i 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 (LA MAJA DESNUDA) 
 
 BY 
 
 VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH 
 BY 
 
 HAYWARD KENISTON 
 
 WITH A SPECIAL INTRODUCTORY NOTE BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 . y 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 68 1 FIFTH AVENUE 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1920, 
 BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 First printing . . . 
 Second printing. 
 Third printing . . 
 Fourth printing . 
 Fifth printing . . . 
 Sixth printing . . 
 Seventh printing . 
 Eighth printing . 
 Ninth printing . . 
 Tenth printing . . 
 Eleventh printing . 
 Twelfth yrinting , 
 
 . . .March, 1920 
 . . .March, 1920 
 .. .March, 1920 
 . . .March, 1920 
 . . .March, 1920 
 .. March, 1920 
 ...March. 1920 
 ...March, 1920 
 ....April, 1920 
 
 April, 1920 
 
 April, 1920 
 
 >JJL . April. 1920. 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
22. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO THE ENGLISH 
 TRANSLATION 
 
 THE title of this novel in the original, La maja desnuda, 
 "The Nude Maja/' is also the name of one of the most 
 famous pictures of the great Spanish painter Francisco 
 Goya. 
 
 The word maja has no exact equivalent in English or in 
 any of the modern languages. Literally, it means "be- 
 decked/' "showy," "gaudily attired/' "flashy," "dazzling/' 
 etc., and it was applied at the end of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury and at the beginning of the nineteenth to a certain 
 class of gay women of the lower strata of Madrid society 
 notorious for their love of dancing and their fondness for 
 exhibiting themselves conspicuously at bull-fights and all 
 popular celebrations. The great ladies of the aristocracy 
 affected the free ways and imitated the picturesque dress 
 of the maja; Goya made this type the central figure of 
 many of his genre paintings, and the dramatist Ramon de 
 la Cruz based most of his sainetes farcical pieces in 
 one act upon the customs and rivalries of these women. 
 The dress invented by the maja, consisting of a short skirt 
 partly covered by a net with berry-shaped tassels, white 
 mcmtilla and high shell-comb, is considered all over the 
 world as the national costume of Spanish women. 
 
 When the novel first appeared in Spain some years ago, 
 a certain part of the Madrid public, unduly evil-minded, 
 thought that it had discovered the identity of the real per- 
 sons whom I had taken as models to draw my characters. 
 This claim provoked a scandalous sensation and gave my 
 
 437724 
 
vi INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 
 book an unwholesome notoriety. It was thought that the 
 protagonists of La maja desnuda were an illustrious 
 Spanish painter of world-wide fame, who is my friend, 
 and an aristocratic lady very celebrated at the time but 
 now forgotten. I protested against this unwarranted and 
 fantastic interpretation. Although I draw my characters 
 from life, I do so only in a very fragmentary way (like 
 all the great creative novelists whom I admire as masters 
 in the field of fiction), using the materials gathered in my 
 observations to form completely new types which are the 
 direct and legitimate offspring of my own imagination. 
 To use a figure : as a novelist I am a painter, not a pho- 
 tographer. Although I seek my inspiration in reality, I 
 copy it in accordance with my own way of seeing it; 
 I do not reproduce it with the mechanical servility of the 
 photographic camera. 
 
 It is possible that my imaginary heroes are vaguely 
 reminiscent of beings who actually exist. Subconscious- 
 ness is the novelist's principal instrument, and this sub- 
 consciousness frequently mocks us, leading us to mistake 
 for our own creation the things which we have unwit- 
 tingly observed in Nature. But despite this, it is unfair, 
 as well as risky, for the reader to assign the names of real 
 persons to the characters of fiction, saying, "This is So- 
 and-so." 
 
 It would be equally unfair to consider this novel as 
 audacious or of doubtful morality. The artistic world 
 which I describe in La maja desnuda cannot be expected 
 to have the same conception of life as the conventional 
 world. Far from believing it immoral, I consider this 
 one of the most moral novels I have ever written. And 
 it is for this reason that, with a full realization of the 
 standards demanded by the English-reading public, I have 
 not hesitated to authorize the present translation without 
 palliation or amputation, fully convinced that the reader 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE V2 
 
 will not find anything in this novel objectionable or of- 
 fensive to his moral sense. Morality is not to be found in 
 words but in deeds and in the lessons which these deeds 
 teach. 
 
