I
At the coming of spring López de Sosa, "the intrepid sportsman," as
Cotoner called him, appeared at Renovales' house every afternoon.
Outside the entrance gate stood his eighty-horsepower automobile, his
latest acquisition, of which he was intensely proud, a huge green car,
that started and backed under the hand of the chauffeur while its owner
was crossing the garden of the painter's house.
Renovales saw him enter the studio, in a blue suit with a shining visor
over his eyes, affecting the resolute bearing of a sailor or an
explorer.
"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 clad
in the same fashion, small and insignificant beside the girl, who seemed
to 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 in
that car that fairly ate up space, reaching distant suburbs of Madrid
without 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 prospect
of being left alone, completely alone, without the disturbance of
feeling 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 shocked
that 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 swallowing
space with your eyes almost closed, unable to see anything but a hazy
blur of the scenery, amid clouds of dust and crushed stone. He preferred
to look at the landscape calmly, without haste, with the reflective
quiet of the student. Besides he was out of place in things that did not
belong to his time; he was getting old and these frightful novelties did
not agree with him.
"Good-by, papa."
Milita, lifting her veil, put out her red, tempting lips, showing her
bright teeth as she smiled. After this kiss came the other, formal and
cold, exchanged with the indifference of habit, without any novelty
except that Josephina's mouth drew back from his, as if she wanted to
avoid any contact with him.
They went out, the mother leaning on Rafaelito's arm with a sort of
languor, as if she could hardly drag her weak body,--her pale face
unrelieved by the least sign of blood.
When Renovales found himself alone in the studio he would feel as happy
as a school-boy on a holiday. He worked with a lighter touch, he roared
out old songs, delighting to listen to the echoes that his voice
awakened in the high-studded rooms. Often when Cotoner came in, he would
surprise him by the serene shamelessness with which he sang some one of
the licentious songs he had learned in Rome, and the painter of the
Popes, smiling like a faun, joined in the chorus, applauding at the end
these ribald verses of the studio.
Tekli, the Hungarian, who sometimes spent an afternoon with him, had
departed for his native land with his copy of _Las Meninas_, but not
before lifting Renovales' hands several times to his heart, with
extravagant terms of affection and calling him "noble master." The
portrait of the Countess of Alberca was no longer in the studio; in a
glittering frame it hung on the walls of the illustrious lady's
drawing-room, where it received the worship of her admirers.
Sometimes of an afternoon when the ladies had left the studio and the
dull mumble of the car and the tooting of the horn had died away, the
master and his friend would talk of López de Sosa. A good fellow,
somewhat foolish, but well-meaning; this was the judgment of Renovales
and his old friend. He was proud of his mustache that gave him a certain
likeness to the German emperor, and when he sat down, he took care to
show his hands, by placing them prominently on his knees, in order that
everyone might appreciate their vigorous hugeness, the prominent veins,
and the strong fingers, all this with the naïve satisfaction of a
ditch-digger. His conversation always turned on feats of strength and
before 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 the
weights he could lift with the slightest effort, of the number of chairs
he could jump over without touching one of them. Often he interrupted
the two painters when they were eulogizing the great masters of art, to
tell them of the latest victory of some celebrated driver in the contest
for a coveted cup. He knew by heart the names of all the European
champions who had won the immortal laurel, in running, jumping, killing
pigeons, boxing or fencing.
Renovales had seen him come into the studio one afternoon, trembling
with 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 in
Madrid."
"Well, congratulations."
And the artist shrugged his shoulders and went on painting.
López de Sosa was wealthy. His father, a former manufacturer of canned
goods, had left him a fortune that he administered prudently, never
gambling, nor keeping mistresses (he had no time for such follies) but
finding all his amusement in sports that strengthen the body. He had a
coach-house of his own, where he kept his carriages and his automobiles
which he showed to his friends with the satisfaction of an artist. It
was his museum. Besides, he owned several teams of horses, for modern
fads did not make him forget his former tastes, and he took as much
pride in his past glories as a horseman as he did in his skill as a
driver of cars. At rare intervals, on the days of an important
bull-fight or when some sensational races were being run in the
Hippodrome, he won a triumph on the box by driving six cabs, covered
with tassels and bells, that seemed to proclaim the glory and wealth of
their owner with their noisy course.
He was proud of his virtuous life; free from foolishness or petty love
affairs, wholly devoted to sports and show. His income was less than his
expenses. The numerous personnel of his stable-garage, his horses,
gasoline and tailors' bills ate up even a part of the principal. But
López de Sosa was undisturbed in this ruinous course,--for he was
conscious of the danger, in spite of his extravagance. It was a mere
youthful folly, he would cut down his expenses when he married. He
devoted his evenings to reading, for he could not sleep quietly, unless
he went through his classics (sporting-papers, automobile catalogs,
etc.), and every month he made new acquisitions abroad, spending
thousands of francs and, complaining, like a serious business man, of
the rise in the Exchange, of the exorbitant customs charges, of the
stupidity of the Government that so shackled the development of the
country. The price of every automobile was greatly increased on crossing
the frontier. And after that, politicians expected progress and
regeneration!
He had been educated by the Jesuits at the University of Deusto and had
his 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, who
was a great admirer of them, had died. But he still preserved a certain
respect for them because they had been his teachers and he knew that
they were great scholars. But modern life was different. He read with
perfect freedom, he read a great deal; he had in his house a library
composed of at least a hundred French novels. He purchased all the
volumes that came from Paris with a woman's picture on the cover and in
which, under pretext of describing Greek, Roman, or Egyptian customs,
the author placed a large number of youths and maidens without any
other decorations of civilization than the fillets and the caps that
covered their heads.
He insisted on freedom, perfect freedom, but for him, men were divided
into two castes, decent people and those who were not. Among the first
figured en masse all the young fellows of the Gran Peña, the old men of
the Casino, together with some people whose names appeared in the
papers, a certain evidence of their merit. The rest was the rabble,
despicable and vulgar in the streets of the cities, repulsive and
displeasing on the road, whom he insulted with all of the coarseness of
ill-breeding and threatened to kill when a child ran in front of his car
with 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 out
of the way and was run over--as if a man who makes two pesetas a day
were superior to machines that cost thousands of francs! What could you
do with such ignorant, commonplace people! And some wretches were still
talking about the rights of man and revolutions!
