroom, where the neglected calling cards were piling up. If it was she whocame, he was to close the door. He did not want anything to distracthim. Dinner should be served in the studio. 

And he worked alone, without a model, with a tenacity which kept himstanding before the canvas until it was dark. Sometimes, when theservant entered at nightfall, he found the luncheon untouched on thetable. In the evening the master ate in silence in the dining-room, fromsheer animal necessity, not seeing what he was eating, his eyes gazinginto space. 

Cotoner, somewhat piqued at this unusual régime which prevented him fromentering the studio, would call in the evening and try in vain tointerest him with news of the world outside. He observed in the master'seyes a strange light, a gleam of insanity. 

"How goes the work?"

Renovales answered vaguely. He could see it soon--in a few days. 

His expression of indifference was repeated when he heard the Countessof Alberca mentioned. Cotoner described her alarm and astonishment atthe master's behavior. She had sent for him to find out about Mariano, to complain, with tears in her eyes, of his absence. She had twice beento the door of his house and had not been able to get in; shecomplained of the servant and that mysterious work. At least he ought towrite to her, answer her letters, full of tender laments, which she didnot suspect were lying unopened and neglected in a pile of yellow cards. The artist listened to this with a shrug of the shoulders as if he washearing about the sorrows of a distant planet. 

"Let's go and see Milita, " he said. "There isn't any opera to-night. "

In his retirement the only thing which connected him with the outsideworld was his desire to see his daughter, to talk to her, as if he lovedher with new affection. She was his Josephina's flesh, she had lived inher. She was healthy and strong, like him, nothing in her appearancereminded him of the other, but her sex bound her closely with thebeloved image of her mother. 

He listened to Milita with smiles of pleasure, grateful for the interestshe manifested in his health. 

"Are you ill, papa? You look poorly. I don't like your appearance. Youare working too much. "

But he calmed her, swinging his strong arms, swelling out his lustychest. He had never felt better. And with the minuteness of agood-natured grandfather he inquired about all the little displeasuresof her life. Her husband spent the day with his friends. She grew tiredof staying at home and her only amusement was making calls or goingshopping. And after that came a complaint, always the same, which thefather divined at her first words. López de Sosa was selfish, niggardlytoward her. His spendthrift habits never went beyond his own pleasuresand his own person; he economized in his wife's expenses. He loved herin spite of that. Milita did not venture to deny it; no mistresses orunfaithfulness. She would be likely to stand that! But he had no moneyexcept for his horses and automobiles; she even suspected that he wasgambling, and his poor wife lived without a thing to her back, and hadto weep her requests every time she received a bill, little trifles of athousand pesetas or two. 

The father was as generous to her as a lover. He felt like pouring ather feet all that he had piled up in long years of labor. She must livein happiness, since she loved her husband! Her worries made him smilescornfully. Money! Josephina's daughter sad because she needed things, when in his house there were so many dirty, insignificant papers whichhe had worked so hard to win and which he now looked at withindifference! He always went away from these visits amid hugs and ashower of kisses from that big girl who expressed her joy by shaking himdisrespectfully, as if he were a child. 

"Papa, dear, how good you are! How I love you!"

One night as he left his daughter's house with Cotoner, he saidmysteriously:

"Come in the morning, I will show it to you. It isn't finished but Iwant you to see it. Just you. No one can judge better. "

Then he added with the satisfaction of an artist:

"Once I could paint only what I saw. Now I am different. It has cost mea good deal, but you shall judge. "

And in his voice there was the joy of difficulties overcome, thecertainty that he had produced a great work. 

Cotoner came the next day, with the haste of curiosity, and entered thestudio closed to others. 

"Look!" said the master with a proud gesture. 

His friend looked. Opposite the window was a canvas on an easel; acanvas for the most part gray, and on this, confused, interlaced linesrevealing some hesitancy over the various contours of a body. At one endwas a spot of color, to which the master pointed--a woman's head whichstood out sharply on the rough background of the cloth. 

Cotoner stood in silent contemplation. Had the great artist reallypainted that? He did not see the master's hand. Although he was anunimportant painter, he had a good eye, and he saw in the canvashesitancy, fear, awkwardness, the struggle with something unreal whichwas beyond his reach, which refused to enter the mold of form. He wasstruck by the lack of likeness, by the forced exaggeration of thestrokes; the eyes unnaturally large, the tiny mouth, almost a point, thebright skin with its supernatural pallor. Only in the pupils of the eyeswas there something remarkable--a glance that came from afar, anextraordinary light which seemed to pass through the canvas. 

"It has cost me a great deal. No work ever made me suffer so. This isonly the head; the easiest part. The body will come later; a divinenude, such as has never been seen. And only you shall see it, only you!"

The Bohemian no longer looked at the picture. He was gazing at themaster, astonished at the work, disconcerted by its mystery. 

"You see, without a model. Without the real before me, " continued themaster. "_They_ were all the guide I had; but it is my best, my supremework. "

_They_ were all the portraits of the dead woman, taken down from thewalls and placed on easels or chairs in a close circle around thecanvas. 

His friend could not contain his astonishment, he could not pretend anylonger, overcome by surprise. 

"Oh, but it is---- But you have been trying to paint Josephina!"

Renovales started back violently. 

"Josephina, yes. Who else should it be? Where are your eyes?"

And his angry glance flashed at Cotoner. 

The latter looked at the head again. Yes, it was she, with a beauty thatwas not of this world, --uncanny, spiritualized, as if it belonged to anew humanity, free from coarse necessities, in which the last traces ofanimal descent have died out. He gazed at the numerous portraits ofother times and recognized parts of them in the new work, but animatedby a light which came from within and changed the value of the colors, giving to the face a strange unfamiliarity. 

"You recognize her at last!" said the master, anxiously following theimpressions of his work in the eyes of his friend. "Is it she? Tell me, don't you think it is like her?"

Cotoner lied compassionately. Yes, it was she, at last he saw her wellenough. She, but more beautiful than in life. Josephina had never lookedlike that. 

Now it was Renovales who looked with surprise and pity. Poor Cotoner!Unhappy failure--pariah of art, who could not rise above the namelesscrowd and whose only feeling was in his stomach! What did he know aboutsuch things? What was the use of asking his opinion?

He had not recognized Josephina, and nevertheless this canvas was hisbest portrait, the most exact. 

Renovales bore her within him, he saw her merely by retiring into histhoughts. No one could know her better than he. The rest had forgottenher. That was the way he saw her and that was what she had been. 

IV

The Countess of Alberca succeeded in making her way, one afternoon, tothe master's studio. 

The servant saw her arrive as usual in a cab, cross the garden, come upthe steps, and enter the reception room with the hasty step of aresolute woman who goes straight ahead without hesitating. He tried toblock her way respectfully, going from side to side, meeting her everytime she started to one side to pass this obstacle. The master wasworking! The master was not receiving callers! It was a strict order; hecould not make an exception! But she continued ahead with a frown, aflash of cold wrath in her eyes, an evident determination to strike downthe servant, if it was necessary, and to pass over his body. 

"Come, my good man, get out of the way. "

And her haughty, irritated accent made the poor servant tremble and at aloss to stop this invasion of rustling skirts and strong perfumes. Inone of her evolutions the fair lady ran into an Italian mosaic table, onthe center of which was the old jar. Her glance fell instinctively tothe bottom of the jar. 

It was only an instant, but enough for her woman's curiosity torecognize the blue envelopes with white borders, whose sealed ends stuckout, untouched, from the pile of cards. The last straw! Her palenessgrew intense, almost greenish, and she started forward with such a rushthat the servant could not stop her and was left behind her, dejected, confused, fearful of his master's wrath. 

Renovales, alarmed by the sharp click of heels on the hard floor, andthe rustling of skirts, turned toward the door just as the countess madeher entrance with a dramatic expression. 