 The difficulty of adequately translating the word maja 
 into English led to the adoption of "Woman Triumphant" 
 as the title of the present version. I believe it is a happy; 
 selection; it interprets the spirit of the novel. But it 
 must be borne in mind that the woman here is the wife 
 of the protagonist. It is the wife who triumphs, resur- 
 recting in spirit to exert an overwhelming influence over 
 the life of a man who had wished to live without her. 
 
 Renovales, the hero, is simply the personification of 
 human desire, this poor desire which, in reality, does not 
 know what it wants, eternally fickle and unsatisfied. 
 When we finally obtain what we desire, it does not seem 
 enough. "More: I want more," we say. If we lose 
 something that made life unbearable, we immediately 
 wish it back as indispensable to our happiness. Such are 
 we : poor deluded children who cried yesterday for what 
 we scorn to-day and shall want again to-morrow; poor 
 deluded beings plunging across the span of life on the 
 Icarian wings of caprice. 
 
 VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ. 
 
 New York, January, 1920. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 PARTI 
 
 IT was eleven o'clock in the morning when Mariano 
 .Renovales reached the Museo del Prado. Several years 
 had passed since the famous painter had entered it. The 
 dead did not attract him ; very interesting they were, very 
 worthy of respect, under the glorious shroud of the cen- 
 turies, but art was moving along new paths and he could 
 not study there under the false glare of the skylights, 
 where he saw reality only through the temperaments of 
 other men. A bit of sea, a mountainside, a group of 
 ragged people, an expressive head attracted him more 
 than that palace, with its broad staircases, its white col- 
 umns and its statues of bronze and alabaster a solemn 
 pantheon of art, where the neophytes vacillated in fruit- 
 less confusion, without knowing what course to follow. 
 
 The master Renovales stopped for a few moments at 
 the foot of the stairway. He contemplated the valley 
 through which you approach the palace with its slopes 
 of fresh turf, dotted at intervals with the sickly little 
 trees with a certain emotion, as men are wont to con- 
 template, after a long absence, the places familiar to their 
 youth. Above the scattered growth the ancient church 
 of Los Jeronimos, with its gothic masonry, outlined 
 against the blue sky its twin towers and ruined arcades. 
 
 i 
 
TRIUMPHANT 
 
 The -wfritfy foliage- cf % *f fie -Retire served as a background 
 for the white mass of the Cason. Renovales thought of 
 the frescos of Giordano that decorated its ceilings. After- 
 wards, he fixed his attention on a building with red walls 
 and a stone portal, which pretentiously obstructed the 
 space in the foreground, at the edge of the green slope. 
 Bah ! The Academy ! And the artist's sneer included in 
 the same loathing the Academy of Language and the 
 other Academies painting, literature, every manifesta- 
 tion of human thought, dried, smoked, and swathed, with 
 the immortality of a mummy, in the bandages of tradi- 
 tion, rules, and respect for precedent. 
 
 A gust of icy wind shook the skirts of his overcoat, his 
 long beard tinged with gray and his wide felt hat, be- 
 neath the brim of which protruded the heavy locks of 
 his hair, that had excited so much comment in his youth, 
 but which had gradually grown shorter with prudent 
 trimming, as the master rose in the world, winning fame 
 and money. 
 
 Renovales felt cold in the damp valley. It was one of 
 those bright, freezing days that are so frequent in the 
 winter in Madrid. The sun was shining; the sky was 
 blu ; .but from the mountains, covered with snow, came 
 an icy wind, that hardened the ground, making it as 
 brittle as glass. In the corners, where the warmth of the 
 sun did not reach, the morning frost still glistened like 
 a coating of sugar. On the mossy carpet, the sparrows, 
 thin with the privations of winter, trotted back and forth 
 like children, shaking their bedraggled feathers. 
 
 The stairway of the Museo recalled to the master his 
 early youth, when at sixteen he had climbed those steps 
 many a time with his stomach faint from the wretched 
 meal at the boarding-house. How many mornings he had 
 spent in that old building copying Velasquez ! The place 
 brought to his memory his dead hopes, a host of illusions 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 3 
 
 that now made his smile ; recollections of hunger and hu- 
 miliating bargaining to make his first money by the sale 
 of copies. His large, stern face, his brow that filled his 
 pupils and admirers with terror lighted up with a merry 
 smile. He recalled how he used to go into the Museo 
 with halting steps, how he feared to leave the easel, lest 
 people might notice the gaping soles of his boots that 
 left his feet uncovered. 
 