Cotoner, who expended incredible care in keeping his single suit
presentable for calls and dinners, questioned López de Sosa with
astonishment 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 he
did not yet own the longed-for thousand, he spoke of fitting himself out
on his next trip to London when the principal British automobilists were
to contend for the cup. He received his boots from Paris, but they were
made by a Swiss boot-maker, the same one who provided the foot-gear of
Edward of England; he counted his trousers by the dozen, and never wore
one pair more than eight or ten times; his linen was given to his valet
almost before it was used, his hats all came from London. He had eight
frock-coats made every year, that often grew old without ever being
worn, of different colors to suit the circumstances and the hours when
he must wear them. One in particular, dead black with long skirts,
gloomy and austere, copied from the foreign illustrations that
represented duels, was his uniform on solemn occasions, which he wore
when some friend looked him up at the Peña, to get his assistance in
representing him with his customary skill in affairs of honor.
His tailor admired his talent, his masterly command in choosing cloth
and deciding on the cut among the countless designs. Result, he spent
something like five thousand dollars a year on his clothes, and said
ingenuously 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 had
painted his portrait. In spite of his automobiles, his clothes, and the
fact that he chose his associates among people who bore noble titles, he
could not succeed in getting a foothold in society. He knew that behind
his back people nicknamed him, "Pickled Herring," alluding to his
father's trade, and that the young ladies, who counted him as a friend,
rebelled at the idea of marrying the "Canned-goods Boy," which was
another 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 as
any other of introducing his insignificance among the famous men who
were painted by the artist. After that he was on intimate terms with the
master, talking everywhere about "his friend, Renovales!" with a sort of
familiarity, 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 afternoon
when tired out with the account of his prowess as a fencer, Renovales
had laid aside his brushes and taking down two old foils, had had
several bouts with him. What a man he was! And how he remembered the
points he had learned in Rome!
In his frequent visits to the artist's house, he finally felt attracted
toward Milita; he saw in her the woman he wanted to marry. Lacking more
sonorous titles, it was something to be the son-in-law of Renovales.
Besides, the painter enjoyed the reputation of being wealthy, he spoke
of his enormous profits, and he still had many years before him, to add
to his fortune, all of which would be his daughter's.
López de Sosa began to pay court to Milita, calling on his great
resources, appearing every day in a different suit, coming every
afternoon, sometimes in a carriage drawn by a dashing pair, sometimes in
one of his cars. The fashionable youth won the favor of her mother,--an
important part. This was the kind of a husband for her daughter. No
painter! And in vain did Soldevilla put on his brightest ties and show
off shocking waistcoats; his rival crushed him and, what was worse, the
master's wife, who formerly used to have a sort of motherly concern for
him 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 for
Milita.
The girl fluctuated between her two admirers with a mocking smile. One
seemed to interest her as much as the other. She drove the painter, the
companion of her childhood, to despair, at times abusing him with her
jests, at others attracting him with her effusive intimacy, as in the
days when they played together; and at the same time she praised López
de Sosa's stylishness, laughed with him, and Soldevilla even suspected
that they wrote letters to each other as if they were engaged.
Renovales rejoiced at the cleverness with which his daughter kept the
two young men uncertain and eager about her. She was a terror, a boy in
skirts, more manly than either of her worshipers.
"I know her, Pepe," he said to Cotoner. "We must let her do what she
wants to. The day she decides in favor of one or the other we'll have to
marry her at once. She isn't one of the girls to wait. If we don't marry
her 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 in
her home! Her mother always ill, terrifying her with her tears, her
cries and her nervous attacks; her father working in his studio, and her
only companion the unsympathetic "Miss." He owed his thanks to López de
Sosa for taking them outdoors on these dizzy rides from which Josephina
returned greatly quieted.
Renovales preferred his pupil. He was almost his son, he had fought many
a hard battle to give him fellowships and prizes. He was a trifle
displeased at some of his slight infidelities, for as soon as he had won
some renown, he bragged about his independence, praising everything that
the master thought condemnable behind his back. But even so, the idea of
his marrying his daughter pleased him; a painter as a son-in-law; his
grandchildren painters, the blood of Renovales perpetuated in a dynasty
of 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 and
youth."
And the master's words betrayed a certain bitterness, as though he were
thinking of something very different from what he was saying.
Then he began to discuss the merits of López de Sosa, as if he were
already a member of the family.
"A good boy, isn't he, Pepe? A little stupid for us, unable to talk for
ten minutes without making us yawn, a fine fellow, but not our kind."
There was scorn in Renovales' voice as he spoke of the vigorous healthy
young men of the present, with their brains absolutely free from
culture, who had just assaulted life, invading every phase of it. What
people! Gymnastics, fencing, kicking a huge bull, swinging a mallet on
horseback, wild flights in an automobile; from the royal family down to
the last middle-class scion everyone rushed into this life of childish
joy, as if a man's mission consisted merely in hardening his muscles,
sweating and delighting in the shifting chances of a game. Activity fled
from the brain to the extremities of the body. They were strong, but
their minds lay fallow, wrapped in a haze of childish credulity. Modern
men seemed to stop growing at the age of fourteen; they never went
beyond, content with the joys of movement and strength. Many of these
big fellows were ignorant of women, or almost so, at the age when in
other times they were turning back, satiated with love. Busy running
without direction or end, they had no time nor quiet to think about
women. Love was about to go on a strike, unable to resist the
competition of sports. The young men lived by themselves, finding in
athletic exercise a satisfaction that left them without any desire or
curiosity for the other pleasures of life. They were big boys with
strong fists; they could fight with a bull and yet the approach of a
woman filled them with terror. All the sap of their life was used up in
violent exercise. Intelligence seemed to have concentrated in their
hands, leaving their heads empty. What was going to become of this new
people? Perhaps it would form a healthier, stronger human race, but
without love or passion, without any other association than the blind
impulse 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 had
better times. We weren't so pure, but we were interested in something
higher than automobiles and prize cups; we had ideals."
Then he began to talk again of the young man who expected to become one
of his family and made sport of his mentality.
"If Milita decides on him, I won't object. The important thing in such
matters 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 the
sensation of novelty has worn off, he will go back to his fads and poor
Milita will be jealous of those machines that are eating up the greater
part of his fortune."
Sometimes, before the light died out in the afternoon, Renovales excused
his model, if he had one, and laying aside his brushes went out of the
studio. 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 de
Alcalá, walking slowly among the groups of strollers, some of whom
turned round behind them to point out the master. "That taller one is
Renovales, the painter." In a few minutes, Mariano hastened his step
with nervous impatience, he stopped talking and Cotoner followed him
with an ill-humored expression, humming between his teeth. When they
reached the Cibeles, the old painter knew that their walk was nearly
over.
"I'll see you to-morrow, Pepe, I'm going this way. I've got to see the
countess."
