heavens! A lie, too! That heavenly blue with its golden rays and
fanciful 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 sputtering
spark of burning tears, of infinite worlds, little lamps of eternity in
whose 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 ephemeral
existence, striving to prolong it with the illusion of an immortal soul.
All were lies which death came to unmask, interrupting men's course on
the pleasant path of their illusions, throwing them out of it with as
much indifference as their feet had crushed and driven to flight the
lines of ants which advanced amid the grass that was sowed with bony
remains.
Renovales was forced to flee. What was he doing there? What did that
deserted, empty spot of earth mean to him? Before he went away, with the
firm determination not to return again, he looked around the grave for
a flower, a few blades of grass, something to take with him as a
remembrance. No, Josephina was not there; he was sure, but like a lover,
he felt that longing, that passionate respect for anything which the
woman he loves had touched.
He scorned a cluster of wild-flowers which grew in abundance at the foot
of the grave. He wanted them from near the head and he picked a few
white buds close to the cross, thinking that perhaps their roots had
touched her face, that they preserved in their petals something of her
eyes, of her lips.
He went home downcast and sad, with a void in his mind and death in his
soul.
But in the warm air of the house, his love came forth to meet him; he
saw her beside him, smiling from the walls, rising out of the great
canvases. Renovales felt a warm breath on his face, as if those pictures
were breathing at once, filling the house with the essence of memories
which seemed to float in the atmosphere. Everything spoke to him of her,
everything was filled with that vague perfume of the past. Over there on
the graveyard hill was the wretched perishable covering. He would not
return. What was the use? He felt her around him, all that was left of
her in the world was enclosed in the house, as the strong odor remains
in a broken, forgotten perfume bottle. No, not in the house. She was in
him, he felt her presence within him, like those wandering souls of the
legends who took refuge in another's body, struggling to share the
dwelling with the soul which was mistress of the body. They had not
lived in vain so many years together--at first united by love and
afterward by habit. For half a lifetime, their bodies had slept in close
contact, exchanging through their open pores that warmth which is like
the 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 of
the master and he, in turn, felt something strange and mysterious which
chained him to her memory, which made him always long for that body--the
complement of his own--which had already vanished in the void.
Renovales shut himself up in the house, with a taciturn air and a gloomy
expression which terrified his valet. If Señor Cotoner came, he was to
tell him that the master had gone out. If letters came from the
countess, 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 who
came, he was to close the door. He did not want anything to distract
him. Dinner should be served in the studio.
And he worked alone, without a model, with a tenacity which kept him
standing before the canvas until it was dark. Sometimes, when the
servant entered at nightfall, he found the luncheon untouched on the
table. In the evening the master ate in silence in the dining-room, from
sheer animal necessity, not seeing what he was eating, his eyes gazing
into space.
Cotoner, somewhat piqued at this unusual régime which prevented him from
entering the studio, would call in the evening and try in vain to
interest him with news of the world outside. He observed in the master's
eyes 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 Countess
of Alberca mentioned. Cotoner described her alarm and astonishment at
the 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 been
to the door of his house and had not been able to get in; she
complained of the servant and that mysterious work. At least he ought to
write to her, answer her letters, full of tender laments, which she did
not 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 was
hearing 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 outside
world was his desire to see his daughter, to talk to her, as if he loved
her with new affection. She was his Josephina's flesh, she had lived in
her. She was healthy and strong, like him, nothing in her appearance
reminded him of the other, but her sex bound her closely with the
beloved image of her mother.
He listened to Milita with smiles of pleasure, grateful for the interest
she manifested in his health.
"Are you ill, papa? You look poorly. I don't like your appearance. You
are working too much."
But he calmed her, swinging his strong arms, swelling out his lusty
chest. He had never felt better. And with the minuteness of a
good-natured grandfather he inquired about all the little displeasures
of her life. Her husband spent the day with his friends. She grew tired
of staying at home and her only amusement was making calls or going
shopping. And after that came a complaint, always the same, which the
father divined at her first words. López de Sosa was selfish, niggardly
toward her. His spendthrift habits never went beyond his own pleasures
and his own person; he economized in his wife's expenses. He loved her
in spite of that. Milita did not venture to deny it; no mistresses or
unfaithfulness. She would be likely to stand that! But he had no money
except for his horses and automobiles; she even suspected that he was
gambling, and his poor wife lived without a thing to her back, and had
to weep her requests every time she received a bill, little trifles of a
thousand pesetas or two.
The father was as generous to her as a lover. He felt like pouring at
her feet all that he had piled up in long years of labor. She must live
in happiness, since she loved her husband! Her worries made him smile
scornfully. Money! Josephina's daughter sad because she needed things,
when in his house there were so many dirty, insignificant papers which
he had worked so hard to win and which he now looked at with
indifference! He always went away from these visits amid hugs and a
shower of kisses from that big girl who expressed her joy by shaking him
disrespectfully, 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 said
mysteriously:
"Come in the morning, I will show it to you. It isn't finished but I
want 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 me
a good deal, but you shall judge."
And in his voice there was the joy of difficulties overcome, the
certainty that he had produced a great work.
Cotoner came the next day, with the haste of curiosity, and entered the
studio closed to others.
"Look!" said the master with a proud gesture.
His friend looked. Opposite the window was a canvas on an easel; a
canvas for the most part gray, and on this, confused, interlaced lines
revealing some hesitancy over the various contours of a body. At one end
was a spot of color, to which the master pointed--a woman's head which
stood out sharply on the rough background of the cloth.
Cotoner stood in silent contemplation. Had the great artist really
painted that? He did not see the master's hand. Although he was an
unimportant painter, he had a good eye, and he saw in the canvas
hesitancy, fear, awkwardness, the struggle with something unreal which
was beyond his reach, which refused to enter the mold of form. He was
struck by the lack of likeness, by the forced exaggeration of the
strokes; the eyes unnaturally large, the tiny mouth, almost a point, the
bright skin with its supernatural pallor. Only in the pupils of the eyes
was there something remarkable--a glance that came from afar, an
extraordinary light which seemed to pass through the canvas.
"It has cost me a great deal. No work ever made me suffer so. This is
only the head; the easiest part. The body will come later; a divine
nude, 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 the
master, astonished at the work, disconcerted by its mystery.
"You see, without a model. Without the real before me," continued the
master. "_They_ were all the guide I had; but it is my best, my supreme
work."
_They_ were all the portraits of the dead woman, taken down from the
walls and placed on easels or chairs in a close circle around the
canvas.