 He passed through the vestibule and opened the first 
 glass door. Instantly the noises of the world outside 
 ceased; the rattling of the carriages in the Prado; the 
 bells of the street-cars, the dull rumble of the carts, the 
 shrill cries of the children who were running about on 
 the slopes. He opened the second door, and his face, 
 swollen by the cold, felt the caress of warm air, buzzing 
 with the vague hum of silence. The footfalls of the 
 visitors reverberated in the manner peculiar to large, un- 
 occupied buildings. The slam of the door, as it closed, 
 resounded like a cannon shot, passing from hall to hall 
 through the heavy curtains. From the gratings of the 
 registers poured the invisible breath of the furnaces. 
 The people, on entering, spoke in a low tone, as if they 
 were in a cathedral; their faces assumed an expression 
 of unnatural seriousness, as though they were intimidated 
 by the thousands of canvases that lined the walls, by 
 the enormous busts that decorated the circle of the 
 rotunda and the middle of the central salon. 
 
 On seeing Renovales, the two door-keepers, in their 
 long frock-coats, started to their feet. They did not 
 know who he was, but he certainly was somebody. They 
 had often seen that face, perhaps in the newspapers, per- 
 haps on match-boxes. It was associated in their minds 
 with the glory of popularity, with the high honors re- 
 served for people of distinction. Presently they recog- 
 nized him. It was so many years since they had seen 
 
a WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 him there! And the two attendants, with their caps 
 covered with gold-braid in their hands and with an 
 obsequious smile, came forward towards the great artist. 
 
 "Good morning, Don Mariano. Did Senor de Renovales 
 wish something? Did he want them to call the cura- 
 tor ?" They spoke with oily obsequiousness, with the con- 
 fusion of courtiers who see a foreign sovereign suddenly 
 enter their palace, recognizing him through his disguise. 
 
 Renovales rid himself of them with a brusque gesture 
 and cast a glance over the large decorative canvases of 
 the rotunda, that recalled the wars of the I7th century; 
 generals with bristling mustaches and plumed slouch-hat, 
 directing the battle with a short baton, as though they 
 were directing an orchestra, troops of arquebusiers dis- 
 appearing downhill with banners of red and blue crosses 
 at their front, forests of pikes rising from the smoke, 
 green meadows of Flanders in the backgrounds thun- 
 dering, fruitless combats that were almost the last gasps 
 of a Spain of European influence. He lifted a heavy 
 curtain and entered the spacious salon, where the people 
 at the other end looked like little wax figures under the 
 dull illumination of the skylights. 
 
 The artist continued straight ahead, scarcely noticing 
 the pictures, old acquaintances that could tell him nothing 
 new. His eyes sought the people without, however, find- 
 ing in them any greater novelty. It seemed as though 
 they formed a part of the building and had not moved 
 from it in many years; good-natured fathers with a 
 group of children before their knees, explaining the 
 meaning of the pictures ; a school teacher, with her well- 
 behaved and silent pupils who, in obedience to the com- 
 mand of their superior, passed without stopping before 
 the lightly clad saints; a gentleman with two priests, 
 talking loudly, to show that he was intelligent and almost 
 at home there; several foreign ladies with their veils 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 5 
 
 caught up over their straw hats and their coats on their 
 arms, consulting the catalogue, all with a sort of family 
 air, with identical expressions of admiration and curios- 
 ity, until Reno vales wondered if they were the same 
 ones he had seen there years before, the last time he was 
 there. 
 
 As he parsed, he greeted the great masters mentally; 
 on one side the holy figures of El Greco, with their 
 greenish or bluish spirituality, slender and undulating; 
 beyond, the wrinkled, black heads of Ribera, with fero- 
 cious expressions of torture and pain marvelous artists, 
 whom Renovales admired, while determined not to imi- 
 tate them. Afterwards, between the railing that protects 
 the pictures and the line of busts, show-cases and marble 
 tables supported by gilded lions, he came upon the easels 
 of several copyists. They were boys from the School of 
 Fine Arts, or poverty-stricken young ladies with run- 
 down heels and dilapidated hats, who were copying 
 Murillos. They were tracing on the canvas the blue of 
 the Virgin's robe or the plump flesh of the curly-haired 
 boys that played with the Divine Lamb. Their copies 
 were commissions from pious people ; a genre that found 
 an easy sale among the benefactors of convents and ora- 
 tories. The smoke of the candles, the wear of years, 
 the blindness of devotion would dim the colors, and some 
 day the eyes of the worshipers, weeping in supplication, 
 would see the celestial figures move with mysterious life 
 on their blackened background, as they implored from 
 them wondrous miracles. 
 