One day, he did not limit himself to this brief leave-taking. After he
had gone a few steps, he came back toward his companion and said
hesitatingly:
"Listen, if Josephina asks you where I went, don't say anything. I know
that you are prudent but she is always worried. I tell you this so as to
avoid 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 good
weather had really come, and people were impatiently getting out their
summer clothes, there was an unexpected and treacherous return of winter
that clouded the sky and covered with a coat of snow the muddy ground
and the gardens where the first flowers of spring were beginning to
sprout.
There was a fire once more in the fireplace in the drawing-room of the
Countess of Alberca, where all the gentlemen who formed her coterie
gathered to keep warm on days when she was "at home," not having a
meeting to preside over or calls to make.
When Renovales came one afternoon, he spoke enthusiastically of the view
of Moncloa, covered with snow. He had just been there, a beautiful
sight, the woods, buried in wintry silence, surprised by the white
shroud 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 people
who went back and forth with their outfits, sullying the purity of the
snow.
The countess was as interested as a child. She wanted to see that, she
would go the next day. Her friends tried in vain to dissuade her,
telling her the weather would probably change presently. To-morrow the
sun would come out, the snow would melt; these unexpected storms were
characteristic of the fickle climate of Madrid.
"It makes no difference," said Concha obstinately, "I've got the idea
into my head. It's years since I have seen it. My life is such a busy
one."
She would go to see the thaw in the morning; no, not in the morning. She
got up late and had to receive all those Women's Rights ladies that came
to consult her. In the afternoon, she would go after luncheon. It was
too bad that Renovales worked at that time and could not go with her. He
could appreciate landscapes so well with his artist's eyes and had often
spoken to her of the sunset from the palace of Moncloa, a sight almost
equal to the one you can see in Rome from the Pinzio at dusk. The
painter 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 at
Doctor Monteverde. But she was disappointed in her hope of being
censured for her fickleness and unfaithfulness, for the doctor remained
indifferent.
Lucky doctor! How Renovales hated him. He was a young man, as fair and
as fragile as a porcelain figure, a combination of such striking
beauties that his face was almost a caricature. His hair, parted in two
waves over his pale forehead, was black, very black and shining with
bluish reflections, his eyes, as soft as velvet, showed the read spot of
the lachrymal on the polished ivory of the cornea, veritable odalisque
eyes, his bright red lips showed under his bristly mustache, his
complexion was as pale as a camellia, and his teeth flashed like pearl.
Concha looked at him with ecstatic devotion, talked with her eyes on
him, consulting him with her glance, lamenting inwardly his lack of
mastery, eager to be his slave, to be corrected by him in all the
caprices of her giddy character.
Renovales scorned him, questioning his manhood, making the most
atrocious comments on him in his rough fashion.
He was a doctor of science and was waiting for a chair at Madrid to be
declared vacant, that he might become a candidate for it. The Countess
of Alberca had him under her high protection, talking about him
enthusiastically to all the important gentlemen who exercised any
influence in University circles. She would break out into the most
extravagant praise of the doctor in Renovales' presence. He was a
scholar and what made her admire him was the fact that all his learning
did 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 him
in the crowded room, through her lorgnette.
At other times, following the course of her ideas, she would interrupt
the 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 often
occurred 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 with
which the countess surrounded him.
He had written a book on the natural origin of animal organism, of which
the fair countess spoke enthusiastically. The painter observed this
change in her tastes with surprise and envy. No more music, nor verses,
nor plastic arts which had formerly occupied her flighty attention, that
was attracted by everything that shines or makes a noise. Now she looked
on the arts as pretty, insignificant toys that were fit to amuse only
the childhood of the human race. Times were changing, people must be
serious. Science, nothing but science; she was the protectress, the good
friend, the adviser of a scholar. And Renovales found famous books on
the tables and chairs, feverishly run through and laid aside because she
grew tired of them or could not understand them after the first impulse
of curiosity.
Her coterie, almost wholly composed of old gentlemen attracted by the
beauty of the countess, and in love with her though without hope, smiled
to hear her talking so weightily about science. Men who were prominent
in politics admired her frankly. How many things that woman knew! Many
that they did not know themselves. The others, well-known physicians,
professors, lawyers, who had not studied anything for years, approved
complacently. For a woman it was not at all bad. And she, lifting her
glasses to her eyes from time to time to relish the doctor's beauty,
talked with a pedantic slowness about protoplasms, and the reproduction
of the cells, the cannibalisms of the phagocytes, catarine, anthropoid
and pithecoid apes, discoplacentary mammals and the Pithecanthropos,
treating the mysteries of life with friendly confidence, repeating
strange 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 shoulders
above all the scholars of universal reputation.
Their books made her tired, she could not make anything out of them, in
spite of the fact that the doctor admired them greatly. To make up for
this, she had read Monteverde's book over and over, and she recommended
this wonderful work to her lady friends, who in matters of reading never
went beyond the novels in popular magazines.
"He is a scholar," said the countess one afternoon while talking alone
with Renovales. "He's just beginning now, but I will push him ahead and
he will turn out to be a genius. He has extraordinary talent. I wish you
had 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 as
a baby and Darwin was an ugly old fellow."
The countess hesitated whether to get serious or to laugh, and finally
she shook her lorgnette at him.
"Keep still, you horrid man. After all, you're a painter. You can't
understand tender friendships, pure relations, fraternity based on
study."
How bitterly the painter laughed at this purity and fraternity! His eyes
were good and Concha, for her part, was no model of prudence in hiding
her feelings. Monteverde was her lover, just as formerly a musician had
been, at a period when the countess talked of nothing but Beethoven and
Wagner, as if they were callers, and long before that a pretty little
duke, who gave private amateur bull-fights at which he slaughtered the
innocent oxen after greeting lovingly the Alberca woman, who, wrapped in
a white mantilla, and decorated with pinks, leaned out of the box in the
grandstand. Her relations with the doctor were almost common talk. That
was amply proved by the fury with which the gentlemen of her coterie
pulled him to pieces, declaring that he was an idiot and that his book
was a Harlequin's coat, a series of excerpts from other men, poorly
basted together, with the daring of ignorance. They, too, were stung by
envy, in their senile, silent love, by the triumph of that stripling who
carried off their idol, whom they had worshiped with a contemplative
devotion that gave new life to their old age.
Renovales was angry with himself. He tried in vain to overcome the habit
that made him turn his steps every afternoon toward the countess's
house.