"It's me. "

"You? You, dear?"

Excitement, surprise, fear made the master stammer. 

"Sit down, " he said coldly. 

She sat down on a couch and the artist remained standing in front ofher. 

They looked at each other as if they did not recognize each other afterthis absence of weeks which weighed on their memories as if it were ofyears. 

Renovales looked at her coldly, without the least tremble of desire, asif it were an ordinary visitor whom he must get rid of as soon aspossible. He was surprised at her greenish pallor, at her mouth, drawnwith irritation, at her hard eyes which flashed yellow flames, at hernose which curved down to her upper lip. She was angry, but when hereyes fell on him, they lost their hardness. 

Her woman's instinct was calmed when she gazed at him. He, too, lookeddifferent in the carelessness of the seclusion; his hair tangled, revealing the preoccupation, the fixed, absorbing idea, which made himneglect the neatness of his person. 

Her jealousy vanished instantly, her cruel suspicion that she wouldsurprise him in love with another woman, with the fickleness of anartist. She knew the external evidence of love, the necessity a manfeels of making himself attractive, refining the care of his dress. 

She surveyed his neglect with satisfaction, noticing his dirty clothes, his long fingernails, stained with paint, all the details which revealedlack of tidiness, forgetfulness of his person. No doubt it was a passingartist's whim, a craze for work, but they did not reveal what she hadsuspected. 

In spite of this calming certainty, as Concha was ready to shed thetears which were all prepared, waiting impatiently on the edge of hereyelids, she raised her hands to her eyes, curling up on one end of thecouch, with a tragic expression. She was very unhappy; she was sufferingterribly. She had passed several horrible weeks. What was the matter?Why had he disappeared without a word of explanation, when she loved himmore than ever, when she was ready to give up everything, to cause aperfect scandal, by coming to live with him, as his companion, hisslave? And her letters, her poor letters, neglected, unopened, as ifthey were annoying requests for alms. She had spent the nights awake, putting her whole soul into their pages! And in her accent there was atremble of literary pique, of bitterness, that all the pretty things, which she wrote down with a smile of satisfaction after long reflection, remained unknown. Men! Their selfishness and cruelty! How stupid womenwere to worship them!

She continued to weep and Renovales looked at her as if she were anotherwoman. She seemed ridiculous to him in that grief, which distorted herface, which made her ugly, destroying her smiling, doll-likeimpassibility. 

He tried to offer excuses, that he might not seem cruel by keepingsilent, but they lacked warmth and the desire to carry conviction. Hewas working hard; it was time for him to return to his former life ofcreative activity. She forgot that he was an artist, a master of somereputation, who had his duty to the public. He was not like those youngfops who could devote the whole day to her and pass their life at herfeet, like enamored pages. 

"We must be serious, Concha, " he added with pedantic coldness. "Life isnot play. I must work and I am working. I haven't been out of here forI don't know how many days. "

She stood up angrily, took her hands from her eyes, looked at him, rebuking him. He lied; he had been out and it had never occurred to himto come to her house for a moment. 

"Just to say 'Good morning, ' nothing more. So that I may see you for aninstant, Mariano, long enough to be sure that you are the same, that youstill love me. But you have gone out often; you have been seen. I havemy detectives who tell me everything. You are too well known to passunnoticed. You have been in the Museo del Prado mornings. You have beenseen gazing at a picture of Goya's, a nude, for hours at a time, like anidiot. Your hobby is coming back again, Mariano! And it hasn't occurredto you to come and see me; you haven't answered my letters. You feelproud, it seems, content with being loved, and submit to being worshipedlike an idol, certain that the more uncivil you are, the more you willbe loved. Oh, these men! These artists!"

She sobbed, but her voice no longer preserved the irritated tone of thefirst few moments. The certainty that she did not have to struggle withthe influence of another woman softened her pride, leaving in her onlythe gentle complaint of a victim who is eager to sacrifice herself anew. 

"But sit down, " she exclaimed amid her sobs, pointing to a place on thecouch beside her. "Don't stand up. You look as if you wanted me to goaway. "

The painter sat down timidly, taking care not to touch her, avoidingthose hands which reached out to him, longing for a pretext to seizehim. He saw her desire to weep on his shoulder, to forget everything, and to banish her last tears with a smile. That was what alwayshappened, but Renovales, knowing the game, drew back roughly. That mustnot begin again; it could, not be repeated, even if he wanted to. Hemust tell her the truth at any cost, end it forever, throw off theburden from his shoulders. 

He spoke hoarsely, stammering, with his eyes on the floor, not daring tolift them for fear of meeting Concha's which he felt were fixed uponhim. 

For several days he had been meaning to write to her. He had been afraidthat he might not express his ideas clearly and so he had put off theletter until the next day. Now he was glad she had come; he rejoiced atthe weakness of his valet, in letting her enter. 

They must talk like good comrades who examine the future together. Itwas time to put an end to their folly. They would be what Concha oncedesired, friends--good friends. She was beautiful; she still had thefreshness of youth, but time leaves its mark, and he felt that he wasgetting old; he looked at life from a height, as we look at the water ofa stream, without dipping into it. 

Concha listened to him in astonishment, refusing to understand hiswords. What did these scruples mean? After some digressions, the painterspoke remorsefully of his friend, the Count of Alberca, a man whom herespected for his very guilelessness. His conscience rose in protest atthe simple admiration of the good man. This daring deceit in his ownhouse, under his own roof, was infamous. He could not go on; they mustpurify themselves from the past by being good friends, must say good-byas lovers, without spite or antipathy, grateful to each other for thehappy past, taking with them, like dead lovers, their pleasant memories. 

Concha's laugh, nervous, sarcastic, insolent, interrupted the artist. Her cruel spirit of fun was aroused at the thought that her husband wasthe pretext of this break. Her husband! And once more she began to laughuproariously, revealing the count's insignificance, the absolute lackof respect which he inspired in his wife, or her habit of adjusting herlife as her fancy dictated, with never a thought of what that man mightsay or think. Her husband did not exist for her; she never feared him;she had never thought that he might serve as an obstacle, and yet herlover spoke of him, presented _him_ as a justification for leaving her!

"My husband!" she repeated amid the peals of her cruel laughter. "Poorthing! Leave him in peace; he has nothing to do with us. Don't lie;don't be a coward. Speak. You've something else on your mind. I don'tknow what it is; but I have a presentiment, I see it from here. If youloved another woman! If you loved another woman!"

But she broke off this threatening exclamation. She needed only to lookat him to be convinced that it was impossible. His body was not perfumedwith love; everything about him revealed calm peace, without interestsor desires. Perhaps it was a whim of his fancy, some unbalanced capricewhich led him to repel her. And encouraged by this belief, she relaxed, forgetting her anger, speaking to him affectionately, caressing him witha fervor in which there was something at once of the mother and of themistress. 

Renovales suddenly saw her beside him with her arms around his neck, burying her hands in his tangled hair. 

She was not proud; men worshiped her, but her heart, her body, all ofher belonged to the master, the ungrateful brute, who returned so illher affection that she was getting old with her trouble. 

Suddenly filled with tenderness, she kissed his forehead generously andpurely. Poor boy! He was working so hard! The only thing the matter wasthat he was tired out, distracted with too much painting. He must leavehis brushes alone, live, love her, be happy, rest his wrinkled foreheadbehind which, like a curtain, an invisible world passed and repassed inperpetual revolution. 

"Let me kiss your pretty forehead again, so that the hobgoblins withinmay be silent and sleep. "

And she kissed once more his _pretty_ forehead, delighting in caressingwith her lips the furrows and prominences of its irregular surface, rough as volcanic ground. 