His friend could not contain his astonishment, he could not pretend any
longer, 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 that
was not of this world,--uncanny, spiritualized, as if it belonged to a
new humanity, free from coarse necessities, in which the last traces of
animal descent have died out. He gazed at the numerous portraits of
other times and recognized parts of them in the new work, but animated
by 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 the
impressions 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 well
enough. She, but more beautiful than in life. Josephina had never looked
like that.
Now it was Renovales who looked with surprise and pity. Poor Cotoner!
Unhappy failure--pariah of art, who could not rise above the nameless
crowd and whose only feeling was in his stomach! What did he know about
such things? What was the use of asking his opinion?
He had not recognized Josephina, and nevertheless this canvas was his
best portrait, the most exact.
Renovales bore her within him, he saw her merely by retiring into his
thoughts. No one could know her better than he. The rest had forgotten
her. 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, to
the master's studio.
The servant saw her arrive as usual in a cab, cross the garden, come up
the steps, and enter the reception room with the hasty step of a
resolute woman who goes straight ahead without hesitating. He tried to
block her way respectfully, going from side to side, meeting her every
time she started to one side to pass this obstacle. The master was
working! The master was not receiving callers! It was a strict order; he
could not make an exception! But she continued ahead with a frown, a
flash of cold wrath in her eyes, an evident determination to strike down
the 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 a
loss to stop this invasion of rustling skirts and strong perfumes. In
one of her evolutions the fair lady ran into an Italian mosaic table, on
the center of which was the old jar. Her glance fell instinctively to
the bottom of the jar.
It was only an instant, but enough for her woman's curiosity to
recognize the blue envelopes with white borders, whose sealed ends stuck
out, untouched, from the pile of cards. The last straw! Her paleness
grew intense, almost greenish, and she started forward with such a rush
that 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, and
the rustling of skirts, turned toward the door just as the countess made
her 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 of
her.
They looked at each other as if they did not recognize each other after
this absence of weeks which weighed on their memories as if it were of
years.
Renovales looked at her coldly, without the least tremble of desire, as
if it were an ordinary visitor whom he must get rid of as soon as
possible. He was surprised at her greenish pallor, at her mouth, drawn
with irritation, at her hard eyes which flashed yellow flames, at her
nose which curved down to her upper lip. She was angry, but when her
eyes fell on him, they lost their hardness.
Her woman's instinct was calmed when she gazed at him. He, too, looked
different in the carelessness of the seclusion; his hair tangled,
revealing the preoccupation, the fixed, absorbing idea, which made him
neglect the neatness of his person.
Her jealousy vanished instantly, her cruel suspicion that she would
surprise him in love with another woman, with the fickleness of an
artist. She knew the external evidence of love, the necessity a man
feels 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 revealed
lack of tidiness, forgetfulness of his person. No doubt it was a passing
artist's whim, a craze for work, but they did not reveal what she had
suspected.
In spite of this calming certainty, as Concha was ready to shed the
tears which were all prepared, waiting impatiently on the edge of her
eyelids, she raised her hands to her eyes, curling up on one end of the
couch, with a tragic expression. She was very unhappy; she was suffering
terribly. She had passed several horrible weeks. What was the matter?
Why had he disappeared without a word of explanation, when she loved him
more than ever, when she was ready to give up everything, to cause a
perfect scandal, by coming to live with him, as his companion, his
slave? And her letters, her poor letters, neglected, unopened, as if
they were annoying requests for alms. She had spent the nights awake,
putting her whole soul into their pages! And in her accent there was a
tremble 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 women
were to worship them!
She continued to weep and Renovales looked at her as if she were another
woman. She seemed ridiculous to him in that grief, which distorted her
face, which made her ugly, destroying her smiling, doll-like
impassibility.
He tried to offer excuses, that he might not seem cruel by keeping
silent, but they lacked warmth and the desire to carry conviction. He
was working hard; it was time for him to return to his former life of
creative activity. She forgot that he was an artist, a master of some
reputation, who had his duty to the public. He was not like those young
fops who could devote the whole day to her and pass their life at her
feet, like enamored pages.
"We must be serious, Concha," he added with pedantic coldness. "Life is
not play. I must work and I am working. I haven't been out of here for
I 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 him
to come to her house for a moment.
"Just to say 'Good morning,' nothing more. So that I may see you for an
instant, Mariano, long enough to be sure that you are the same, that you
still love me. But you have gone out often; you have been seen. I have
my detectives who tell me everything. You are too well known to pass
unnoticed. You have been in the Museo del Prado mornings. You have been
seen gazing at a picture of Goya's, a nude, for hours at a time, like an
idiot. Your hobby is coming back again, Mariano! And it hasn't occurred
to you to come and see me; you haven't answered my letters. You feel
proud, it seems, content with being loved, and submit to being worshiped
like an idol, certain that the more uncivil you are, the more you will
be loved. Oh, these men! These artists!"
She sobbed, but her voice no longer preserved the irritated tone of the
first few moments. The certainty that she did not have to struggle with
the influence of another woman softened her pride, leaving in her only
the 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 the
couch beside her. "Don't stand up. You look as if you wanted me to go
away."
The painter sat down timidly, taking care not to touch her, avoiding
those hands which reached out to him, longing for a pretext to seize
him. He saw her desire to weep on his shoulder, to forget everything,
and to banish her last tears with a smile. That was what always
happened, but Renovales, knowing the game, drew back roughly. That must
not begin again; it could, not be repeated, even if he wanted to. He
must tell her the truth at any cost, end it forever, throw off the
burden from his shoulders.
He spoke hoarsely, stammering, with his eyes on the floor, not daring to
lift them for fear of meeting Concha's which he felt were fixed upon
him.
For several days he had been meaning to write to her. He had been afraid
that he might not express his ideas clearly and so he had put off the
letter until the next day. Now he was glad she had come; he rejoiced at
the weakness of his valet, in letting her enter.
They must talk like good comrades who examine the future together. It
was time to put an end to their folly. They would be what Concha once
desired, friends--good friends. She was beautiful; she still had the
freshness of youth, but time leaves its mark, and he felt that he was
getting old; he looked at life from a height, as we look at the water of
a stream, without dipping into it.
Concha listened to him in astonishment, refusing to understand his
words. What did these scruples mean? After some digressions, the painter
spoke remorsefully of his friend, the Count of Alberca, a man whom he
respected for his very guilelessness. His conscience rose in protest at
the simple admiration of the good man. This daring deceit in his own
house, under his own roof, was infamous. He could not go on; they must
purify themselves from the past by being good friends, must say good-by
as lovers, without spite or antipathy, grateful to each other for the
happy 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 was
the pretext of this break. Her husband! And once more she began to laugh
uproariously, revealing the count's insignificance, the absolute lack
of respect which he inspired in his wife, or her habit of adjusting her
life as her fancy dictated, with never a thought of what that man might
say 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 her
lover spoke of him, presented _him_ as a justification for leaving her!