"I'll never go there again," he would say when he was back in his
studio. "A pretty part you're playing, Mariano! Acting as a chorus to a
love duet, in the company of all these senile imbeciles. A fine aim in
life, this countess of yours!"
But the next day he would go back, thinking with a sort of hope of
Monteverde's pretentious superiority, and the disdainful air with which
he received his fair adorer's worship. Concha would soon get tired of
this mustached doll and turn her eyes on him, a man.
The painter observed the transformation of his nature. He was a
different man, and he made every effort to keep his family from noticing
this change. He recognized mentally that he was in love, with the
satisfaction of a mature man who sees in this a sign of youth the
budding of a second life. He had felt impelled toward Concha by the
desire of breaking the monotony of his existence, of imitating other
men, of tasting the acidity of infidelity, in a brief escape from the
stern imposing walls that shut in the desert of married life which was
every day covered with more brambles and tares. Her resistance
exasperated him, increasing his desire. He was not exactly sure how he
felt; perhaps it was merely a physical attraction and added to that the
wound to his pride, the bitterness of being repelled when he came down
from the heights of virtue, where he had held his position with savage
pride, 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 they
would run to him.
He felt humiliated by his failure; a dumb rage filled him when he
compared 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 of
fame! A lie! They worshiped talent only when it was well presented in a
young and beautiful covering.
Impelled by his obstinacy, Renovales was determined to overcome the
resistance. He recalled, without the least remorse, the scene with his
wife in the bedroom, and her scornful words that foretold his failure
with the countess. Josephina's disdain was only another spur to urge him
to continue his course.
Concha kept him off and led him on at the same time. There was no doubt
that the master's love flattered her vanity. She laughed at his
passionate protestations, taking them in jest, always answering them in
the same tone: "Be dignified, master. That isn't becoming to you. You
are a great man, a genius. Let the boys be the ones to play the part of
the lovesick student." But when enraged at her subtle mockery, he took a
mental oath not to come back again, she seemed to guess it and she
suddenly assumed an affectionate air, attracting him with an interest
that 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 the
harmony of their thoughts; and she did not cease this dangerous
conversation until the master, with a sudden renewal of confidence,
came forward offering his love, only to be received with that kindly and
still ironical smile that seemed to look on him as a child whose
judgment was faulty.
And so the master lived, fluctuating between hope and despair, now
favored, now repelled, but always incapable of escaping from her
influence, as if a crime were haunting him. He sought opportunities to
see her alone with the ingenuity of a college boy, he invented pretexts
for going to her house at unusual hours, when there were no callers
present, and his courage failed him when he ran into the pretty doctor
and felt around himself that sensation of uneasiness which always seizes
an unwelcome guest.
The vague hope of meeting the countess at Moncloa, of walking with her a
whole afternoon, unmolested by that circle of insufferable people who
surrounded her with their drooling worship, kept him excited all night
and the next morning, as if a real rendezvous were awaiting him. Would
she go? Was not her promise a mere whim that she had immediately
forgotten? He sent a note to an ex-minister of State, whose portrait he
was painting, to ask him not to come to the studio that afternoon, and
after 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 a
mad, unreasonable impatience filled him. He thought without knowing why
that, 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. The
cab disappeared in the direction of Madrid, up hill along an avenue that
was lost in the distance behind an arch of dry branches.
Renovales walked up and down, alone in the little square. The sun was
shining in a patch of blue sky, among the heavy clouds. In the places
which its rays did not reach, it was cold. The water ran down from the
foot of the trees, after dripping from the branches and trickling down
the trunks; it was melting rapidly. The wood seemed to weep with joy
under the caress of the sun, that destroyed the last traces of the white
shroud.
The majestic silence of Nature, abandoned to its own power, surrounded
the artist. The pines were swinging with the long gusts of wind, filling
space with a murmur, like the sound of distant harps. The square was
hidden in the icy shadow of the trees. Up above in the front of the
palace some pigeons, seeking the sun above the tops of the pines, swept
around 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 rustling
garland of feathers. In the middle of the square a marble swan, with its
neck violently stretched toward the sky, threw out a jet, whose murmur
seemed to heighten the impression of icy cold which he felt in the
shadow.
Renovales began to walk, crushing the frozen crust that cracked under
his feet in the shady places. He leaned over the circular iron rail that
surrounds a part of the square. Through the curtain of black branches,
where the first buds were beginning to open, he saw the ridge that
bounds the horizon; the mountains of Guadarrama, phantoms of snow that
were mingled with the masses of clouds. Nearer, the mountains of Pardo
stood out with their dark peaks, black with pines, and to the left
stretched out the slopes of the hills of the Casa de Campo, where the
first yellow touches of spring were beginning to show.
At his feet lay the fields of Moncloa, the antique little gardens, the
grove of Viveros, bordering the stream. Carriages were moving in the
roads below, their varnished tops flashing in the sun like fiery mortar
boards. The meadows, the foliage of the woods, everything seemed clean
and bright after the recent storm. The all-pervading green tone, with
its infinite variations from black to yellow, smiled at the touch of the
sun after the chill of the snow. In the distance sounded the constant
reports of shotguns that seemed to tear the air with the intensity that
is common in still afternoons. They were hunting in the Casa de Campo.
Between the colonnades of trees and the green sheets of the meadows, the
water flashed in the sun, bits of ponds, glimpses of canals, pools of
melted snow, like bright trembling edges of huge swords, lost in the
grass.
Renovales hardly looked at the landscape; it had no message for him that
afternoon. He was preoccupied with other things. He saw a smart coupé
come down the avenue, and he left the belvedere to go to meet it. She
was coming! But the coupé passed by him, slowly and majestically without
stopping and he saw through the window an old lady wrapped in furs, with
sunken eyes and distorted mouth, trembling with old age, her head
bobbing with the movement of the carriage. It disappeared in the
direction of the little church beside the palace and the painter was
alone again.
No! She would not come! His heart began to tell him that there was no
use waiting.
Some little girls, with battered shoes, and straight greasy hair that
floated around their necks, began to run about the square. Renovales did
not see where they came from. Perhaps they were the children of the
guardian of the palace.
A guard came down the avenue with his gun hanging from his shoulder, and
his horn at his side. Beyond approached a man in black, who looked like
a servant, escorted by two huge dogs, two majestic bluish-gray Danes,
that walked with a dignified bearing, prudent and moderate but proud of
their terrifying appearance. Not a carriage could be seen. Curses!