 The master made his way toward the Hall of Velas- 
 quez. It was there that his friend Tekli was working. 
 His visit to the Museo had no other object than to see 
 the copy that the Hungarian painter was making of the 
 picture of Las Meninas. 
 
 The day before, when the foreigner was announced in 
 
6 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 his studio, he had remained perplexed for a long while, 
 looking at the name on the card. Tekli! And then all 
 at once he remembered a friend of twenty years before, 
 when he lived in Rome ; a good-natured Hungarian, who 
 admired him sincerely and who made up for his lack of 
 genius with a silent persistency in his work, like a beast 
 of burden. 
 
 Renovales was glad to see his little blue eyes, hidden 
 under his thin, silky eyebrows, his jaw, protruding like 
 a shovel, a feature that made him look very much like the 
 Austrian monarchs his tall frame that bent forward 
 under the impulse of excitement, while he stretched out 
 his bony arms, long as tentacles, and greeted him in 
 Italian : 
 
 "Oh, maestro, oaro maestro!" 
 
 He had taken refuge in a professorship, like all artists 
 who lack the power to continue the upward climb, who 
 fall in the rut. Renovales recognized the artist-official 
 in his spotless suit, dark and proper, in his dignified 
 glance that rested from time to time on his shining boots 
 that seemed to reflect the whole studio. He even wore 
 on one lapel of his coat the variegated button of some 
 mysterious decoration. The felt hat, white as meringue, 
 which he held in his hand, was the only discordant feature 
 in this general effect of a public functionary. Renovales 
 caught his hands with sincere enthusiasm. The famous 
 Tekli ! How glad he was to see him ! What times they 
 used to have in Rome ! And with a smile of kindly su- 
 periority he listened to the story of his success. He 
 was a professor in Budapest; every year he saved money 
 in order to go and study in some celebrated European 
 museum. At last he had succeeded in coming to Spain, 
 fulfilling the desire he had cherished for many years. 
 
 "Oh, Velasquez! uel maestro, caro Mariano!" 
 
 And throwing back his head, with a dreamy expression 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 7 
 
 in his eyes, he moved his protruding jaw covered with 
 reddish hair, with a voluptuous look, as though he were 
 sipping a glass of his sweet native Tokay. 
 
 He had been in Madrid for a month, working every 
 morning in the Museo. His copy of Las Meninas was 
 almost finished. He had not been to see his "Dear 
 Mariano" sooner because he wanted to show him this 
 work. Would he come and see him some morning in the 
 Museo? Would he give him this proof of his friend- 
 ship? Renovales tried to decline. What did he care 
 for a copy ? But there was an expression of such humble 
 supplication in the Hungarian's little eyes, he showered 
 him with so many praises of his great triumphs, expa- 
 tiating on the success that his picture Man Overboard! 
 had won at the last Budapest Exhibition, that the master 
 promised to go to the Museo. 
 
 And a few days later, one morning when a gentle- 
 man whose portrait he was painting canceled his ap- 
 pointment, Renovales remembered his promise and went 
 to the Museo del Prado, feeling, as he entered, the same 
 sensation of insignificance and homesickness that a man 
 suffers on returning to the university where he has 
 passed his youth. 
 
 When he found himself in the Hall of Velasquez, he 
 suddenly felt seized with religious respect. There was 
 a painter! The painter! All his irreverent theories of 
 hatred for the dead were left outside the door. The 
 charm of those canvases that he had not seen for many 
 years rose again fresh, powerful, irresistible; it over- 
 whelmed him, awakening his remorse. For a long time 
 he remained motionless, turning his eyes from one pic- 
 ture to another, eager to comprise in one glance the 
 whole work of the immortal, while around him the hum 
 of curiosity began again. 
 
 "Renovales! That's Renovales!" 
 
8 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 The news had started from the door, spreading through 
 the whole Museo, reaching the Hall of Velasquez behind 
 his steps. The groups of curious people stopped gazing 
 at the pictures to look at that huge, self-possessed man 
 who did not seem to realize the curiosity that surrounded 
 him. The ladies, as they went from canvas to canvas, 
 looked out of the corner of their eyes at the celebrated 
 artist whose portrait they had seen so often. They found 
 him more ugly, more commonplace than he appeared in 
 the engravings in the papers. It did not seem possible 
 that that "porter" had talent and painted women so well. 
 Some young fellows approached to look at him more 
 closely, pretending to gaze at the same pictures as the 
 master. They scrutinized him, noting his external pecu- 
 liarities with that desire for enthusiastic imitation which 
 marks the novice. Some determined to copy his soft 
 bow-tie and his tangled hair, with the fantastic hope that 
 this would give them a new spirit for painting. Others 
 complained to themselves that they were beardless and 
 could not display the curly gray whiskers of the famous 
 master. 
 