"My husband!" she repeated amid the peals of her cruel laughter. "Poor
thing! 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't
know what it is; but I have a presentiment, I see it from here. If you
loved another woman! If you loved another woman!"
But she broke off this threatening exclamation. She needed only to look
at him to be convinced that it was impossible. His body was not perfumed
with love; everything about him revealed calm peace, without interests
or desires. Perhaps it was a whim of his fancy, some unbalanced caprice
which led him to repel her. And encouraged by this belief, she relaxed,
forgetting her anger, speaking to him affectionately, caressing him with
a fervor in which there was something at once of the mother and of the
mistress.
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 of
her belonged to the master, the ungrateful brute, who returned so ill
her affection that she was getting old with her trouble.
Suddenly filled with tenderness, she kissed his forehead generously and
purely. Poor boy! He was working so hard! The only thing the matter was
that he was tired out, distracted with too much painting. He must leave
his brushes alone, live, love her, be happy, rest his wrinkled forehead
behind which, like a curtain, an invisible world passed and repassed in
perpetual revolution.
"Let me kiss your pretty forehead again, so that the hobgoblins within
may be silent and sleep."
And she kissed once more his _pretty_ forehead, delighting in caressing
with 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, the
cruel mistress, exacting and repugnant, who seemed to drive her poor
baby mad. One of these days, master, the studio would catch on fire
together with all its pictures. She tried to draw him to her, to make
him 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 of
those childish tricks which once were his delight. He remained
indifferent to those hands, those lips, to the warmth of that body which
rubbed against him without awakening the least desire. And he had loved
that woman! For her he had committed the terrible, irreparable crime
which would make him drag the chain of remorse forever! What surprises
life has in store!
The painter's coldness finally had its effect on the Alberca woman. She
seemed to awaken from the dream, in which she was lulling herself. She
drew 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 eyes
close to him, as if she wished to look within him. The artist smiled
faintly, 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 me
Phryne, as you used to when you worshiped me on your knees, kissing my
body!"
He said nothing. He hung his head in shame at the memory, so as not to
see her.
The countess stood up nervously. In her anger, she drew back to the
middle of the studio, her hands clenched, her lips quivering, her eyes
flashing. She wanted to destroy something, to fall on the floor in a
convulsion. She hesitated whether to break an Arabic amphora close by,
or to fall on that bowed head and scratch it with her nails. Wretch! She
had loved him so dearly; she still cared for him so, feeling bound to
him by both vanity and habit!
"Say whether you love me," she cried. "Say it once and for all! Yes or
no?"
Still she obtained no answer. The silence was trying. Once more she
believed there was another love, a woman who had come to occupy her
place. But who was it? Where could he have found her? Her woman's
instinct made her turn her head and glance into the next studio and
beyond into the last, the real workshop of the master. Warned by a
mysterious intuition, she started to run toward it. There! Perhaps
there! The painter's steps sounded behind her. He had started from his
dejection 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 with
all the crudeness of a discovery in broad daylight. She stopped,
scowling with a mental effort before that portrait which seemed to
dominate the studio, occupying the best easel, in the most advantageous
position, in spite of the solitary gray of its canvas.
The master saw in Concha's face the same expression of doubt and
surprise which he had seen in Cotoner's. Who was that? But the
hesitation was shorter; her woman's pride sharpened her senses. She saw
beyond that unrecognizable head the circle of older portraits which
seemed to guard it.
Ah! The immense surprise in her eyes; the cold astonishment in the
glance 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 him
cowardly; he felt that he must cry out in the presence of those
canvases, what he had not dared to say outside. It was a longing to
flatter the dead woman, to implore her forgiveness, by confessing his
hopeless love.
"Yes, it is Josephina."
And he said it with spirit, going forward a step, looking at Concha as
if she were an enemy, with a sort of hostility in his eyes which did not
escape her notice.
They did not say anything more. The countess could not speak. Her
surprise passed the limits of the probable, the known.
In love with his wife,--and after she was dead! Shut up like a hermit in
order to paint her with a beauty which she had never had. Life brings
surprises, but this surely had never been seen before.
She felt as if she were falling, falling, driven by astonishment and, at
the end of the fall, she found that she was changed, without a complaint
or pang of grief. Everything about her seemed strange--the room, the
man, the pictures. This whole affair went beyond her power of
conception. Had she found a woman there, it would have made her weep and
shriek with grief, roll on the floor, love the master still more with
the 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 a
mad desire to laugh. But she did not laugh. She recalled the unusual
expression she had noticed on the master's face, when she entered the
studio; she thought that now she saw in his eyes a spark of that same
gleam.
Suddenly she felt afraid; afraid of the man who looked at her in silence
as 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 which
every woman feels in the presence of unhappiness, even if it afflicts a
stranger. Poor Mariano! All was over between them; she took care not to
speak intimately to him; she held out her gloved hand with the gesture
of 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. I
know 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 scattered
their wake of perfumes in the studio for the last time.
Renovales breathed more freely when he was left alone. He had ended
forever the error of his life. The only thing in this visit that left a
sting was the countess's hesitation before the portrait. She had
recognized it sooner than Cotoner, but she too had hesitated. No one
remembered Josephina; he alone kept her image.
That same afternoon, before his old friend came, the master received
another call. His daughter appeared in the studio. Renovates had
divined that it was she before she entered, by the whirl of joy and
overflowing life which seemed to precede her.
She had come to see him; she had promised him a visit months ago. And
her father smiled indulgently, recalling some of her complaints when he
last visited her. Just to see him?
Milita pretended to be absorbed in examining the studio which she had
not entered for a long time.
"Look!" she exclaimed. "Why, it's mamma!"
She looked at the picture with astonishment, but the master seemed
pleased at the readiness with which she had recognized her. At last, his
daughter! The instinct of blood! The poor master did not see the hasty
glance at the other portraits which had guided the girl in her
induction.
"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 more
beautiful 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 very
beautiful."