Seated on one of the stone benches, the master finally took out the
little notebook that he always carried with him. He sketched the figures
of the children as they ran around the fountain. That was one way to
kill time. One after the other he sketched all the girls, then he caught
them in several groups, but at last they disappeared behind the palace,
going down toward the Caño Gordo. Renovales, having nothing to distract
him, left his seat and walked about, stamping noisily. His feet were
like 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 gentleman
with their gray eyes that winked intelligently, as he looked at them
attentively and then moved his pencil on the book that rested on his
knee. The painter sketched the two dogs in different postures, giving
himself up to the work with such interest that he quite forgot his
purpose in coming there. Oh, what splendid creatures! Renovales loved
animals in which beauty was united with strength. If he had lived alone
and could have consulted his own tastes, he would have converted his
house into a menagerie.
The servant went away with his dogs and the artist once more was left
alone. Several couples passed slowly, arm in arm, and disappeared behind
the palace toward the gardens below. Then a group of school boys that
left behind them, as their cassocks fluttered, that odor of healthy,
dirty flesh that is peculiar to barracks and convents. And still the
countess did not come!
The painter went again to rest his elbows on the balustrade of the
belvedere. He would only wait a half an hour longer. The afternoon was
wearing away; the sun was still high, but from time to time the
landscape was darkened. The clouds that had been confined on the horizon
had been let loose and they were rolling through the field of the sky
like a flock of sheep, assuming fantastic shapes, rushing eagerly in
tumultuous confusion as if they wished to swallow the ball of fire that
was slipping slowly over a bit of clear blue sky.
Suddenly, Renovales felt a sort of shock near his heart. No one had
touched him; it was a warning of his nerves that for some time had been
especially irritable. She was near, was coming he was sure. And turning
around, he saw her, still a long way off, coming down the avenue, in
black with a fur coat, her hands in a little muff and a veil over her
eyes. Her tall, graceful silhouette was outlined against the yellow
ground 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; I
forgot all about it, upon my word. But as I was coming out of the
President'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 her
dainty 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 in
her own drawing room where everything was familiar.
She had been to see the Prime-Minister to recommend her "affair" to his
attention; a desire of the count's on the fulfillment of which his
happiness depended. Poor Paco (her husband) dreamed of the Golden
Fleece. That was the only thing that was lacking to crown the tower of
crosses, keys and ribbons that he was raising about his person, from his
belly to his neck, till not an inch of his body was without this
glorious covering. The Golden Fleece and then death! Why should they not
do this favor for Paco, such a good man, who would not hurt a fly? What
would it cost them to grant him this toy and make him happy?
"There aren't any friends any longer, Mariano," said the countess
bitterly. "The Prime-Minister is a fool who forgets his old friendships
now that he is head of the government. I who have seen him sighing
around me like a comic opera tenor, making love to me (yes, I tell the
truth to you) and ready to commit suicide because I scorned his
vulgarity and foolishness! This afternoon, the same old story; lots of
holding my hand, lots of making eyes, 'dear Concha,' 'sweet Concha' and
other sugary expressions, just such as he sings in Congress like an old
canary. Sum total, the Fleece is impossible, he is very sorry, but at
Court they are unwilling."
And the countess, as if she saw for the first time where she was, turned
her eyes angrily toward the dark hills of the Casa de Campo, where shots
could 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 to
hear me. 'Woman, think what we are! We must be on good terms with the
royal house.' But I rise in rebellion; I know them; a crowd of
reprobates. Why shouldn't my Paco have the Fleece, if the poor man needs
it. 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 all
these trifles of name and position, I would do to-day something that
would stir people. I'd throw a bomb, no, not a bomb; I'd get a revolver
and----"
"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 serious
than you think. This afternoon is no time for jokes."
But her fickle nature contradicted the seriousness that she pretended to
give 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 hands
aren't empty. The prime-minister didn't want to make me his enemy and so
he offered me a compensation, since the 'Lamb' affair was impossible. A
deputy's chair at the next election."
Renovales' eyes opened in astonishment. "For whom do you want that? To
whom is that going to be given?"
"To whom?" mimicked Concha with mock astonishment. "To whom! To whom do
you suppose, you simpleton! Not for you, you don't know anything about
that or anything else, except your brushes. For Monteverde, for the
doctor, 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 any
longer; 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 in
forgetting her troubles; her bird-like brain never retained any one
impression for long. She looked around her with disdainful eyes, eager
to mortify the painter. Was that what Renovales raved over so? Was there
nothing more?
They began to walk slowly, going down to the terraced gardens behind the
palace. They descended the moss-covered slopes that were streaked with
the black flint of the flights of stairs.
The silence was deathlike. The water murmured as it flowed from the
trunks of the trees, forming little streams that trickled down hill,
almost invisible in the grass. In some shady spots there still remained
piles of snow, like bundles of white wool. The shrill cries of the birds
sounded like the scratching of a diamond on glass. At the edge of the
stairways, the pedestals of black, crumbling stone recalled the statues
and urns they had once supported. The little gardens, cut in geometric
figures, stretched out the Greek square of their carpet of foliage on
each level of the terrace. In the squares, the fountains spurted in
pools surrounded by rusted railings, or flowed down triple layers with a
ceaseless murmur. Water everywhere,--in the air, in the ground,
whispering, icy, adding to the cold impression of the landscape, where
the sun seemed a red blotch of color devoid of heat.
They passed under arches of vines, between huge dying trees covered to
the top with winding rings of ivy that clung to the venerable trunks,
veneered with a green and yellow crust. The paths were bounded on one
side by the slope of the hill, from the top of which came the invisible
tinkling of a bell, and where from time to time there appeared on the
blue background of the sky the massive outline of a slowly moving cow.
On the other, a rustic railing of branches painted white bounded the
path and, beyond it, in the valley, lay the dark flower beds with their
melancholy solitude and their fountains that wept day and night in an
atmosphere of old age and abandon. The closely matted brambles stretched
from tree to tree along the slopes. The slender cypresses, the tall
pines with their straight trunks, formed a thick colonnade, a lattice
through which the sunlight flitted, a false unearthly light, that
striped the ground with bands of gold and bars of shadow.
The painter praised the spot enthusiastically. It was the only corner
for artists that could be found in Madrid. It was there that the great
Don Francisco had worked. It seemed as though at some turn in the path
they would run into Goya, sitting before his easel, scowling
ill-naturedly at some dainty duchess who was serving as his model.
Modern clothes seemed out of keeping with this background. Renovales
declared that the correct apparel for such a landscape was a bright
coat, a powdered wig, silk stockings, walking beside a Directoire gown.
The countess smiled as she listened to the painter. She looked about
with great curiosity; that was not a bad walk; she guessed it was the
first time she ever saw it. Very pretty! But she was not fond of the
country.