 He, with his keen sensitiveness to praise, was not long 
 in observing the atmosphere of curiosity that surrounded 
 him. The young copyists seemed to stick closer to their 
 easels, knitted their brows, dilated their nostrils, and 
 moved their brushes slowly, with hesitation, knowing 
 that he was behind them, trembling at every step that 
 sounded on the inlaid floor, full of fear and desire that 
 he might deign to cast a glance over their shoulders. He 
 divined with a sort of pride what all the mouths were 
 whispering, what all the eyes were saying, fixed absent- 
 mindedly on the canvases only to turn toward him. 
 
 "It's Renovales the painter Renovales." 
 
 The master looked for a long while at one of the 
 copyists an old man, decrepit and almost blind, with 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 9 
 
 heavy convex spectacles that gave him the appearance of 
 a sea-monster, whose hands trembled with senile un- 
 steadiness. Renovales recognized him. Twenty years 
 before, when he used to study in the Museo, he had seen 
 him in the same spot, always copying Los Borrachos. 
 Even if he should become completely blind, if the picture 
 should be lost, he could reproduce it by feeling. In those 
 days they had often talked together, but the poor man 
 could not have the remotest suspicion that the Renovales 
 whom people talked so much about was the same lad 
 who on more than one occasion had borrowed a brush 
 from him, but whose memory was scarcely preserved in 
 his mind, mummified by eternal imitation. 
 
 Renovales thought of the kindness of the chummy 
 Bacchus and the gang of ruffians of his court, who for 
 half a century had been supporting the household of the 
 copyist, and he fancied he could see the old wife, the 
 married children, the grandchildren a whole family 
 supported by the old man's trembling hand. 
 
 Some one whispered to him the news that was filling 
 the Museo with excitement and the copyist, shrugging his 
 shoulders disdainfully, raised his moribund glance from 
 his work. 
 
 And so Renovales was there, the famous Renovales! 
 At last he was going to see the prodigy! 
 
 The master saw those grotesque eyes like those of a 
 sea-monster, fixed on him, with an ironical gleam behind 
 the heavy lenses. The grafter! He had already heard 
 of that studio, as splendid as a palace, behind the Retiro. 
 What Renovales had in such plenty had been taken from 
 men like him who, for want of influence, had been left 
 behind. He charged thousands of dollars for a canvas, 
 when Velasquez worked for three pesetas a day and 
 Goya painted his portraits for a couple of doubloons. 
 Deceit, modernism, the audacity of the younger genera- 
 
10 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 tion that lacked scruples, the ignorance of the simpletons 
 that believe the newspapers! The only good thing was 
 right there before him. And once more shrugging his 
 shoulders scornfully, he lost his expression of ironical 
 protest and returned to his thousandth copy of Los Bor- 
 rachos. 
 
 Renovales, seeing that the curiosity about him was 
 diminishing, entered the little hall that contained the 
 picture of Las Meninas. There was Tekli in front of 
 the famous canvas that occupies the whole back of the 
 room, seated before his easel, with his white hat pushed 
 back to leave free his throbbing brow that was contracted 
 with a tenacious insistence on accuracy. 
 
 Seeing Renovales, he rose hastily, leaving his palette 
 on the piece of oil-cloth that protected the floor from 
 spots of paint. Dear master ! How thankful he was to 
 him for this visit! And he showed him the copy, 
 minutely accurate but without the wonderful atmosphere, 
 without the miraculous realism of the original. Reno- 
 vales approved with a nod; he admired the patient toil 
 of that gentle ox of art, whose furrows were always alike, 
 of geometric precision, without the slightest negligence 
 or the least attempt at originality. 
 
 "Ti place?'' he asked anxiously, looking into his eyes 
 to divine his thoughts. ff E vero? vero?" he repeated 
 with the uncertainty of a child who fears that he is being 
 deceived. 
 
 And suddenly calmed by the evidences of Renovales' 
 approval, that kept growing more extravagant to conceal 
 his indifference, the Hungarian grasped both of his hands 
 and lifted them to his breast. 
 