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 to
explain, almost blushing, afraid to tell his intention to his daughter,
suddenly overcome by paternal modesty. He was not sure as yet what he
would do; he had to decide on a dress to suit her. And in a sudden
access 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 a
moment. Her strength, health and joy of life soon threw off these sad
impressions. Yes, very good. She often thought about her. Perhaps she
spoke the truth; but these memories were not deep nor painful. Death
seemed to her a thing without meaning, a remote incident without much
terror 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 to
go. 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 more
unpleasant by the hostile chill with which her parents treated each
other. Besides, her expression was icy. We all must die. The weak must
go first and leave their place to the strong. It was the unconscious,
cruel selfishness of health. Renovales suddenly saw his daughter's soul
through this rent of frankness. The dead woman had known them both. The
daughter was his, wholly his. He, too, possessed that selfishness in his
strength which had made him crush weakness and delicacy placed under his
protection. Poor Josephina had only him left, repentant and adoring. For
the other people, she had not passed through the world; not even his
daughter felt any lasting sorrow at her death.
Milita turned her back to the portrait. She forgot her mother and her
father'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 had
sat down, a few hours before. She coaxed him with her rich voice, which
took on a sort of cat-like purring. Papa,--papa, dear,--she was very
unhappy. She came to see him, to tell him her troubles.
"Yes, money," said the master, somewhat annoyed at the indifference with
which she had spoken of her mother.
"Money, papa, you've said it; I told you the other day. But that isn't
all. Rafael--my husband--I can't stand this sort of life."
And she related all the petty trials of her existence. In order not to
feel that she was prematurely a widow, she had to go with her husband in
his automobile and show an interest in his trips which once had amused
her but now were growing unbearable.
"It's the life of a section-hand, papa, always swallowing dust and
counting kilometers. When I love Madrid so much! When I can't live out
of it!"
She had sat down on her father's knees, she talked to him, looking into
his eyes, smoothing his hair, pulling his mustache, like a mischievous
child,--almost as the other had.
"Besides, he's stingy; if he had his way, I'd look like a frump. He
thinks 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 then
I won't bother you with any more loans. Come, that's a dear papa. I need
them right away, because I waited till the last minute, so as not to
inconvenience you."
Renovales moved about uneasily under the weight of his daughter, a
strapping girl who fell on him like a child. Her filial confidences
annoyed him. Her perfume made him think of that other perfume, which
disturbed his nights, spreading through the solitude of the rooms. She
seemed 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 his
brusqueness. He was surprised at her constant requests for money. What
did she want it for? He recalled the wedding-presents, that princely
abundance of clothes and jewels which had been on exhibition in this
very room. What did she need? But Milita looked at her father in
astonishment. More than a year had gone by since then. It was clear
enough that her father was ignorant in such matters. Was she going to
wear the same gowns, the same hats, the same ornaments for an endless
length of time, more than twelve months? Horrible! That was too
commonplace. And overcome at the thought of such a monstrosity, she
began 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 the
house. I shall have to get it at the bank--operations you don't
understand."
But Milita, encouraged by her victory, insisted on her request with
desperate obstinacy. He was deceiving her; he would not remember it the
next day; she knew her father. Besides, she needed the money at
once,--her honor was at stake (she declared it seriously) if her friends
discovered that she was in debt.
"This very minute, papa. Don't be horrid. Don't amuse yourself by making
me 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 at
your 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 working
jacket, tickling him to get at the inside pocket. Renovales resisted
feebly. "You foolish girl. You're wasting your time. Where do you think
the wallet is? I never carry it in this suit."
"It's here, you fibber," his daughter cried merrily, persisting in her
search. "I feel it! I have it! Look at it!"
She was right. The painter had forgotten that he had picked it up that
morning to pay a bill and then had put it absent-mindedly in the pocket
of his serge coat.
Milita opened it with a greediness that hurt her father. Oh, those
woman's hands, trembling in the search for money! He grew calmer when he
thought of the fortune he had amassed, of the different colored papers
which he kept in his desk. All would be his daughter's and perhaps this
would save her from the danger toward which her longing to live amid the
vanities and tinsel of feminine slavery was leading her.
In an instant she had her hands on a number of bills of different
denominations, forming a roll which she squeezed tight between her
fingers.
Renovales protested.
"Let me have it, Milita, don't be childish. You're leaving me without a
cent. 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 her
hand above her hat to save her booty. She laughed boisterously at her
trick. She did not mean to give him back a single one! She did not know
how many there were, she would count them at home, she would be out of
difficulty for the nonce, and the next day she would ask him for what
was lacking.
The master finally began to laugh, finding her merriment contagious. He
chased Milita without trying to catch her; he threatened her with mock
severity, called her a robber, shouting "help," and so they ran from one
studio to another. Before she disappeared, Milita stopped on the last
doorsill, raising her gloved finger authoritatively:
"To-morrow, the rest. You mustn't forget. Really, papa, this is very
important. Good-by; I shall expect you to-morrow."
And she disappeared, leaving in her father some of the merriment with
which 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 most
faithful of his portraits. His thoughts were lost in the shadow which
rose from the corners and enveloped the canvases. Only on the windows
trembled a pale, hazy light, cut across by the black lines of the
branches outside.
Alone--alone forever. He had the affection of that big girl who had just
gone away, merry, indifferent to everything which did not flatter her
youthful vanity, her healthy beauty. He had the devotion of his friend
Cotoner, who, like an old dog, could not live without seeing him, but
was incapable of wholly devoting his life to him, and shared it between
him 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 seemed
to irritate his eyes; the solitary, monotonous road which awaited
him--and at the end, death! No one was ignorant of that; it was the only
certainty, and still he had spent the greater part of his life without
thinking of it, without seeing it.
It was like one of those epidemics in distant lands which destroy
millions of lives. People talk of it as of a definite fact, but without
a start of horror, or a tremble of fear. "It is too far away; it will
take it a long time to reach us."
He had often named Death, but with his lips; his thoughts had not
grasped the meaning of the word, feeling that he was alive, bound to
life by his dreams and desires.
Death stood at the end of the road; no one could avoid meeting it, but
all are long in seeing it. Ambition, desire, love, the cruel animal
needs distracted man in his course toward it; they were like the woods,
valleys, blue sky and winding crystal streams which diverted the
traveler, hiding the boundary of the landscape, the fatal goal, the
black bottomless gorge to which all roads lead.
He was on the last days' march. The path of his life was growing
desolate and gloomy; the vegetation was dwindling; the great groves
diminished into sparse, miserable lichens. From the murky abyss came an
icy breath; he saw it in the distance, he walked without escape toward
its gorge. The fields of dreams with their sunlit heights which once
bounded 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, hoping
sometimes to receive their revenues in the pleasures of love. Die! Who
thought of that? Then it was a remote, unmeaning threat. He believed
that he was provided with a mission by Providence. Death would take no
liberties with him, would not come till his work was finished. He still
had many things to do. Well, all was done now; human desires did not
exist for him. He had everything. No longer did fanciful towers rise
before his steps, for him to assault. On the horizon, free from
obstacles, appeared the great forgotten,--Death.