For a long time her wheedling voice, with an exaggerated childish lisp, sounded in the silence of the studio. She was jealous of painting, thecruel mistress, exacting and repugnant, who seemed to drive her poorbaby mad. One of these days, master, the studio would catch on firetogether with all its pictures. She tried to draw him to her, to makehim sit on her lap, so that she might rock him like a child. 

"Look here, Mariano, dear. Laugh for your Concha. Laugh, you big stupid!Laugh, or I'll whip you. "

He laughed, but it was forced. He tried to resist her fondling, tired ofthose childish tricks which once were his delight. He remainedindifferent to those hands, those lips, to the warmth of that body whichrubbed against him without awakening the least desire. And he had lovedthat woman! For her he had committed the terrible, irreparable crimewhich would make him drag the chain of remorse forever! What surpriseslife has in store!

The painter's coldness finally had its effect on the Alberca woman. Sheseemed to awaken from the dream, in which she was lulling herself. Shedrew back from her lover, and looked at him fixedly with imperious eyes, in which a spark of pride was once more beginning to flash. 

"Say that you love me! Say it at once! I need it!"

But in vain did she show her authority; in vain she brought her eyesclose to him, as if she wished to look within him. The artist smiledfaintly, murmured evasive words, refused to comply with her demands. 

"Say it out loud, so that I can hear it. Say that you love me. Call mePhryne, as you used to when you worshiped me on your knees, kissing mybody!"

He said nothing. He hung his head in shame at the memory, so as not tosee her. 

The countess stood up nervously. In her anger, she drew back to themiddle of the studio, her hands clenched, her lips quivering, her eyesflashing. She wanted to destroy something, to fall on the floor in aconvulsion. She hesitated whether to break an Arabic amphora close by, or to fall on that bowed head and scratch it with her nails. Wretch! Shehad loved him so dearly; she still cared for him so, feeling bound tohim by both vanity and habit!

"Say whether you love me, " she cried. "Say it once and for all! Yes orno?"

Still she obtained no answer. The silence was trying. Once more shebelieved there was another love, a woman who had come to occupy herplace. But who was it? Where could he have found her? Her woman'sinstinct made her turn her head and glance into the next studio andbeyond into the last, the real workshop of the master. Warned by amysterious intuition, she started to run toward it. There! Perhapsthere! The painter's steps sounded behind her. He had started from hisdejection when he saw her fleeing; he followed her in a frenzy of fear. Concha foresaw that she was going to know the truth; a cruel truth withall the crudeness of a discovery in broad daylight. She stopped, scowling with a mental effort before that portrait which seemed todominate the studio, occupying the best easel, in the most advantageousposition, in spite of the solitary gray of its canvas. 

The master saw in Concha's face the same expression of doubt andsurprise which he had seen in Cotoner's. Who was that? But thehesitation was shorter; her woman's pride sharpened her senses. She sawbeyond that unrecognizable head the circle of older portraits whichseemed to guard it. 

Ah! The immense surprise in her eyes; the cold astonishment in theglance she fixed on the painter as she surveyed him from head to foot!

"Is it Josephina?"

He bowed his head in mute assent. But his silence seemed to himcowardly; he felt that he must cry out in the presence of thosecanvases, what he had not dared to say outside. It was a longing toflatter the dead woman, to implore her forgiveness, by confessing hishopeless love. 

"Yes, it is Josephina. "

And he said it with spirit, going forward a step, looking at Concha asif she were an enemy, with a sort of hostility in his eyes which did notescape her notice. 

They did not say anything more. The countess could not speak. Hersurprise passed the limits of the probable, the known. 

In love with his wife, --and after she was dead! Shut up like a hermit inorder to paint her with a beauty which she had never had. Life bringssurprises, but this surely had never been seen before. 

She felt as if she were falling, falling, driven by astonishment and, atthe end of the fall, she found that she was changed, without a complaintor pang of grief. Everything about her seemed strange--the room, theman, the pictures. This whole affair went beyond her power ofconception. Had she found a woman there, it would have made her weep andshriek with grief, roll on the floor, love the master still more withthe stimulus of jealousy. But to find that her rival was a dead woman!And more than that--his wife! It seemed supremely ridiculous, she felt amad desire to laugh. But she did not laugh. She recalled the unusualexpression she had noticed on the master's face, when she entered thestudio; she thought that now she saw in his eyes a spark of that samegleam. 

Suddenly she felt afraid; afraid of the man who looked at her in silenceas if he did not know her and toward whom she felt the same strangeness. 

Still she had for him a glance of sympathy, of that tenderness whichevery woman feels in the presence of unhappiness, even if it afflicts astranger. Poor Mariano! All was over between them; she took care not tospeak intimately to him; she held out her gloved hand with the gestureof an unapproachable lady. For a long time they stood in this position, speaking only with their eyes. 

"Good-by, master; take care of yourself! Don't bother to come with me. Iknow the way. Go on with your work. Paint----"

Her heels clicked nervously on the waxed floor as she left the room, which she was never to enter again. The swish of her skirts scatteredtheir wake of perfumes in the studio for the last time. 

Renovales breathed more freely when he was left alone. He had endedforever the error of his life. The only thing in this visit that left asting was the countess's hesitation before the portrait. She hadrecognized it sooner than Cotoner, but she too had hesitated. No oneremembered Josephina; he alone kept her image. 

That same afternoon, before his old friend came, the master receivedanother call. His daughter appeared in the studio. Renovates haddivined that it was she before she entered, by the whirl of joy andoverflowing life which seemed to precede her. 

She had come to see him; she had promised him a visit months ago. Andher father smiled indulgently, recalling some of her complaints when helast visited her. Just to see him?

Milita pretended to be absorbed in examining the studio which she hadnot entered for a long time. 

"Look!" she exclaimed. "Why, it's mamma!"

She looked at the picture with astonishment, but the master seemedpleased at the readiness with which she had recognized her. At last, hisdaughter! The instinct of blood! The poor master did not see the hastyglance at the other portraits which had guided the girl in herinduction. 

"Do you like it? Is it she?" he asked as anxiously as a novice. 

Milita answered rather vaguely. Yes, it was good; perhaps a little morebeautiful than she was. She never knew her like that. 

"That is true, " said the master, "You never saw her in her good days. But she was like that before you were born. Your poor mother was verybeautiful. "

But his daughter did not manifest any great enthusiasm over the picture. It seemed strange to her. Why was the head at one end of the canvas?What was he going to add? What did those lines mean? The master tried toexplain, almost blushing, afraid to tell his intention to his daughter, suddenly overcome by paternal modesty. He was not sure as yet what hewould do; he had to decide on a dress to suit her. And in a suddenaccess of tenderness, his eyes grew moist and he kissed his daughter. 

"Do you remember her well, Milita? She was very good, wasn't she?"

His daughter felt infected by her father's sadness, but only for amoment. Her strength, health and joy of life soon threw off these sadimpressions. Yes, very good. She often thought about her. Perhaps shespoke the truth; but these memories were not deep nor painful. Deathseemed to her a thing without meaning, a remote incident without muchterror which did not disturb the serene calm of her physical perfection. 

"Poor mamma, " she added in a forced tone. "It was a relief for her togo. Always sick, always sad! With such a life it is better to die!"

In her words there was a trace of bitterness, the memory of her youth, spent with that touchy invalid, in an atmosphere made the moreunpleasant by the hostile chill with which her parents treated eachother. Besides, her expression was icy. We all must die. The weak mustgo first and leave their place to the strong. It was the unconscious, cruel selfishness of health. Renovales suddenly saw his daughter's soulthrough this rent of frankness. The dead woman had known them both. Thedaughter was his, wholly his. He, too, possessed that selfishness in hisstrength which had made him crush weakness and delicacy placed under hisprotection. Poor Josephina had only him left, repentant and adoring. Forthe other people, she had not passed through the world; not even hisdaughter felt any lasting sorrow at her death. 