 "Sono contento, maestro, sono contento." 
 
 He did not want to let Renovales go. Since he had 
 had the generosity to come and see his work, he could 
 not let him go away, they would lunch together at the 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 11 
 
 hotel where he lived. They would open a bottle of 
 Chianti to recall their life in Rome ; they would talk of 
 the merry Bohemian days of their youth, of those com- 
 rades of various nationalities that used to gather in the 
 Cafe del Greco, some already dead, the rest scattered 
 through Europe and America, a few celebrated, the ma- 
 jority vegetating in the schools of their native land, 
 dreaming of a final masterpiece before which death 
 would probably overtake them. 
 
 Renovales felt overcome by the insistence of the Hun- 
 garian, who seized his hands with a dramatic expression, 
 as though he would die at a refusal. Good for the 
 Chianti! They would lunch together, and while Tekli 
 was giving a few touches to his work, he would wait for 
 him, wandering through the Museo, renewing old mem- 
 ories. 
 
 When he returned to the Hall of Velasquez, the assem- 
 blage had diminished; only the copyists remained bend- 
 ing over their canvases. The painter felt anew the in- 
 fluence of the great master. He admired his wonderful 
 art, feeling at the same time the intense, historical sad- 
 ness that seemed to emanate from all of his work. Poor 
 Don Diego ! He was born in the most melancholy period 
 of Spanish history. His sane realism was fitted to im- 
 mortalize the human form in all its naked beauty and 
 fate had provided him a period when women looked like 
 turtles, with their heads and shoulders peeping out be- 
 tween the double shell of their inflated gowns, and when 
 men had a sacerdotal stiffness, raising their dark, ill- 
 washed heads above their gloomy garb. He had painted 
 what he saw; fear and hypocrisy were reflected in the 
 eyes of that world. In the jesters, fools and humpbacks 
 immortalized by Don Diego was revealed the forced 
 merriment of a dying nation that must needs find distrac- 
 tion in the monstrous and absurd. The hypochondriac 
 
12 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 temper of a monarchy weak in body and fettered in spirit 
 by the terrors of hell, lived in all those masterpieces, that 
 inspired at once admiration and sadness. Alas for the 
 artistic treasures wasted in immortalizing a period which 
 without Velasquez would have fallen into utter oblivion ! 
 
 Renovales thought, too, of the man, comparing with a 
 feeling of remorse the great painter's life with the 
 princely existence of the modern masters. Ah, the mu- 
 nificence of kings, their protection of artists, that people 
 talked about in their enthusiasm for the past! He 
 thought of the peaceful Don Diego and his salary of three 
 pesetas as court painter, which he received only at rare 
 intervals; of his glorious name figuring among those of 
 jesters and barbers in the list of members of the king's 
 household, forced to accept the office of appraiser of 
 masonry to improve his situation, of the shame and 
 humiliation of his last years in order to gain the Cross of 
 Santiago, denying as a crime before the tribunal of the 
 Orders that he had received money for his pictures, de- 
 claring with servile pride his position as servant of the 
 king, as though this title were superior to the glory of an 
 artist. Happy days of the present, blessed revolution 
 of modern life, that dignifies the artist, and places him 
 under the protection of the public, an impersonal sov- 
 ereign that leaves the creator of beauty free and ends by 
 even following him in new-created paths! 
 
 Renovales went up to the central gallery in search of 
 another of his favorites. The works of Goya filled a large 
 space on both walls. On one side the portraits of the 
 kings and queens of the Bourbon decadence; heads of 
 monarchs, or princes, crushed under their white wigs ; 
 sharp feminine eyes, bloodless faces, with their hair 
 combed in the form of a tower. The two great painters 
 had coincided in their lives with the moral downfall of 
 two dynasties. In the Hall of Velasquez the thin, bony, 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 13 
 