He did not want to see it. There was still a long journey on that road
which might grow longer and longer, according to the strength of the
traveler, and his legs were still strong.
But, ah, to walk, walk, year after year, with his gaze fixed on that
murky abyss, contemplating it always at the edge of the horizon, unable
to escape for an instant the certainty that it was there, was a
superhuman torture which would force him to hurry his steps, to run in
order to reach the end as soon as possible. Oh, for deceitful clouds
which might veil the horizon, concealing the reality which embitters our
bread, which casts its shadows over our souls and makes us curse the
futility of our birth! Oh, for lying, pleasant illusions to make a
paradise rise from the desert shadows of the last journey! Oh, for
dreams!
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 flights
of his imagination, longing to infuse into it new life with a part of
his own. He piled up by handfuls the clay of the past, the mass of
memory, to make it greater that it might occupy the whole way, shut off
the horizon like a huge hill, hide till the last moment the murky abyss
which ended the journey.
V
Renovales' behavior was a source of surprise and even scandal for all
his friends.
The Countess of Alberca took especial care to let every one know that
her only relation with the painter was a friendship which grew
constantly colder and more formal.
"He's crazy," she said. "He's finished. There's nothing left of him but
a memory of what he once was."
Cotoner in his unswerving friendship was indignant at hearing such
comment on the famous master.
"He isn't drinking. All that people say about him is a lie; the usual
legend about a celebrated man."
He had his own ideas about Mariano; he knew his longing for a stirring
life, 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 this
evil life, of which he had heard without ever daring till then to join
in them.
Cotoner accepted the master's new habits indulgently. Poor fellow!
"You are putting into action the pictures of 'The Rake's Progress,'" he
said to his friend. "You're going the way of all virtuous men when they
cease to be so, on the verge of old age. You are making a fool of
yourself, Mariano."
But his loyalty led him to acquiesce in the new life of the master. At
last he had given in to his requests and had come to live with him. With
his few pieces of luggage he occupied a room in the house and cared for
Renovales with almost paternal solicitude. The Bohemian showed great
sympathy for him. It was the same old story: "He who does not do it at
the beginning does it at the end," and Renovales, after a life of hard
work, was rushing into a life of dissipation with the blindness of a
youth, admiring vulgar pleasures, clothing them with the most fanciful
seductions.
Cotoner frequently harassed him with complaints. What had he brought him
to live at his house for? He deserted him for days at a time; he wanted
to go out alone; he left him at home like a trusty steward. The old
Bohemian posted himself minutely on his life. Often the students in the
Art School, gathered at nightfall beside the entrance to the Academy,
saw him going down the Calle de Alcalá, muffled in his cloak with an
affected 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 goings
through the broad street where he circled about like a silent dove as if
he were waiting for something. Sometimes, no doubt tired of these
evolutions, he went into a café and the curious admirers followed him,
pressing their faces against the window-panes. They saw him drop into a
chair, looking vaguely at the glass before him; always the same thing:
brandy. Suddenly he would drink it at one gulp, pay the waiter and go
out, with the haste of one who has swallowed a drug. And once more he
would begin his explorations, peering with greedy eyes at all the women
who 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 with
sudden determination, he would disappear almost on the heel of some
woman always of the same appearance. The boys knew the great artist's
preference: little, weak, sickly women, graceful as faded flowers, with
large eyes, dull and sorrowful.
A story of strange mental aberration was forming about him. His enemies
repeated it in the studios; the throng which cannot imagine that
celebrated men lead the same life as other people, and like to think
that they are capricious, tormented by extraordinary habits, began to
talk 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-smelling
dens which cast out their wares at night on the Calle de Peligros,
circulated the story of a certain gentleman, provoking shouts of
laughter. He always came muffled up mysteriously, following hastily the
rustle of some poor starched skirts which preceded him. He entered the
dark doorway with a sort of terror, climbed the winding staircase which
seemed to smell of the residues of life, hastened the disrobing with
eager hands, as if he had no time to waste, as if he was afraid of dying
before he realized his desire, and all at once the poor women who looked
askance at his feverish silence and the savage hunger which shone in his
eyes, were tempted to laugh, seeing him drop dejectedly into a chair in
silence, unmindful of the brutal words which they in their astonishment
hurled at him; without paying any attention to their gestures and
invitations, not coming out of his stupor till the woman, cold and
somewhat offended, started to put on her clothes. "One moment more."
This scene almost always ended with an expression of disgust, of bitter
disappointment. Sometimes the poor puppets of flesh thought they saw in
his eyes a sorrowful expression, as if he were going to weep. Then he
fled precipitously, hidden under his cloak in sudden shame, with the
firm determination not to return, to resist that demon of hungry
curiosity which dwelt within him and could not see a woman's form in the
street, without feeling a violent desire to disrobe it.
These stories came to Cotoner's ears. Mariano! Mariano! He did not dare
to rebuke him openly for these shameful nocturnal adventures; he was
afraid of a violent explosion of anger on the part of the master. He
must direct him prudently. But what most aroused his old friend's
censure was the people with whom the artist associated.
This false rejuvenation made him seek the company of the younger men and
Cotoner cursed roundly when at the close of the theater he found him in
a 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 of
their friendship with the famous man, delighting like pigmies in
treating 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 comparisons
between 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 like
a schoolmaster surrounded by children. You ought to be spanked. A man
like you tolerating the insolence of those shabby fellows!"
Renovales' good nature was unshaken. They were very interesting; they
amused him; he found in them the joy of youth. They went together to the
theaters and music halls, they knew women; they knew where the good
models were; with them he could enter many places where he would not
venture to go alone. His years and ugliness passed unnoticed amid that
youthful merry crowd.
"They are of service to me," the poor man said with a sly wink. "I am
amused and they tell me lots of things. Besides, this isn't Rome; there
are hardly any models; it is very difficult to find them and these boys
are my guides."
And he went on to speak of his great artistic plans, of that picture of
Phryne, with her divine nakedness, which had once more risen in his
mind, of the beloved portrait which was still in the same condition as
his brush had left it when he finished the head.
He was not working. His old energy, which had made painting a necessary
element in his life, now found vent in words, in the desire to see
everything, to know "new phases of life."
Soldevilla, his favorite pupil, found himself a target for the master's
questions when he appeared at rare intervals in the studio.
"You must know good women, Soldevilla: You have been around a great deal
in spite of that angel face of yours. You must take me with you. You
must introduce me."