Milita turned her back to the portrait. She forgot her mother and herfather's work. An artist's hobby! She had come for something else. 

She sat down beside him, almost in the same way that another woman hadsat down, a few hours before. She coaxed him with her rich voice, whichtook on a sort of cat-like purring. Papa, --papa, dear, --she was veryunhappy. She came to see him, to tell him her troubles. 

"Yes, money, " said the master, somewhat annoyed at the indifference withwhich she had spoken of her mother. 

"Money, papa, you've said it; I told you the other day. But that isn'tall. Rafael--my husband--I can't stand this sort of life. "

And she related all the petty trials of her existence. In order not tofeel that she was prematurely a widow, she had to go with her husband inhis automobile and show an interest in his trips which once had amusedher but now were growing unbearable. 

"It's the life of a section-hand, papa, always swallowing dust andcounting kilometers. When I love Madrid so much! When I can't live outof it!"

She had sat down on her father's knees, she talked to him, looking intohis eyes, smoothing his hair, pulling his mustache, like a mischievouschild, --almost as the other had. 

"Besides, he's stingy; if he had his way, I'd look like a frump. Hethinks everything is too much. Papa, help me out of this difficulty, it's only two thousand pesetas. With that I can get on my feet and thenI won't bother you with any more loans. Come, that's a dear papa. I needthem right away, because I waited till the last minute, so as not toinconvenience you. "

Renovales moved about uneasily under the weight of his daughter, astrapping girl who fell on him like a child. Her filial confidencesannoyed him. Her perfume made him think of that other perfume, whichdisturbed his nights, spreading through the solitude of the rooms. Sheseemed to have inherited her mother's flesh. 

He pushed her away roughly, and she took this movement for a refusal. Her face grew sad, tears came to her eyes, and her father repented hisbrusqueness. He was surprised at her constant requests for money. Whatdid she want it for? He recalled the wedding-presents, that princelyabundance of clothes and jewels which had been on exhibition in thisvery room. What did she need? But Milita looked at her father inastonishment. More than a year had gone by since then. It was clearenough that her father was ignorant in such matters. Was she going towear the same gowns, the same hats, the same ornaments for an endlesslength of time, more than twelve months? Horrible! That was toocommonplace. And overcome at the thought of such a monstrosity, shebegan to shed her tender tears to the great disturbance of the master. 

"There, there, Milita, there's no use in crying. What do you want?Money? I'll send you all you need to-morrow. I haven't much at thehouse. I shall have to get it at the bank--operations you don'tunderstand. "

But Milita, encouraged by her victory, insisted on her request withdesperate obstinacy. He was deceiving her; he would not remember it thenext day; she knew her father. Besides, she needed the money atonce, --her honor was at stake (she declared it seriously) if her friendsdiscovered that she was in debt. 

"This very minute, papa. Don't be horrid. Don't amuse yourself by makingme worry. You must have money, lots of it, perhaps you have it on you. Let's see, you naughty papa, let me search your pockets, let me look atyour wallet. Don't say no; you have it with you. You have it with you!"

She plunged her hands in her father's breast, unbuttoning his workingjacket, tickling him to get at the inside pocket. Renovales resistedfeebly. "You foolish girl. You're wasting your time. Where do you thinkthe wallet is? I never carry it in this suit. "

"It's here, you fibber, " his daughter cried merrily, persisting in hersearch. "I feel it! I have it! Look at it!"

She was right. The painter had forgotten that he had picked it up thatmorning to pay a bill and then had put it absent-mindedly in the pocketof his serge coat. 

Milita opened it with a greediness that hurt her father. Oh, thosewoman's hands, trembling in the search for money! He grew calmer when hethought of the fortune he had amassed, of the different colored paperswhich he kept in his desk. All would be his daughter's and perhaps thiswould save her from the danger toward which her longing to live amid thevanities and tinsel of feminine slavery was leading her. 

In an instant she had her hands on a number of bills of differentdenominations, forming a roll which she squeezed tight between herfingers. 

Renovales protested. 

"Let me have it, Milita, don't be childish. You're leaving me without acent. I'll send it to you to-morrow; give it up now. It's robbery. "

She avoided him; she had stood up; she kept at a distance, raising herhand above her hat to save her booty. She laughed boisterously at hertrick. She did not mean to give him back a single one! She did not knowhow many there were, she would count them at home, she would be out ofdifficulty for the nonce, and the next day she would ask him for whatwas lacking. 

The master finally began to laugh, finding her merriment contagious. Hechased Milita without trying to catch her; he threatened her with mockseverity, called her a robber, shouting "help, " and so they ran from onestudio to another. Before she disappeared, Milita stopped on the lastdoorsill, raising her gloved finger authoritatively:

"To-morrow, the rest. You mustn't forget. Really, papa, this is veryimportant. Good-by; I shall expect you to-morrow. "

And she disappeared, leaving in her father some of the merriment withwhich they had chased each other. 

The twilight was gloomy. Renovales sat in front of his wife's portrait, gazing at that extravagantly beautiful head which seemed to him the mostfaithful of his portraits. His thoughts were lost in the shadow whichrose from the corners and enveloped the canvases. Only on the windowstrembled a pale, hazy light, cut across by the black lines of thebranches outside. 

Alone--alone forever. He had the affection of that big girl who had justgone away, merry, indifferent to everything which did not flatter heryouthful vanity, her healthy beauty. He had the devotion of his friendCotoner, who, like an old dog, could not live without seeing him, butwas incapable of wholly devoting his life to him, and shared it betweenhim and other friends, jealous of his Bohemian freedom. 

And that was all. Very little. 

On the verge of old age, he gazed at a cruel, reddish light which seemedto irritate his eyes; the solitary, monotonous road which awaitedhim--and at the end, death! No one was ignorant of that; it was the onlycertainty, and still he had spent the greater part of his life withoutthinking of it, without seeing it. 

It was like one of those epidemics in distant lands which destroymillions of lives. People talk of it as of a definite fact, but withouta start of horror, or a tremble of fear. "It is too far away; it willtake it a long time to reach us. "

He had often named Death, but with his lips; his thoughts had notgrasped the meaning of the word, feeling that he was alive, bound tolife by his dreams and desires. 

Death stood at the end of the road; no one could avoid meeting it, butall are long in seeing it. Ambition, desire, love, the cruel animalneeds distracted man in his course toward it; they were like the woods, valleys, blue sky and winding crystal streams which diverted thetraveler, hiding the boundary of the landscape, the fatal goal, theblack bottomless gorge to which all roads lead. 

He was on the last days' march. The path of his life was growingdesolate and gloomy; the vegetation was dwindling; the great grovesdiminished into sparse, miserable lichens. From the murky abyss came anicy breath; he saw it in the distance, he walked without escape towardits gorge. The fields of dreams with their sunlit heights which oncebounded the horizon, were left behind and it was impossible to return. In this path no one retraced his steps. 

He had wasted half his life, struggling for wealth and fame, hopingsometimes to receive their revenues in the pleasures of love. Die! Whothought of that? Then it was a remote, unmeaning threat. He believedthat he was provided with a mission by Providence. Death would take noliberties with him, would not come till his work was finished. He stillhad many things to do. Well, all was done now; human desires did notexist for him. He had everything. No longer did fanciful towers risebefore his steps, for him to assault. On the horizon, free fromobstacles, appeared the great forgotten, --Death. 

He did not want to see it. There was still a long journey on that roadwhich might grow longer and longer, according to the strength of thetraveler, and his legs were still strong. 

But, ah, to walk, walk, year after year, with his gaze fixed on thatmurky abyss, contemplating it always at the edge of the horizon, unableto escape for an instant the certainty that it was there, was asuperhuman torture which would force him to hurry his steps, to run inorder to reach the end as soon as possible. Oh, for deceitful cloudswhich might veil the horizon, concealing the reality which embitters ourbread, which casts its shadows over our souls and makes us curse thefutility of our birth! Oh, for lying, pleasant illusions to make aparadise rise from the desert shadows of the last journey! Oh, fordreams!