To her mind the best landscape was the silks of a drawing room and, as
for trees, she preferred the scenery at the Opera to the accompaniment
of music.
"The country bores me, master. It makes me so sad. If you leave Nature
alone to itself it is very commonplace."
They entered a little square in the center of which was a pool, on the
level of the ground, with stone posts that marked where there had once
been a railing. The water, swollen by the melting snow, was overflowing
the stone curb, and reached out in a thin sheet as it started down hill.
The countess stopped, afraid of wetting her feet. The painter went
ahead, putting his feet in the driest places, taking her hand to guide
her, and she followed him, laughing at the obstacle and picking up her
skirts.
As they continued their way down another path, Renovales kept that soft
little hand in his, feeling its warmth through the glove. She let him
hold it, as if she did not notice his touch, but still with a faint
expression of mischievousness on her lips and in her eyes. The master
seemed undecided, embarrassed, as if he did not know how to begin.
"Always the same?" he asked weakly. "Haven't you a little charity for me
to-day?"
The countess broke out in a merry laugh.
"There it comes. I was expecting it; that's why I hesitated to come. In
the carriage I said to myself several times: 'My dear, you're making a
mistake in going to Moncloa; you will be bored to death; you may expect
declaration number one thousand.'"
Then she assumed a tone of mock indignation.
"But, master, can't you talk about anything else? Are we women condemned
to be unable to talk with a man without his feeling obliged to pour out
a 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 him
grotesquely, raising one hand to her breast and laughing cruelly.
"Yes, I know, the old story. There's no use in your repeating it; I know
it by heart. A volcano in my breast, impossible to live without you--if
you do not love me, I will kill myself. They all say the same thing. I
never saw such a lack of originality. Master, for goodness sake, do not
be so commonplace! A man like you saying such things!"
Renovales was crushed by her mocking mimicry. But Concha, as if she took
pity on him, hastened to add, in an affectionate tone:
"Why should you have to be in love with me? Do you think I shall esteem
you less if I relieve you from an obligation that all men who surround
me feel under? I like you, master; I need to see you; I should be very
sorry if we quarreled. I like you as a friend; the best of all, the
first. I like you because you are good; a great big boy; a bearded baby
who 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 talk
with you quite freely, to tell you this. I like you as I like no one
else. When I am with you, I feel a confidence such as no other man
inspires in me. Good friends, brother and sister, if you will. But don't
put on such a gloomy face! Look pleasant, please! Give one of your
laughs that cheer my soul, master!"
But the master remained sullen, looking at the ground, running the
fingers of his hand through his thick beard.
"All that's a lie, Concha," he said rudely. "The truth is that you are
in 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 I
never loved any man. I have never told anyone; you are the first one to
hear it from me, because you are my friend, because somehow or other I
tell you everything. We like each other or, rather, I like him much more
than he does me. There is something like gratitude in my love. I don't
deceive myself, Mariano! Thirty-six years! I venture to confess my age
to you. However, I am still presentable; I keep my youth well, but he is
much younger. Years younger and I could almost be his mother."
She was silent for a moment, almost frightened at this difference
between her lover's age and hers, but then she added with a sudden
confidence:
"He likes me, too, I know. I am his adviser, his inspiration; he says
that with me he feels a new strength for work, that he will be a great
man, thanks to me. But I like him more, much more than he does me; there
is almost as great a difference in our affections as there is in our
ages."
"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 with
constant idolatry, and you would let me worship you, caress you, as I
would an idol, my head bowed at its feet."
Concha laughed again, mocking the artist's hoarse voice, his passionate
expression, and his eager eyes.
"Why don't I love you? Master, don't be childish. There's no use in
asking such things, you cannot dictate to Love. I do not like you as you
want 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 I
know you! You're going to say some of those horrid things that men
always say when they rave over a woman. I'm going away so as not to hear
you."
Then she added with maternal seriousness, as if she wanted to reprimand
his violence:
"I am not so crazy as people think. I consider the consequences of my
actions carefully. Mariano, look at yourself, think of your position. A
wife, a daughter who will marry one of these days, the prospect of being
a grandfather. And you still think of such follies! I could not accede
to your proposal even if I loved you. How terrible! To deceive
Josephina, the friend of my school-days! Poor thing, so gentle, so
kind,--always ill. No, Mariano, never. A man cannot enter such
compromising affairs, unless he is free. I could never feel like loving
you. Friends, nothing more than friends!"
"Well, we will not be that," exclaimed Renovales impetuously. "I will
leave your house forever. I will not see you any longer. I will do
anything to forget you. It is an intolerable torment. My life will be
calmer if I do not see you."
"You will not go away," said Concha quietly, certain of her power. "You
will 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, you
will see that there is something charming about our friendship that you
do not understand now. I shall give you something that the rest do not
know,--intimacy, confidence."
And as she said this, she put one hand on the painter's arm and drew
closer 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. An
automobile shot past them at full speed, following the highroad.
Renovales tried to make out the figures in the car, hardly larger than
dolls in the distance. Perhaps it was López de Sosa, who was driving,
perhaps his wife and daughter were those two little figures, wrapped in
veils, who occupied the seats.
The possibility of Josephina's having passed through the background of
the landscape without seeing him, without noticing that he was there,
forgetful of everything, an imploring lover, overcame him with the sense
of remorse.
They remained motionless for a long while in silence, leaning on the
rough wooden railing, watching through the colonnade of the trees the
bright, cherry-red sun, as it sank, lighting up the horizon with a blaze
of fire. The leaden clouds, seeing it on the point of death, assailed it
with treacherous greed.
Concha watched the sunset with the interest that a sight but seldom seen
arouses.
"Look at that huge cloud, master. How black it is! It looks like a
dragon; no, a hippopotamus; see its round paws, like towers. How it
runs! It's going to eat the sun. It's eating it! It has swallowed it
now!"
The landscape grew dark. The sun had disappeared inside of that monster
that filled the horizon. Its waving back was edged with silver, and as
if it could not hold the burning star; it broke below, pouring out a
rain of pale rays. Then, burned by this digestion, it vanished in smoke,
was torn into black tufts, and once more the red disc appeared, bathing
sky and earth with gold, peopling the water of the pools with restless
fiery 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 her
voice. "I feel cold. Besides, with a companion like you, it's impossible
to stay still."
And she hastened her step, realizing from her experience with men the
danger of remaining alone with Renovales. His pale, excited face warned
her that he was likely to make some reckless, impetuous advance.