"Master!" the youth would exclaim in surprise, "it isn't yet six months
since I was married! I never go out at night! How you joke!"
Renovates answered with a scornful glance. A fine life! No youth, no
joy! 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 catch
the master's daughter. Besides, he was an ungrateful scamp. Now he was
joining the master's enemies, convinced that he could get nothing more
out of him. He scorned him. It was too bad that his protection had
caused him so much inconvenience! He was no artist.
And the master went back with new affection to his companions, those
merry youths, slandering and disrespectful as they were. He recognized
talent in them all.
The gossip about his extraordinary life reached even his daughter, with
the rapid spread which anything prejudicial to a famous man acquires.
Milita scowled, trying to restrain the laughter which the strangeness of
this 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 very
good and kind, to be sure, but who had embittered his life! She did well
to die, and the artist did quite as well in making up for the time he
had lost.
With the instinctive freemasonry of all those who lead an easy, merry
life, the sport defended his father-in-law, supported him, found him
more attractive, more congenial, as a result of his new habits. A man
must not always stay shut up in his studio with the irritated air of a
prophet, talking about things which nobody would understand.
They met each other in the evening during the last acts at the theaters
and music halls, when the songs and dances were accompanied by the
audience with a storm of cries and stamping. They greeted each other,
the father inquired for Milita, they smiled with the sympathy of two
good fellows and each went back to his group; the son-in-law to his
club-mates in a box, still wearing the dress suits of the respectable
gatherings from which they came--the painter to the orchestra seats
with the long-haired young fellows who were his escort.
Renovales was gratified to see López de Sosa greeting the most
fashionable, highest-priced _cocottes_ and smiling to comic-opera stars
with the familiarity of an old friend.
That boy had excellent connections, and he regarded this as an indirect
honor 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 frequent
in order not to lose his friendships which were his only source of
income.
"You are coming with me to-night," the master would say mysteriously.
"We will dine wherever you like, and afterwards I will show you
something."
And he took him to the theater where he sat restless and impatient until
the chorus came on the stage. Then he would nudge Cotoner, who was sunk
in his seat, with his eyes wide open, but asleep inside, in the sweet
pleasure of good digestion.
"Listen, look! the third from the right, the little girl--the one in the
yellow 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 you
of?"
Cotoner answered with a grunt of indifference. She probably looked like
her mother. What did he care about such resemblances. But his
astonishment aroused him from his quiet when he heard Renovales say he
thought her a rare likeness of his wife, and was indignant at him
because 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 starved
face and your poor, dead wife. If you see a sorry-looking bean pole you
will give it a name, Josephina,--and there's nothing more to say."
Although Renovales was at first irritated at his friend's blindness, he
was finally convinced. He had probably deceived himself, as long as
Cotoner did not find the likeness. He must remember the dead woman
better than he himself; love did not disturb _his_ memory.
But a few days later he would once more besiege Cotoner with a
mysterious air. "I have something to show you." And leaving the company
of the merry lads who annoyed his old friend, he would take him to a
music hall and point out another scandalous woman who was kicking a
fling or doing a _danse du ventre_, and revealed her anemic emaciation
under a mask of rouge.
"How about this one?" the master would implore, almost in terror as if
he 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, so
good, so sweet and so refined, and this low creature?"
Renovales, after several failures which made him doubt the accuracy of
his memory, did not dare to consult his friend. As soon as he tried to
take him to a new show, Cotoner would draw back.
"Another discovery? Come, Mariano, get these ideas out of your head. If
people found out about it, they would think that you were crazy."
But defying his wrath, the master insisted one evening with great
obstinacy that he must go with him to see the "Bella Fregolina," a
Spanish 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 windows
of 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 sure
that this time you won't say that I am mistaken."
Cotoner gave in, persuaded by the imploring tone of his friend. They
waited for the appearance of the "Bella Fregolina" for a long time,
watching dances and listening to songs accompanied by the howls of the
audience. The wonder was reserved till the last. At last, with a sort of
solemnity, amid a murmur of expectation, the orchestra began to play a
piece well known to all the admirers of the "star," a ray of rosy light
crossed the little stage and the "Bella" entered.
She was a slight little girl, so thin that she was almost emaciated. Her
face, of a sweet melancholy beauty, was the most striking thing about
her. Beneath her black dress, covered with silver threads, which spread
out like a broad bell, you could see her slender legs, so thin that the
flesh seemed hardly to cover the bones. Above the lace of her gown her
skin, painted white, marked the slight curve of her breasts and the
prominent 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 a
licentious expression flickered, without, however, hurting their pure
surface. She moved like an overgrown school-girl, arms akimbo, bashful
and 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 with
roars of delight, contenting themselves with this, without demanding
that 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. He
followed his inspection out of the corner of his eye.
His friend was merciful.
"Yes, she is something like her. Her eyes,--figure,--expression; she
reminds me of her. She is very much, like her. But the monkey face she
is making now! The words! No, that destroys all likeness."
And as if he were angry that that little girl without any voice and
without any sense of shame, should be compared to the sweet Josephina,
he commented with sarcastic admiration on all the cynical expressions
with which she ended her couplets.
"Very pretty! Very refined!"
But Renovales, deaf to these ironical remarks, absorbed in the
contemplation of "Fregolina," kept on poking him and whispering:
"It's she, isn't it? Just exactly; the same body. And besides, the girl
has some talent; she's funny."
Cotoner nodded ironically: "Yes, very." And when he found that Mariano
wanted to stay for the next act and did not move from his seat, he
though of leaving him. Finally he stayed, stretching out in his seat
with the determination to have a nap, lulled by the music and the cries
of 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 the
matter?" In Renovales' face he saw a honeyed, treacherous smile, some
folly that he wanted to propose in the most pleasing manner.
"I thought we might go behind the scenes for a minute: we could see her
at close range."
His friend answered him indignantly. Mariano thought he was a young
buck; he forgot how he looked. That woman would laugh at them, she
would 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 his
friend from his nap.
"You might go in alone, Pepe. You know more about these things than I
do. You are more daring. You might tell her that I want to paint her
portrait. Think, a portrait with my signature!"
Cotoner started to laugh, in sheer admiration of the princely simplicity
with which the master gave him the commission.
"Thank you, sir; I am highly honored by such a favor, but I am not
going. You confounded fool. Do you suppose that girl knows who Renovales
is 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 have
said--that my portraits---- Be frank, say that you don't want to."
And he was silent, offended at his companion's refusal and his doubt
that his fame had reached this corner. Friends sometimes abuse us with
unexpected scorn and great injustice.