And in his mind the poor master enlarged the last fancy of his desire;he connected with the beloved likeness of his dead wife all the flightsof his imagination, longing to infuse into it new life with a part ofhis own. He piled up by handfuls the clay of the past, the mass ofmemory, to make it greater that it might occupy the whole way, shut offthe horizon like a huge hill, hide till the last moment the murky abysswhich ended the journey. 

V

Renovales' behavior was a source of surprise and even scandal for allhis friends. 

The Countess of Alberca took especial care to let every one know thather only relation with the painter was a friendship which grewconstantly colder and more formal. 

"He's crazy, " she said. "He's finished. There's nothing left of him buta memory of what he once was. "

Cotoner in his unswerving friendship was indignant at hearing suchcomment on the famous master. 

"He isn't drinking. All that people say about him is a lie; the usuallegend about a celebrated man. "

He had his own ideas about Mariano; he knew his longing for a stirringlife, his desire to imitate the habits of youth in the prime of life, with a thirst for all the mysteries which he fancied were hidden in thisevil life, of which he had heard without ever daring till then to joinin them. 

Cotoner accepted the master's new habits indulgently. Poor fellow!

"You are putting into action the pictures of 'The Rake's Progress, '" hesaid to his friend. "You're going the way of all virtuous men when theycease to be so, on the verge of old age. You are making a fool ofyourself, Mariano. "

But his loyalty led him to acquiesce in the new life of the master. Atlast he had given in to his requests and had come to live with him. Withhis few pieces of luggage he occupied a room in the house and cared forRenovales with almost paternal solicitude. The Bohemian showed greatsympathy for him. It was the same old story: "He who does not do it atthe beginning does it at the end, " and Renovales, after a life of hardwork, was rushing into a life of dissipation with the blindness of ayouth, admiring vulgar pleasures, clothing them with the most fancifulseductions. 

Cotoner frequently harassed him with complaints. What had he brought himto live at his house for? He deserted him for days at a time; he wantedto go out alone; he left him at home like a trusty steward. The oldBohemian posted himself minutely on his life. Often the students in theArt School, gathered at nightfall beside the entrance to the Academy, saw him going down the Calle de Alcalá, muffled in his cloak with anaffected air of mystery that attracted attention. 

"There goes Renovales. That one, the one in the cloak. "

And they followed him out of curiosity--in his comings and goingsthrough the broad street where he circled about like a silent dove as ifhe were waiting for something. Sometimes, no doubt tired of theseevolutions, he went into a café and the curious admirers followed him, pressing their faces against the window-panes. They saw him drop into achair, looking vaguely at the glass before him; always the same thing:brandy. Suddenly he would drink it at one gulp, pay the waiter and goout, with the haste of one who has swallowed a drug. And once more hewould begin his explorations, peering with greedy eyes at all the womenwho passed alone, turning around to follow the course of run-down heels, the flutter of dark and mud-splashed skirts. At last he would start withsudden determination, he would disappear almost on the heel of somewoman always of the same appearance. The boys knew the great artist'spreference: little, weak, sickly women, graceful as faded flowers, withlarge eyes, dull and sorrowful. 

A story of strange mental aberration was forming about him. His enemiesrepeated it in the studios; the throng which cannot imagine thatcelebrated men lead the same life as other people, and like to thinkthat they are capricious, tormented by extraordinary habits, began totalk with delight about the hobby of the painter Renovales. 

In all the houses of prostitution, from the middle class apartments, scattered in the most respectable streets, to the damp, ill-smellingdens which cast out their wares at night on the Calle de Peligros, circulated the story of a certain gentleman, provoking shouts oflaughter. He always came muffled up mysteriously, following hastily therustle of some poor starched skirts which preceded him. He entered thedark doorway with a sort of terror, climbed the winding staircase whichseemed to smell of the residues of life, hastened the disrobing witheager hands, as if he had no time to waste, as if he was afraid of dyingbefore he realized his desire, and all at once the poor women who lookedaskance at his feverish silence and the savage hunger which shone in hiseyes, were tempted to laugh, seeing him drop dejectedly into a chair insilence, unmindful of the brutal words which they in their astonishmenthurled at him; without paying any attention to their gestures andinvitations, not coming out of his stupor till the woman, cold andsomewhat offended, started to put on her clothes. "One moment more. "This scene almost always ended with an expression of disgust, of bitterdisappointment. Sometimes the poor puppets of flesh thought they saw inhis eyes a sorrowful expression, as if he were going to weep. Then hefled precipitously, hidden under his cloak in sudden shame, with thefirm determination not to return, to resist that demon of hungrycuriosity which dwelt within him and could not see a woman's form in thestreet, without feeling a violent desire to disrobe it. 

These stories came to Cotoner's ears. Mariano! Mariano! He did not dareto rebuke him openly for these shameful nocturnal adventures; he wasafraid of a violent explosion of anger on the part of the master. Hemust direct him prudently. But what most aroused his old friend'scensure was the people with whom the artist associated. 

This false rejuvenation made him seek the company of the younger men andCotoner cursed roundly when at the close of the theater he found him ina café, surrounded by his new comrades, all of whom might be his sons. Most of them were painters, novices, some with considerable talent, others whose only merit was their evil tongue, all of them proud oftheir friendship with the famous man, delighting like pigmies intreating him as an equal, jesting over his weaknesses. Great Heavens!Some of the bolder even went so far as to call him by his first name, treating him like a glorious failure, presuming to make comparisonsbetween his paintings and what they would do when they could. "Mariano, art moves in different paths, now. "

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself!" Cotoner would exclaim. "You look likea schoolmaster surrounded by children. You ought to be spanked. A manlike you tolerating the insolence of those shabby fellows!"

Renovales' good nature was unshaken. They were very interesting; theyamused him; he found in them the joy of youth. They went together to thetheaters and music halls, they knew women; they knew where the goodmodels were; with them he could enter many places where he would notventure to go alone. His years and ugliness passed unnoticed amid thatyouthful merry crowd. 

"They are of service to me, " the poor man said with a sly wink. "I amamused and they tell me lots of things. Besides, this isn't Rome; thereare hardly any models; it is very difficult to find them and these boysare my guides. "

And he went on to speak of his great artistic plans, of that picture ofPhryne, with her divine nakedness, which had once more risen in hismind, of the beloved portrait which was still in the same condition ashis brush had left it when he finished the head. 

He was not working. His old energy, which had made painting a necessaryelement in his life, now found vent in words, in the desire to seeeverything, to know "new phases of life. "

Soldevilla, his favorite pupil, found himself a target for the master'squestions when he appeared at rare intervals in the studio. 

"You must know good women, Soldevilla: You have been around a great dealin spite of that angel face of yours. You must take me with you. Youmust introduce me. "

"Master!" the youth would exclaim in surprise, "it isn't yet six monthssince I was married! I never go out at night! How you joke!"

Renovates answered with a scornful glance. A fine life! No youth, nojoy! He spent all his money on variegated waistcoats and high collars. What a perfect ant! He had married a rich woman, since he couldn't catchthe master's daughter. Besides, he was an ungrateful scamp. Now he wasjoining the master's enemies, convinced that he could get nothing moreout of him. He scorned him. It was too bad that his protection hadcaused him so much inconvenience! He was no artist. 

And the master went back with new affection to his companions, thosemerry youths, slandering and disrespectful as they were. He recognizedtalent in them all. 

The gossip about his extraordinary life reached even his daughter, withthe rapid spread which anything prejudicial to a famous man acquires. 