 fair-haired kings, of monastic grace and anaemic pallor, 
 with their protruding under- jaws, and in their eyes an 
 expression of doubt and fear for the salvation of their 
 souls. Here, the corpulent, clumsy monarchs, with their 
 huge, heavy noses, fate fully pendulous, as though by 
 some mysterious relation they were dragging on the 
 brain, paralyzing its functions; their thick underlips, 
 hanging in sensual inertia; their eyes, calm as those of 
 cattle, reflecting in their tranquil light indifference for 
 everything that did not directly concern their own well- 
 being. The Austrians, nervous, restless, vacillating with 
 the fever of insanity, riding on theatrical chargers, in 
 dark landscapes, bounded by the snowy crests of the 
 Guadarrama, as sad, cold and crystallized as the soul of 
 the nation ; the Bourbons, peaceful, adipose, resting sur- 
 feited on their huge calves, without any other thought 
 than the hunt of the following day or the domestic in- 
 trigue that would set the family in dissension, deaf to 
 the storms that thundered beyond the Pyrenees. The 
 one, surrounded by brutal-faced imbeciles, by gloomy pet- 
 tifoggers, by Infantas with childish faces and the hollow 
 skirts of a Virgin's image on an altar; the others bringing 
 as a merry, unconcerned retinue, a rabble clad in bright 
 colors, wrapped in scarlet capes or lace mantillas, 
 crowned with ornamental combs or masculine hats a 
 race that, without knowing it, was sapping its heroism in 
 picnics at the Canal or in grotesque amusements. The 
 lash of invasion aroused them from their century-long 
 infancy. The same great artist that for many years had 
 portrayed the simple thoughtlessness of this gay people, 
 showy and light-hearted as a comic-opera chorus, after- 
 wards painted them, knife in hand, attacking the Mame- 
 lukes with the agility of monkeys, felling those Egyptian 
 centaurs under their slashes, blackened with the smofce 
 of a hundred battles, or dying with theatrical pride by 
 
[14 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 the light of a lantern in the gloomy solitude of Moncloa, 
 shot by the invaders. 
 
 Reno vales admired the tragic atmosphere of the can- 
 vas before him. The executioners hid their faces, lean- 
 ing on their guns; they were the blind executors of fate, 
 a nameless force, and before them rose the pile of palpi- 
 tating, bloody flesh; the dead with strips of flesh torn 
 off by the bullets, showing reddish holes, the living with 
 folded arms, defying the murderers in a tongue they 
 could not understand, or covering their faces with their 
 hands, as though this instinctive movement could save 
 them from the lead. A whole people died, to be born 
 again. And beside this picture of horror and heroism, 
 in another close to it, he saw Palafox, the Leonidas of 
 Saragossa, mounted on horseback, with his stylish whis- 
 kers and the arrogance of a blacksmith in a captain-gen- 
 eral's uniform, having in his bearing something of the 
 appearance of a popular chieftain, holding in one hand, 
 gloved in buckskin, the curved saber, and in the other the 
 reins of his stocky, big-bellied steed. 
 
 Renovales thought that art is like light, which acquires 
 color and brightness from the objects it touches. Goya 
 had passed through a stormy period ; he had been a spec- 
 tator of the resurrection of the soul of the people and 
 his painting contained the tumultuous life, the heroic 
 fury that you look for in vain in the canvases of that 
 other genius, tied as he was to the monotonous existence 
 of the palace, unbroken except by the news of distant 
 wars in which they had little interest and whose victories, 
 too late to be useful, had the coldness of doubt. 
 
 The painter turned away from the dames of Goya, clad 
 in white cambric, with their rosebud mouths and with 
 their hair done up like a turban, to concentrate his atten- 
 tion on a nude figure, the luminous gleam of whose flesh 
 seemed to throw the adjacent canvases in a shadow. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 15 
 
 He contemplated it closely for a long time, bending over 
 the railing till the brim of his hat almost touched the 
 canvas. Then he gradually moved away, without ceasing 
 to look at it, until, at last, he sat down on a bench, still 
 facing the picture with his eyes fixed upon it. 
 
 "Goya's Maja. The Maja Desnuda!" 
 
 He spoke aloud, without realizing it, as if his words 
 were the inevitable outburst of the thoughts that rushed 
 into his mind and seemed to pass back and forth behind 
 the lenses of his eyes. His expressions of admiration 
 were in different tones, marking a descending scale of 
 memories. 
 
 The painter looked with delight at the gracefully deli- 
 cate form, luminous, as though within it burned the 
 flame of life, showing through the pearl-pale flesh. A 
 shadow, scarcely perceptible, veiled in mystery of her 
 femininity ; the light traced a bright spot on her smoothly 
 rounded knees and once more the shadow reached down 
 to her tiny feet with their delicate toes, rosy and babyish. 
 
 The woman was small, graceful, and dainty; the 
 Spanish Venus with no more flesh than was necessary to 
 cover her supple, shapely frame with softly curving out- 
 lines. Her amber eyes that flashed slyly, were discon- 
 certing with their gaze; her mouth had in its graceful 
 corners the fleeting touch of an eternal smile; on her 
 cheeks, elbows and feet the pink tone showed the trans- 
 parency and the moist brilliancy of those shells that open 
 their mysterious colors in the secret depths of the sea. 
 