At the end of the show the master felt that he must do something, not go
away without sending the "Bella Fregolina" some evidence of his
presence. He bought an elaborate basket of flowers from a flower vendor
who was starting home, discouraged at the poor business. She should
deliver it immediately to Señorita--"Fregolina."
"Yes, to Pepita," said the woman with a knowing air, as if she were one
of her friends.
"And tell her it is from Señor Renovales--from Renovales, the painter."
The woman nodded, repeating the name. "Very well, Renovales," just as
she would have said any other name. And without the least emotion she
took the five dollars which the painter gave her.
"Five dollars! You idiot," muttered his friend, losing all respect for
him.
Good Cotoner refused to go with him after that. In vain Renovales talked
to him enthusiastically every night about that girl, deeply impressed by
her different impersonations. Now she appeared in a pale pink dress,
almost like some clothes put away in the closets of his house; now she
entered in a hat trimmed with flowers and cherries, much larger, but
still something like a certain straw hat which he could find amid the
confusion 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 of
the young fellows of his disrespectful court. These boys spoke of the
"star" with respectful scorn, as the fox in the fable gazed at the
distant grapes, consoling himself at the thought of their sourness. They
praised 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 influential
friends, all those young gentlemen in dress clothes who occupied the
boxes during the last act, and waited for her at the stage door to take
her 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 around
the audience for the ugly elderly gentleman, deigning to grant him a
smile.
One night the master saw López de Sosa speak to the singer. Perhaps his
son-in-law was acquainted with her. And boldly as a lover, he waited for
him when he came out to implore his help.
He wanted to paint her; she was a magnificent model for a certain work
he had in mind. He said it blushingly, stammering, but López laughed at
his timidity and seemed disposed to protect him.
"Oh, Pepita? A wonderful woman, in spite of the fact that she is on the
decline. With all her school-girl face, if you could only see her at a
party! She drinks like a fish. She's a terror!"
But afterwards, with a serious expression, he explained the
difficulties. She "belonged" to one of his friends, a lad from the
provinces who, eager to win notoriety, was losing one-half his fortune
gambling at the Casino and was calmly letting that girl devour the other
half,--she gave him some reputation. He would speak to her; they were
old friends; nothing wrong--eh, father? It would not be hard to persuade
her. This Pepita had a predilection for anything that was unusual; she
was 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 she
wants. Don't be afraid to be generous."
One morning Renovales called Cotoner to talk to him with wild
expressions 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 persuaded
her. She will come this afternoon at three. He is coming with her
himself."
Then he cast a worried glance at his workshop. For some time it had been
deserted; it must be set in order.
And the servant on one side and the two artists on the other, began to
tidy up the room hastily.
The portraits of Josephina and the canvas with nothing but her head were
piled up in a corner by the master's feverish hands. What was the use of
those phantoms when the real thing was going to appear. In their place
he put a large white canvas, gazing at its untouched surface with
hopeful eyes. What things he was going to do that afternoon! What a
power for work he felt!
When the two artists were left alone, Renovales seemed restless,
dissatisfied, constantly suspecting that something had been overlooked
for this visit, toward which he looked with chills of anxiety. Flowers;
they must get some flowers, fill all the old vases in the studio, create
an atmosphere of delicate perfume.
And Cotoner ran through the garden with the servant, plundered the
greenhouse and came in with an armful of flowers, obedient and
submissive as a faithful friend, but with a sarcastic reproach in his
eyes. All that for the "Bella Fregolina"! The master was cracked; he was
in 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 the
tables in the studio sweets, champagne, anything good he could find.
Cotoner spoke of sending for the valet, complaining of the tasks which
were imposed on him as a result of the visit of this girl of the
guileless smile and the vile songs, who stood with arms akimbo.
"No, Pepe," the master implored. "Listen--I don't want the valet to
know. He talks afterward; my daughter probes him with questions."
Cotoner went away with a resigned expression and when he returned an
hour later, he found Renovales in the model's room arranging some
clothes.
The old painter lined up his packages on the table. He put the
confectionery in antique plates and took the bottles out of their
wrappers.
"You are served, sir," he said with ironical respect. "Do you wish
anything else, sir? The whole family is in a state of revolution over
this noble lady; your son-in-law is bringing her; I am acting as your
valet; all you need now is to send for your daughter to help her
undress."
"Thanks, Pepe, thanks ever so much," said the master with naive
gratitude, apparently undisturbed by his jests.
At luncheon time Cotoner saw him come into the dining-room with his hair
carefully combed, his mustache curled, wearing his best suit with a rose
in the buttonhole. The Bohemian laughed boisterously. The last straw! He
was crazy; they would make sport of him!
The master scarcely touched the meal. Afterwards he walked up and down
alone in the studio. How slowly the time went! At each turn through the
three 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 a
tall, 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 was
past 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! I
guess you have imposed on me long enough and will not expect me to
stay."
He went out waving him an ironical farewell and a little later
Renovales heard López de Sosa's voice, approaching slowly, explaining to
his companion the pictures and furniture which attracted her attention.
They entered. The "Bella Fregolina" looked astonished; she seemed
intimidated by the majestic silence of the studio. What a big, princely
house, so different from all those she had seen! That ancient, solid,
historic luxury with its rare furniture filled her with fear! She looked
at Renovales with great respect. He seemed to her more distinguished
than that other man whom she had seen indistinctly in the orchestra of
her little theater. He was awe-inspiring, as if he were a great
personage, different from all the men with whom she had had to do. To
her fear was added a sort of admiration. How much money that old boy
must 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 her
face disconcerted him--the layer of rouge with black lines about the
eyes--visible through the veil. The _other_ did not paint. But when he
looked at her eyes, the striking resemblance rose again, and starting
from them he gradually restored the beloved face under the layers of
pomade.
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 she
drew herself up vainly, delighted that people thought she was beautiful,
that she would enjoy the emotion until then unknown of seeing her image
reproduced by a great artist.
López de Sosa excused himself to his father-in-law. She was to blame for
their being late. You could never get a woman like that to hurry. She
went to bed at daybreak; he had found her in bed.
Then he said good-by, understanding the embarrassment his presence might
cause. Pepita was a good girl, she was dazzled by his works and the
appearance of the house. The master could do what he wanted with her.
"Well, little girl, you stay here. The gentleman is my father; I told
you already. Be sure and be a good girl."
And he went out, followed by the forced laugh of them both, who greeted
this recommendation with uneasy merriment.
A long and painful silence followed. The master did not know what to
say. Timidity and emotion weighed on his will. She seemed no less
disturbed. That great room, so silent and imposing with its massive,
superb decorations, different from anything she had seen, frightened
her. She felt the vague terror which precedes an unknown operation.