Milita scowled, trying to restrain the laughter which the strangeness ofthis change aroused. Her father becoming a rake!

"Papa! Papa!" she exclaimed in a comic tone of reproach. 

And papa made excuses like a naughty, hypocritical little boy, increasing by his perturbation his daughter's desire to laugh. 

López de Sosa seemed inclined to be indulgent toward his father-in-law. Poor old gentleman! All his life working, with a sick wife, who was verygood and kind, to be sure, but who had embittered his life! She did wellto die, and the artist did quite as well in making up for the time hehad lost. 

With the instinctive freemasonry of all those who lead an easy, merrylife, the sport defended his father-in-law, supported him, found himmore attractive, more congenial, as a result of his new habits. A manmust not always stay shut up in his studio with the irritated air of aprophet, talking about things which nobody would understand. 

They met each other in the evening during the last acts at the theatersand music halls, when the songs and dances were accompanied by theaudience with a storm of cries and stamping. They greeted each other, the father inquired for Milita, they smiled with the sympathy of twogood fellows and each went back to his group; the son-in-law to hisclub-mates in a box, still wearing the dress suits of the respectablegatherings from which they came--the painter to the orchestra seatswith the long-haired young fellows who were his escort. 

Renovales was gratified to see López de Sosa greeting the mostfashionable, highest-priced _cocottes_ and smiling to comic-opera starswith the familiarity of an old friend. 

That boy had excellent connections, and he regarded this as an indirecthonor to his position as a father. 

Cotoner frequently found himself dragged out of his orbit of serious, substantial dinners and evening-parties, which he continued to frequentin order not to lose his friendships which were his only source ofincome. 

"You are coming with me to-night, " the master would say mysteriously. "We will dine wherever you like, and afterwards I will show yousomething. "

And he took him to the theater where he sat restless and impatient untilthe chorus came on the stage. Then he would nudge Cotoner, who was sunkin his seat, with his eyes wide open, but asleep inside, in the sweetpleasure of good digestion. 

"Listen, look! the third from the right, the little girl--the one in theyellow shawl!"

"I see her. What about her?" said his friend in a sour voice. 

"Look at her closely. Who does she look like? Who does she remind youof?"

Cotoner answered with a grunt of indifference. She probably looked likeher mother. What did he care about such resemblances. But hisastonishment aroused him from his quiet when he heard Renovales say hethought her a rare likeness of his wife, and was indignant at himbecause he did not recognize it. 

"Why, Mariano, where are your eyes?" he exclaimed with no less sourness. "What resemblance is there between that scraggly girl with her starvedface and your poor, dead wife. If you see a sorry-looking bean pole youwill give it a name, Josephina, --and there's nothing more to say. "

Although Renovales was at first irritated at his friend's blindness, hewas finally convinced. He had probably deceived himself, as long asCotoner did not find the likeness. He must remember the dead womanbetter than he himself; love did not disturb _his_ memory. 

But a few days later he would once more besiege Cotoner with amysterious air. "I have something to show you. " And leaving the companyof the merry lads who annoyed his old friend, he would take him to amusic hall and point out another scandalous woman who was kicking afling or doing a _danse du ventre_, and revealed her anemic emaciationunder a mask of rouge. 

"How about this one?" the master would implore, almost in terror as ifhe doubted his own eyes. "Don't you think she looks something like her?Doesn't she remind you of her?"

His friend broke out angrily:

"You're crazy. What likeness is there between that poor little woman, sogood, so sweet and so refined, and this low creature?"

Renovales, after several failures which made him doubt the accuracy ofhis memory, did not dare to consult his friend. As soon as he tried totake him to a new show, Cotoner would draw back. 

"Another discovery? Come, Mariano, get these ideas out of your head. Ifpeople found out about it, they would think that you were crazy. "

But defying his wrath, the master insisted one evening with greatobstinacy that he must go with him to see the "Bella Fregolina, " aSpanish girl, who was singing at a little theater in the low quarter, and whose name was displayed in letters a meter high in the shop windowsof Madrid. He had spent more than two weeks watching her every evening. 

"I must have you see her, Pepe. Just for a minute. I beg you. I am surethat this time you won't say that I am mistaken. "

Cotoner gave in, persuaded by the imploring tone of his friend. Theywaited for the appearance of the "Bella Fregolina" for a long time, watching dances and listening to songs accompanied by the howls of theaudience. The wonder was reserved till the last. At last, with a sort ofsolemnity, amid a murmur of expectation, the orchestra began to play apiece well known to all the admirers of the "star, " a ray of rosy lightcrossed the little stage and the "Bella" entered. 

She was a slight little girl, so thin that she was almost emaciated. Herface, of a sweet melancholy beauty, was the most striking thing abouther. Beneath her black dress, covered with silver threads, which spreadout like a broad bell, you could see her slender legs, so thin that theflesh seemed hardly to cover the bones. Above the lace of her gown herskin, painted white, marked the slight curve of her breasts and theprominent collar bones. The first thing you saw about her were her eyes, large, clear, and girlish, but the eyes of a depraved girl, in which alicentious expression flickered, without, however, hurting their puresurface. She moved like an overgrown school-girl, arms akimbo, bashfuland blushing and in this position she sang in a thin, high voice, obscene verses which contrasted strangely with her apparent timidity. This was her charm and the audience received her atrocious words withroars of delight, contenting themselves with this, without demandingthat she dance, respecting her hieratic stiffness. 

When the painter saw her appear he nudged his friend. 

He did not dare to speak, waiting for his opinion anxiously. Hefollowed his inspection out of the corner of his eye. 

His friend was merciful. 

"Yes, she is something like her. Her eyes, --figure, --expression; shereminds me of her. She is very much, like her. But the monkey face sheis making now! The words! No, that destroys all likeness. "

And as if he were angry that that little girl without any voice andwithout any sense of shame, should be compared to the sweet Josephina, he commented with sarcastic admiration on all the cynical expressionswith which she ended her couplets. 

"Very pretty! Very refined!"

But Renovales, deaf to these ironical remarks, absorbed in thecontemplation of "Fregolina, " kept on poking him and whispering:

"It's she, isn't it? Just exactly; the same body. And besides, the girlhas some talent; she's funny. "

Cotoner nodded ironically: "Yes, very. " And when he found that Marianowanted to stay for the next act and did not move from his seat, hethough of leaving him. Finally he stayed, stretching out in his seatwith the determination to have a nap, lulled by the music and the criesof the audience. 

An impatient hand aroused him from his comfortable doze. "Pepe, Pepe. "He shook his head and opened his eyes ill-naturedly. "What's thematter?" In Renovales' face he saw a honeyed, treacherous smile, somefolly that he wanted to propose in the most pleasing manner. 

"I thought we might go behind the scenes for a minute: we could see herat close range. "

His friend answered him indignantly. Mariano thought he was a youngbuck; he forgot how he looked. That woman would laugh at them, shewould assume the air of the Chaste Susanna, besieged by the two old men. 

Renovales was silent, but in a little while he once more aroused hisfriend from his nap. 

"You might go in alone, Pepe. You know more about these things than Ido. You are more daring. You might tell her that I want to paint herportrait. Think, a portrait with my signature!"

Cotoner started to laugh, in sheer admiration of the princely simplicitywith which the master gave him the commission. 

"Thank you, sir; I am highly honored by such a favor, but I am notgoing. You confounded fool. Do you suppose that girl knows who Renovalesis or has ever even heard of his name?"

The master expressed his astonishment with childlike simplicity. 

"Man alive. I believe that the name Renovales--that what the papers havesaid--that my portraits---- Be frank, say that you don't want to. "

And he was silent, offended at his companion's refusal and his doubtthat his fame had reached this corner. Friends sometimes abuse us withunexpected scorn and great injustice. 