In the square of Caño Gordo they passed a couple going slowly down the
hill, very close together, not yet daring to walk arm in arm, but ready
to put their arms around each other's waists as soon as they disappeared
in the next path. The young man carried his cloak under his arm, as
proudly as a gallant in the old comedies; she, small and pale, without
any beauty except that of youth, was wrapped in a poor cloak and walked
with her simple eyes fixed on her companion's.
"Some student with his girl," said Renovales. "They are happier than we
are, Concha."
"We are getting old, master," she said with feigned sadness, excluding
herself from old age, loading the whole burden of years on her
companion.
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 are
to treat me like a child. I am Renovales, the painter, the famous
master. I am known all over the world."
And he spoke of his fame with brutal indelicacy, growing more and more
irritated at her coldness, displaying his renown like a mantle of light
that should blind women and make them fall at his feet. And a man like
him had to submit to being put off for that simpleton of a doctor?
The countess smiled with pity. Her eyes, too, revealed a sort of
compassion. The fool! The child! How absurd men of talent were!
"Yes, you are a great man, master. That is why I am proud of your
friendship. I even admit that it gives me some importance. I like you. I
feel admiration for you."
"No, not admiration, Concha, love! To belong to each other! Complete
love."
She continued to laugh.
"Oh, my boy; Love!"
Her eyes seemed to speak to him ironically. Love does not distinguish
talents; it is ignorant and therefore boasts of its blindness. It only
perceives the fragrance of youth, of life in its flower.
"We shall be friends, Mariano, friends and nothing more. You will grow
accustomed to it and find our affection dear. Don't be material; it
doesn't seem as if you were an artist. Idealism, master, that is what
you need."
And she continued to talk to him from the heights of her pity, until
they 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. Finding
himself alone, he was again filled with wrath and insulted the countess
mentally, now that he was free from the loving subjection that he
suffered in her presence. How she amused herself with him! How his
friends would laugh to see him helplessly submissive to that woman who
had belonged to so many! His pride made him insist on conquering her,
at any cost, even of humiliation and brutality. It was an affair of
honor to make her his, even if it were only once, and then to take
revenge by repelling her, throwing her at his feet, and saying with a
sovereign air, "That is what I do to people who resist me."
But then he realized his weakness. He would always be beaten by that
woman who looked at him coldly, who never lost her calm and considered
him an inferior being. His dejection made him think of his family, of
his sick wife, and the duties that bound him to her, and he felt the
bitter 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 her
again.
III
And he did not see her; he did not see her for two days. But on the
third there came a letter in a long blue envelope scented with a perfume
that made him tremble.
The countess complained of his absence in affectionate terms. She needed
to see him, she had many things to tell him. A real love-letter which
the artist hastened to hide, for fear that if any one read it, he would
suspect what was not yet true.
Renovales was indignant.
"I will go to see her," he said to himself, walking up and down the
studio. "But it will be only to give her a piece of my mind, and have
done with her once and for all. If she thinks she is going to play with
me, she is mistaken; she doesn't know that, when I want to be, I am like
stone."
Poor master! While in one corner of his mind he was formulating this
cruel determination to be a man of stone, in the other a sweet voice was
murmuring seductively:
"Go quickly, take advantage of the opportunity. Perhaps she has
repented. She is waiting for you; she is going to be yours."
And the artist hastened to the countess's anxiously. Nothing. She
complained 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 felt
that he was offended with her on account of the other afternoon. And
they spent nearly two hours together in the private room she used as an
office, until at the end of the afternoon the serious friends of the
countess began to arrive, her coterie of mute worshipers and last of
all Monteverde with the calm of a man who has nothing to fear.
The painter left the house. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened
except that he had twice kissed the countess's hand; the conventional
caress and nothing more. Whenever he tried to go farther, moving his
lips along her arm, she checked him imperiously.
"I shall be angry, master, and not receive you any more alone! You are
not keeping the agreement!"
Renovales protested. They had not made any agreement; but Concha managed
to calm him instantly by asking about Milita, praising her beauty,
inquiring for poor Josephina, so good, so lovable, showing great concern
for her health and promising to call on her soon. And the master was
restrained, 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 see
her; he had grown accustomed to her enthusiastic praise of his artistic
merits.
Sometimes the impetuous nature of his youthful days awakened and he
longed to rid himself of this shameful chain. The woman had bewitched
him; she sent for him without any reason, she seemed to delight in
making him suffer, she needed him for a plaything. She spoke of
Monteverde and their love with quiet cynicism, as if the doctor were her
husband. She had to confide the secrets of her life to some one, with
that imperious naïveté that forces the guilty to confess. Little by
little she let the master into the secret of her passion, telling him
unblushingly of the most intimate details of their meetings, which were
often in her own house. They took advantage of the blindness of the
count, 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 toward
you; I like you as a brother. No, not as a brother, rather as a
confidential woman friend."
When Renovales was alone, he despised Concha's frankness. It was just as
people believed; she was very attractive, very pretty, but absolutely
lacking in scruples. As for himself, he heaped insults on himself in the
slang of his Bohemian days, comparing himself with all the horned
animals he could think of.
"I won't go there again. It's disgraceful. A pretty part you are
playing, master!"
But he had hardly been absent two days when Marie, the Countess's French
maid, appeared with the scented letter, or it arrived in the mail, where
it stood out scandalously among the other envelopes of the master's
correspondence.
"Curse that woman!" exclaimed Renovales, hastening to hide the showy
note. "What a lack of prudence. One of these fine days, Josephina will
discover these letters."
Cotoner, in his blind devotion to his idol whom he considered
irresistible, supposed that the Alberca woman was madly in love with the
master and shook his head sadly.
"This will have a bad end, Mariano. You ought to break with her. The
peace 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 she
ended with "Your admirer and good friend, Coquillerosse," a _nom de
guerre_ she had adopted for her correspondence with the artist.
She wrote in a disordered style, at unusual hours, just as her fancy
and her abnormal nervous system prompted. Sometimes she dated her letter
at three in the morning, she could not sleep, got out of bed and to pass
the sleepless hours filled four sheets of paper (with the facility of
despair) in her fine hand, addressed to her good friend, talking to him
of the count, of what her acquaintances said, telling him the latest
gossip about the Court, lamenting the doctor's coldness. At other times,
there were only four brief, desperate lines. "Come at once, dear
Mariano. A very urgent matter."
And the master, leaving his tasks early in the morning, ran to the
countess' house, where she received him still in bed in her fragrant
chamber which the gentleman with honorary crosses had not entered for
many years.