Besides, she was disturbed by the man's glowing eyes fixed on her, with
a quiver on his cheeks and a twitching of his lips, as if they were
tormented by thirst.
She soon recovered from her timidity. She was used to these moments of
shamefaced silence which came with the lone meeting of two strangers.
She knew these interviews which begin hesitatingly and end in rough
familiarity.
She looked around with a professional smile, eager to end the unpleasant
situation as soon as possible.
"When you will. Where shall I undress?"
Renovales started at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten that
that image could speak. The simplicity with which she dispensed with
explanations surprised him likewise.
His son-in-law did things well; he had brought her well coached, callous
to 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 see
through the half-opened door. There was a long silence, broken by the
rustle of falling clothes, the metallic click of buttons and hooks.
Suddenly her voice came to the master, smothered, distant with a sort of
timidity.
"My stockings too? Must I take them off?"
Renovales knew this objection of all models when they undressed for the
first time. López de Sosa, carrying his desire of pleasing his father to
the extreme, had spoken to her of giving her body wholly and she
undressed without asking any further explanations, with the calm of
accepted duty, thinking that her presence there was absurd for any other
purpose.
The painter came out of his silence; he called to her uneasily. She must
not stay undressed. In the room there were clothes for her to put on.
And without turning his head, reaching his arm through the half open
door he pointed out blindly what he had left. There was a pink dress, a
hat, shoes, stockings, a shirt.
Pepita protested when she saw these cast-off garments, showing an
aversion 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; his
painting demanded it. The long silence of the girl proved that she was
complying, putting on these old garments, overcoming her repugnance.
When she came out of the room she smiled with a sort of pity, as if she
were laughing at herself. Renovales drew back, stirred by his own work,
bewildered, feeling his temples throbbing, fancying that the pictures
and furniture were whirling about him.
Poor "Fregolina"! What a delightful clown! She felt like laughing at the
thought of the storm of cries which would burst out in her theater if
she should appear on the stage dressed in this fashion, of the jests of
her friends if she should come into one of their dinners in these
clothes of twenty years ago. She did not know these styles, and to her
they seemed to belong to a remote antiquity. The master leaned over the
back of a chair.
"Josephina! Josephina!"
It was she, such as he kept her in his memory--as she was that happy
summer in the Roman mountains, in her pink dress and that rustic hat
which gave her the dainty air of a village girl in the opera. Those
fashions at which the younger generation laughed were for him the most
beautiful, the most artistic that feminine taste had ever produced; they
recalled the spring of his life.
"Josephina! Josephina!"
He remained silent, for these exclamations were born and died in his
thoughts. He did not dare to move or speak, for fear this apparition of
his dreams would vanish. She, smiling, was delighted at the effect her
appearance had on the painter and seeing her reflection in a distant
mirror, recognized that in this strange costume she did not look at all
badly.
"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 a
posture which she considered very graceful--her cheek on one hand, her
legs crossed, just as she was wont to sit in the green room of the
theater, 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 of
the form he loved.
From instinct, from habit, he took up his palette and a brush stained
with black, trying to trace the outlines of that figure. Ah, his hand
was old, heavy, trembling! Where had his old time skill fled, his
drawing, his striking qualities? Had he really ever painted? Was he
truly the painter Renovales? He had suddenly forgotten everything. His
head seemed empty, his hand paralyzed, the white canvas filled him with
a terror of the unknown. He did not know how to paint; he could not
paint. His efforts were useless; his mind was deadened. Perhaps,--some
other 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 he
felt the torment of a deathly thirst.
The "Bella Fregolina" saw him throw down his palette and come toward her
with a wild expression.
But she felt no fear; she knew those distorted faces. This sudden rush
was no doubt part of the program; she was warned when she went there
after her friendly conversation with the son-in-law. That gentleman, so
serious and so imposing, was like all the men she knew, as brutal as the
rest.
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, offering
her lips with an automatic loving expression which was the implement of
her profession.
The kiss was enough to overcome the master completely.
"Josephina! Josephina!"
The perfume of the happy days rose from her clothes, surrounding her
adorable person. It was her form, her flesh! He was going to die at her
feet, suffocated by the immense desire that swelled within him. It was
she; her very eyes--her eyes! And as he raised his glance to lose
himself in their soft pupils, to gaze at himself in their trembling
mirror, he saw two cold eyes, which examined him, half closed with
professional curiosity, taking a scornful delight from their calm height
in this intoxication of the flesh, this madness which groveled, moaning
with desire.
Renovales was thunderstruck with surprise; he felt something icy run
down his back, paralyzing him; his eyes were veiled with a cloud of
disappointment and sorrow.
Was it really Josephina whom he had in his arms? It was her body, her
perfume, her clothes, her beauty, pale as a dying flower. But no, it was
not she! Those eyes! In vain did they look at him differently, alarmed
at this sudden reaction; in vain they softened with a tender light,
trained by habit. The deceit was useless; he saw beyond, he penetrated
through those bright windows into the depths; he found only emptiness.
The other's soul was not there. That maddening perfume no longer moved
him; it was a false essence. He had before him merely a reproduction of
the beloved vase, but the incense, the soul, lost forever.
Renovales, standing up, drew away from her, looking at that woman with
terror in his eyes, and finally threw himself on a couch, with his face
in his hands.
The girl, hearing him sob, was afraid and ran toward the models' room to
take off those clothes, to flee. The man must be mad.
The master was weeping. Farewell, youth! Farewell desire! Farewell
dreams; enchanting sirens of life, that have fled forever. Useless the
search, useless the struggle in the solitude of life. Death had him in
his 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 the
memory of the dead like this hired woman whom he had held in his
arms--and still, it was not she!
At the supreme moment, on the verge of reality, that indefinable
something had vanished, that something which had been enclosed in the
body of his Josephina, of his _maja_, whom he had worshiped in the
nights of his youth.
Immense, irreparable disappointment flooded his body with the icy calm
of old age.
Fall, ye towers of illusion! Sink, ye castles of fancy, built with the
longing to make the way fair, to hide the horizon! The path still
remained unbroken, barren and deserted. In vain would he sit by the
roadside, putting off the hour of his departure, in vain would he bow
his head that he might not see. The longer his rest, the longer his
fearful torment. At every hour he was destined to gaze at the dreaded
end of the last journey--unclouded, undisturbed--the dwelling from which
there is no return--the black, greedy abyss--death!
FOOTNOTE:
[A] The life of this character is the theme of _La Horda_, by
the same author.
End of Project Gutenberg's Woman Triumphant, by Vicente Blasco Ibañez