At the end of the show the master felt that he must do something, not goaway without sending the "Bella Fregolina" some evidence of hispresence. He bought an elaborate basket of flowers from a flower vendorwho was starting home, discouraged at the poor business. She shoulddeliver it immediately to Señorita--"Fregolina. "

"Yes, to Pepita, " said the woman with a knowing air, as if she were oneof her friends. 

"And tell her it is from Señor Renovales--from Renovales, the painter. "

The woman nodded, repeating the name. "Very well, Renovales, " just asshe would have said any other name. And without the least emotion shetook the five dollars which the painter gave her. 

"Five dollars! You idiot, " muttered his friend, losing all respect forhim. 

Good Cotoner refused to go with him after that. In vain Renovales talkedto him enthusiastically every night about that girl, deeply impressed byher different impersonations. Now she appeared in a pale pink dress, almost like some clothes put away in the closets of his house; now sheentered in a hat trimmed with flowers and cherries, much larger, butstill something like a certain straw hat which he could find amid theconfusion of Josephina's old finery. Oh, how it reminded him of her!Every night he was struck with some renewed memory. 

Lacking Cotoner's assistance, he went to see the "Bella" with some ofthe young fellows of his disrespectful court. These boys spoke of the"star" with respectful scorn, as the fox in the fable gazed at thedistant grapes, consoling himself at the thought of their sourness. Theypraised her beauty, seen from a distance; according to them she was"lily-like"; she had the holy beauty of sin. She was out of their reach;she wore costly jewels and according to all reports had influentialfriends, all those young gentlemen in dress clothes who occupied theboxes during the last act, and waited for her at the stage door to takeher to dinner. 

Renovales was gnawed with impatience, unable to find a way to meet her. Every night he sent his little baskets of flowers, or huge bouquets. The"star" must be informed whence these gifts came, for she looked aroundthe audience for the ugly elderly gentleman, deigning to grant him asmile. 

One night the master saw López de Sosa speak to the singer. Perhaps hisson-in-law was acquainted with her. And boldly as a lover, he waited forhim when he came out to implore his help. 

He wanted to paint her; she was a magnificent model for a certain workhe had in mind. He said it blushingly, stammering, but López laughed athis timidity and seemed disposed to protect him. 

"Oh, Pepita? A wonderful woman, in spite of the fact that she is on thedecline. With all her school-girl face, if you could only see her at aparty! She drinks like a fish. She's a terror!"

But afterwards, with a serious expression, he explained thedifficulties. She "belonged" to one of his friends, a lad from theprovinces who, eager to win notoriety, was losing one-half his fortunegambling at the Casino and was calmly letting that girl devour the otherhalf, --she gave him some reputation. He would speak to her; they wereold friends; nothing wrong--eh, father? It would not be hard to persuadeher. This Pepita had a predilection for anything that was unusual; shewas rather--romantic. He would explain to her who the great artist was, enhancing the honor of acting as his model. 

"Don't stint on the money, " said the master anxiously. "All that shewants. Don't be afraid to be generous. "

One morning Renovales called Cotoner to talk to him with wildexpressions of joy. 

"She's going to come! She's going to come this very afternoon!"

The old painter looked surprised. 

"Who?"

"The 'Bella Fregolina. ' Pepita. My son-in-law tells me he has persuadedher. She will come this afternoon at three. He is coming with herhimself. "

Then he cast a worried glance at his workshop. For some time it had beendeserted; it must be set in order. 

And the servant on one side and the two artists on the other, began totidy up the room hastily. 

The portraits of Josephina and the canvas with nothing but her head werepiled up in a corner by the master's feverish hands. What was the use ofthose phantoms when the real thing was going to appear. In their placehe put a large white canvas, gazing at its untouched surface withhopeful eyes. What things he was going to do that afternoon! What apower for work he felt!

When the two artists were left alone, Renovales seemed restless, dissatisfied, constantly suspecting that something had been overlookedfor this visit, toward which he looked with chills of anxiety. Flowers;they must get some flowers, fill all the old vases in the studio, createan atmosphere of delicate perfume. 

And Cotoner ran through the garden with the servant, plundered thegreenhouse and came in with an armful of flowers, obedient andsubmissive as a faithful friend, but with a sarcastic reproach in hiseyes. All that for the "Bella Fregolina"! The master was cracked; he wasin his second childhood! If only this visit would cure him of his mania, which was almost madness!

Afterwards the master had further orders. He must provide on one of thetables in the studio sweets, champagne, anything good he could find. Cotoner spoke of sending for the valet, complaining of the tasks whichwere imposed on him as a result of the visit of this girl of theguileless smile and the vile songs, who stood with arms akimbo. 

"No, Pepe, " the master implored. "Listen--I don't want the valet toknow. He talks afterward; my daughter probes him with questions. "

Cotoner went away with a resigned expression and when he returned anhour later, he found Renovales in the model's room arranging someclothes. 

The old painter lined up his packages on the table. He put theconfectionery in antique plates and took the bottles out of theirwrappers. 

"You are served, sir, " he said with ironical respect. "Do you wishanything else, sir? The whole family is in a state of revolution overthis noble lady; your son-in-law is bringing her; I am acting as yourvalet; all you need now is to send for your daughter to help herundress. "

"Thanks, Pepe, thanks ever so much, " said the master with naivegratitude, apparently undisturbed by his jests. 

At luncheon time Cotoner saw him come into the dining-room with his haircarefully combed, his mustache curled, wearing his best suit with a rosein the buttonhole. The Bohemian laughed boisterously. The last straw! Hewas crazy; they would make sport of him!

The master scarcely touched the meal. Afterwards he walked up and downalone in the studio. How slowly the time went! At each turn through thethree studios he looked at the hands of an old clock of Saxon china, which stood on a table of colored marble, with its back reflected in atall, Venetian mirror. 

It was already three. The master wondered if she was not going to come. Quarter past three, --half-past three. No, she was not coming; it waspast the time. Those women who live amid obligations and demands, without a minute to themselves!

Suddenly he heard steps and Cotoner entered. 

"She is here; here she comes. Good luck, master. Have a good time! Iguess you have imposed on me long enough and will not expect me tostay. "

He went out waving him an ironical farewell and a little laterRenovales heard López de Sosa's voice, approaching slowly, explaining tohis companion the pictures and furniture which attracted her attention. 

They entered. The "Bella Fregolina" looked astonished; she seemedintimidated by the majestic silence of the studio. What a big, princelyhouse, so different from all those she had seen! That ancient, solid, historic luxury with its rare furniture filled her with fear! She lookedat Renovales with great respect. He seemed to her more distinguishedthan that other man whom she had seen indistinctly in the orchestra ofher little theater. He was awe-inspiring, as if he were a greatpersonage, different from all the men with whom she had had to do. Toher fear was added a sort of admiration. How much money that old boymust have, living in such style!

Renovales, too, was deeply moved when he saw her so close at hand. 

At first he hesitated. Was she really like the other? The paint on herface disconcerted him--the layer of rouge with black lines about theeyes--visible through the veil. The _other_ did not paint. But when helooked at her eyes, the striking resemblance rose again, and startingfrom them he gradually restored the beloved face under the layers ofpomade. 

The "star" examined the canvases which covered the walls. How pretty!And did this gentleman do all that? She wanted to see herself like that, proud and beautiful in a canvas. Did he truly want to paint her? And shedrew herself up vainly, delighted that people thought she was beautiful, that she would enjoy the emotion until then unknown of seeing her imagereproduced by a great artist. 

López de Sosa excused himself to his father-in-law. She was to blame fortheir being late. You could never get a woman like that to hurry. Shewent to bed at daybreak; he had found her in bed. 

Then he said good-by, understanding the embarrassment his presence mightcause. Pepita was a good girl, she was dazzled by his works and theappearance of the house. The master could do what he wanted with her. 