The painter came in in great anxiety, disturbed at the possibility of
some terrible event, and Concha, tossing about between the embroidered
sheets, tucking in the golden wisps of hair that escaped from her lace
cap, talked and talked, as incoherently as a bird sings, as if the
silence of the night had hopelessly confused her ideas. A great idea had
occurred to her; during her sleep she had thought out an absolutely
original scientific theory that would delight Monteverde. And she
explained it earnestly to the master, who nodded his approval without
understanding a word, thinking it was a pity to see such an attractive
mouth uttering such follies.
At other times she would talk to him about the speech she was preparing
for a fair of the Woman's Association, the _magnum opus_ of her
presidency; and drawing her ivory arms from under the sheet with a
calmness that dazed Renovales, she would pick up from the nearby table
some sheets of paper scribbled with pencil, and ask her friend to tell
her who was the greatest painter in the world, for she had left a blank
to fill in with this name.
After an hour of incessant chatter while the artist watched her silently
with greedy eyes, he finally came to the urgent matter, the desperate
summons that had made the master leave his work. It was always an affair
of life or death, compromises in which her honor was at stake. Sometimes
she wanted him to paint some little thing on the fan of a foreign lady
who 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 night
before, knowing her friendship with Renovales. Or she had sent for him
to ask him for some little sketch, a daub, any one of the little things
that lay in the corner of his studio for a bazaar of the Association for
the Benefit of Fallen Women, whom the countess and her friends were very
eager to rescue.
"Don't put on such a wry face, master, don't be stingy. You must expect
to sacrifice something for friendship. Everybody thinks that I have
great power over the famous artist, and they ask me favors and are
constantly getting me into difficulty. They don't know you, they don't
realize how perverse, how rebellious you are, you horrid man!"
And she let him kiss her hand, smiling condescendingly. But as she felt
the touch of his lips and his beard on her arm she struggled to free
herself, half-laughing, half-trembling.
"Let me go, Mariano! I'll scream! I'll call Marie! I won't receive you
again 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 found
her pale, with dark circles under her eyes, as if she had spent the
night weeping. When she saw the master her tears began to flow again. It
was pique, deep pain at Monteverde's coldness. He passed whole days
without seeing her; he even went so far as to say that women are a
hindrance to serious study. Oh, these scholars! And she, madly devoted
to him, submissive as a slave, putting up with his whimsical moods,
worshiping him with that ardent passion of a woman who is older than her
lover and appreciates her own inferiority!
"Oh, Renovales. Never fall in love. It is hell. You do not know the
happiness 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, and
he spoke to the countess with brutal frankness, as he would to a woman
who had revealed all her secrets and weaknesses. What difference did all
that make to him? Had she sent for him to tell him such stuff? She
grieved 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? And
taking courage at the painter's silence who finally was moved by her
tears, she recovered her boldness and expressed her wish. He must go to
Monteverde, give him a good, heart-to-heart lecture, so that he would be
good and not make her suffer. The doctor respected him highly; he was
one of his greatest admirers; she was certain that a few words of the
master would be enough to bring him back like a lamb. He must show him
that she was not alone, that she had some one to defend her, that no one
could make sport of her with impunity.
But before she finished her request, the painter was walking around the
bed 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 shine
his boots. Are you mad, woman? What are you thinking of? You have enough
accommodating people already in the count. Don't drag me into it!"
But she rolled over in bed, weeping disconsolately. She had no friends
left! The master was like the others; if he would not accede to her
requests, their friendship was over. All talk, oaths, and then not the
least sacrifice!
Suddenly she sat up, frowning angrily with the coldness of an offended
queen. 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, she
interrupted 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 not
matter if he went a little farther. He would lecture the doctor,
throwing in his face his stupidity in scorning such happiness,--he said
this with all his heart, his voice trembling with envy. What else did
his fair despot want? She might ask without fear. If it was necessary he
would challenge the count, with all his decorations, to single combat
and 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 as
can 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 on
the forehead, laughing at the start the painter gave at her caress. He
felt 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 point
of being overcome in his fierce, masterly grasp. The electric bell
sounded 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 see
everything, to guess everything, did not reveal the slightest
impression.
The countess stretched out her hand to Renovales, calmly and
affectionately, as if the entrance of the maid had found her saying
good-by. She was sorry that he must go so soon, she would see him in the
evening at the Opera.
When the painter breathed the air of the street and jostled against the
people, he felt as if he were awakening from a nightmare. He loathed
himself. "You're showing off finely, master." His weakness that made him
give in to all of the countess's demands, his base acquiescence in
serving as an intermediary between her and her lover was sickening now.
But he still felt the touch of her kiss on his forehead; he still
breathed the atmosphere of the bedroom, heavy with perfume. Optimism
overcame him. The affair was not going badly. However disagreeable the
path was, it would lead to the realization of his desire.
Many evenings Renovales went to the Opera, in obedience to Concha, who
wanted 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 her
father, who used to go to bed early, so as to be able to work early in
the morning. She was the one who, charged with the household affairs on
account of her mother's constant illness, helped him to put on his
dress-coat, and amid caresses and laughter combed his hair and adjusted
his tie.
"Papa, dear. I shouldn't know you, you're getting dissipated. When are
you 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 other
time. He had to go alone this time, he had to talk to a great many
people at the theater.
Another change took place in him that provoked joyful comments on the
part of Milita. Papa was getting young.
Under irreverent trimmings, every week his hair became shorter, his
beard diminished until only a light remnant remained of that tangled
growth that gave him such a ferocious appearance. He did not want to
look like other men, he must preserve the exterior that stamped him as
an artist, so that people might not pass by the great Renovales without
recognizing him. But he managed, while keeping within this desire, to
approach and mingle with the fashionably dressed young men who
frequented the countess's house.
Other people too noticed this change. Students in the School of Fine
Arts pointed him out from the gallery of the Opera-house or stopped on
the sidewalk when they saw him at night, with a shining silk hat on his
carefully trimmed hair and the expanse of shirt-front showing in his
unbuttoned overcoat. The boys in their simple admiration imagined the
great master thundering before his easel, as savage, fierce and
intractable as Michael Angelo in his studio. And so when they saw him
looking so differently, their eyes followed him enviously. "What a good
time the master is having!" And they fancied the great ladies disputing
over him, believing in perfect faith that no woman could resist a man
who painted so well.
His enemies, established artists but who were inferior to him, growled
in their conversations. "Four-flusher, prig! He wasn't satisfied with
making so much money and now he's playing the sport among the
aristocracy, to pick up more portraits, to get all he can out of his
signature."