"Well, little girl, you stay here. The gentleman is my father; I toldyou already. Be sure and be a good girl. "

And he went out, followed by the forced laugh of them both, who greetedthis recommendation with uneasy merriment. 

A long and painful silence followed. The master did not know what tosay. Timidity and emotion weighed on his will. She seemed no lessdisturbed. That great room, so silent and imposing with its massive, superb decorations, different from anything she had seen, frightenedher. She felt the vague terror which precedes an unknown operation. Besides, she was disturbed by the man's glowing eyes fixed on her, witha quiver on his cheeks and a twitching of his lips, as if they weretormented by thirst. 

She soon recovered from her timidity. She was used to these moments ofshamefaced silence which came with the lone meeting of two strangers. She knew these interviews which begin hesitatingly and end in roughfamiliarity. 

She looked around with a professional smile, eager to end the unpleasantsituation as soon as possible. 

"When you will. Where shall I undress?"

Renovales started at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten thatthat image could speak. The simplicity with which she dispensed withexplanations surprised him likewise. 

His son-in-law did things well; he had brought her well coached, callousto all surprises. 

The master showed her the way to the model's room and remained outside, prudently, turning his head without knowing why, so as not to seethrough the half-opened door. There was a long silence, broken by therustle of falling clothes, the metallic click of buttons and hooks. Suddenly her voice came to the master, smothered, distant with a sort oftimidity. 

"My stockings too? Must I take them off?"

Renovales knew this objection of all models when they undressed for thefirst time. López de Sosa, carrying his desire of pleasing his father tothe extreme, had spoken to her of giving her body wholly and sheundressed without asking any further explanations, with the calm ofaccepted duty, thinking that her presence there was absurd for any otherpurpose. 

The painter came out of his silence; he called to her uneasily. She mustnot stay undressed. In the room there were clothes for her to put on. And without turning his head, reaching his arm through the half opendoor he pointed out blindly what he had left. There was a pink dress, ahat, shoes, stockings, a shirt. 

Pepita protested when she saw these cast-off garments, showing anaversion to putting on those underclothes which seemed worn and old. 

"The shirt, too? The stockings? No, the dress is enough. "

But the master begged her impatiently. She must put them all on; hispainting demanded it. The long silence of the girl proved that she wascomplying, putting on these old garments, overcoming her repugnance. 

When she came out of the room she smiled with a sort of pity, as if shewere laughing at herself. Renovales drew back, stirred by his own work, bewildered, feeling his temples throbbing, fancying that the picturesand furniture were whirling about him. 

Poor "Fregolina"! What a delightful clown! She felt like laughing at thethought of the storm of cries which would burst out in her theater ifshe should appear on the stage dressed in this fashion, of the jests ofher friends if she should come into one of their dinners in theseclothes of twenty years ago. She did not know these styles, and to herthey seemed to belong to a remote antiquity. The master leaned over theback of a chair. 

"Josephina! Josephina!"

It was she, such as he kept her in his memory--as she was that happysummer in the Roman mountains, in her pink dress and that rustic hatwhich gave her the dainty air of a village girl in the opera. Thosefashions at which the younger generation laughed were for him the mostbeautiful, the most artistic that feminine taste had ever produced; theyrecalled the spring of his life. 

"Josephina! Josephina!"

He remained silent, for these exclamations were born and died in histhoughts. He did not dare to move or speak, for fear this apparition ofhis dreams would vanish. She, smiling, was delighted at the effect herappearance had on the painter and seeing her reflection in a distantmirror, recognized that in this strange costume she did not look at allbadly. 

"Where shall I go? Sitting or standing?"

The master could hardly speak; his voice was hoarse, labored. 

She could pose as she wished. And she sat down in a chair adopting aposture which she considered very graceful--her cheek on one hand, herlegs crossed, just as she was wont to sit in the green room of thetheater, showing a bit of open-work pink silk stocking under her skirt. That too reminded the painter of the other. 

It was she! She sat before his eyes in bodily form, with the perfume ofthe form he loved. 

From instinct, from habit, he took up his palette and a brush stainedwith black, trying to trace the outlines of that figure. Ah, his handwas old, heavy, trembling! Where had his old time skill fled, hisdrawing, his striking qualities? Had he really ever painted? Was hetruly the painter Renovales? He had suddenly forgotten everything. Hishead seemed empty, his hand paralyzed, the white canvas filled him witha terror of the unknown. He did not know how to paint; he could notpaint. His efforts were useless; his mind was deadened. Perhaps, --someother day. Now his ears hummed, his face was pale, his ears were red, purple, as if they were on the point of dripping blood. In his mouth hefelt the torment of a deathly thirst. 

The "Bella Fregolina" saw him throw down his palette and come toward herwith a wild expression. 

But she felt no fear; she knew those distorted faces. This sudden rushwas no doubt part of the program; she was warned when she went thereafter her friendly conversation with the son-in-law. That gentleman, soserious and so imposing, was like all the men she knew, as brutal as therest. 

She saw him come to her with open arms, take her in a close embrace, fall at her feet with a hoarse cry, as if he were stifling; and she, gently and sympathetically encouraged him, bending her head, offeringher lips with an automatic loving expression which was the implement ofher profession. 

The kiss was enough to overcome the master completely. 

"Josephina! Josephina!"

The perfume of the happy days rose from her clothes, surrounding heradorable person. It was her form, her flesh! He was going to die at herfeet, suffocated by the immense desire that swelled within him. It wasshe; her very eyes--her eyes! And as he raised his glance to losehimself in their soft pupils, to gaze at himself in their tremblingmirror, he saw two cold eyes, which examined him, half closed withprofessional curiosity, taking a scornful delight from their calm heightin this intoxication of the flesh, this madness which groveled, moaningwith desire. 

Renovales was thunderstruck with surprise; he felt something icy rundown his back, paralyzing him; his eyes were veiled with a cloud ofdisappointment and sorrow. 

Was it really Josephina whom he had in his arms? It was her body, herperfume, her clothes, her beauty, pale as a dying flower. But no, it wasnot she! Those eyes! In vain did they look at him differently, alarmedat this sudden reaction; in vain they softened with a tender light, trained by habit. The deceit was useless; he saw beyond, he penetratedthrough those bright windows into the depths; he found only emptiness. The other's soul was not there. That maddening perfume no longer movedhim; it was a false essence. He had before him merely a reproduction ofthe beloved vase, but the incense, the soul, lost forever. 

Renovales, standing up, drew away from her, looking at that woman withterror in his eyes, and finally threw himself on a couch, with his facein his hands. 

The girl, hearing him sob, was afraid and ran toward the models' room totake off those clothes, to flee. The man must be mad. 

The master was weeping. Farewell, youth! Farewell desire! Farewelldreams; enchanting sirens of life, that have fled forever. Useless thesearch, useless the struggle in the solitude of life. Death had him inhis grasp, he was his and only through him could he renew his youth. These images were useless. He could not find another to call up thememory of the dead like this hired woman whom he had held in hisarms--and still, it was not she!

At the supreme moment, on the verge of reality, that indefinablesomething had vanished, that something which had been enclosed in thebody of his Josephina, of his _maja_, whom he had worshiped in thenights of his youth. 

Immense, irreparable disappointment flooded his body with the icy calmof old age. 

Fall, ye towers of illusion! Sink, ye castles of fancy, built with thelonging to make the way fair, to hide the horizon! The path stillremained unbroken, barren and deserted. In vain would he sit by theroadside, putting off the hour of his departure, in vain would he bowhis head that he might not see. The longer his rest, the longer hisfearful torment. At every hour he was destined to gaze at the dreadedend of the last journey--unclouded, undisturbed--the dwelling from whichthere is no return--the black, greedy abyss--death!

FOOTNOTE:

[A] The life of this character is the theme of _La Horda_, bythe same author.