 "Goya's Maja. The Maja Desnuda!" 
 
 He no longer said these words aloud, but his thought 
 and his expression repeated them, his smile was their 
 echo. 
 
 Renovales was not alone. From time to time groups 
 of visitors passed back and forth between his eyes and 
 the picture, talking loudly. The tread of heavy feet 
 
16 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 shook the wooden floor. It was noon and the bricklayers 
 from nearby buildings were taking advantage of the 
 noon hour to explore those salons as if it were a new 
 world, delighting in the warm air of the furnaces. As 
 they went, they left footprints of plaster on the floor; 
 they called out to each other to share their admiration 
 before a picture ; they were impatient to take it all in at 
 a single glance; they waxed enthusiastic over the war- 
 riors in their shining armor or the elaborate uniforms of 
 olden times. The cleverest among them served as guides 
 to their companions, driving them impatiently. They 
 had been there the day before. Go ahead! There was 
 still a lot to see! And they ran toward the inner halls 
 with the breathless curiosity of men who tread on new 
 ground and expect something marvelous to rise before 
 their steps. 
 
 Amid this rush of simple admirers there passed, too, 
 some groups of Spanish ladies. All did the same thing 
 before Goya's work, as if they had been previously 
 coached. They went from picture to picture, comment- 
 ing on the fashions of the past, feeling a sort of longing 
 for the curious old crinolines and the broad mantillas 
 with the high combs. Suddenly they became serious, 
 drew their lips together and started at a quick pace for 
 the end of the gallery. Instinct warned them. Their 
 restless eyes felt hurt by the nude in the distance; they 
 seemed to scent the famous Maja before they saw her 
 and they kept on erect, with severe countenances, just 
 as if they were annoyed by some rude fellow's advances 
 in the street passing in front of the picture without 
 turning their faces, without seeing even the adjacent 
 pictures nor stopping till they reached the Hall of 
 Murillo. 
 
 It was the hatred for the nude, the Christian, century- 
 old abomination of Nature and truth, that rose instinc- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 17 
 
 lively to protest against the toleration of such horrors in 
 a public building which was peopled with saints, kings and 
 ascetics. 
 
 Renovales worshiped the canvas with ardent devotion, 
 and placed it in a class by itself. It was the first mani- 
 festation in Spanish history of art that was free from 
 scruples, unhampered by prejudice. Three centuries of 
 painting, several generations of glorious names, suc- 
 ceeded one another with wonderful fertility; but not 
 until Goya had the Spanish brush dared to trace the 
 form of a woman's body, the divine nakedness that 
 among all peoples has been the first inspiration of nascent 
 art. Renovales remembered another nude, the Venus of 
 Velasquez, preserved abroad. But that work had not 
 been spontaneous; it was a commission of the monarch 
 who, at the same time that he was paying foreigners 
 lavishly for their studies in the nude, wished to have a 
 similar canvas by his court-painter. 
 
 Religious oppression had obscured art for centuries. 
 Human beauty terrified the great artists, who painted 
 with a cross on their breasts and a rosary on their sword- 
 hilts. Bodies were hidden under the stiff, heavy folds 
 of sackcloth or the grotesque, courtly crinoline, and the 
 painter never ventured to guess what was beneath them, 
 looking at the model, as the devout worshiper contem- 
 plates the hollow mantle of the Virgin, not knowing 
 whether it contains a body or three sticks to hold up the 
 head. The joy of life was a sin. In vain a sun fairer 
 than that of Venice shone on Spanish soil, futile was the 
 light that burned upon the land with a brighter glow than 
 that of Flanders: Spanish art was dark, lifeless, sober, 
 even after it knew the works of Titian. The Renais- 
 sance, that in the rest of the world worshiped the nude 
 as the supreme work of Nature, was covered here with 
 the monk's cowl or the beggar's rags. The shining land- 
 
18 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 scapes were dark and gloomy when they reached the 
 canvas; under the brush the land of the sun appeared 
 with a gray sky and grass that was a mournful green; 
 the heads had a monkish gravity. The artist placed in 
 his pictures not what surrounded him, but what he had 
 within him, a piece of his soul and his soul was fettered 
 by the fear of dangers in the present life and torments in 
 the life to come ; it was black black with sadness, as if 
 it were dyed in the soot of the fires of the autos-de-fe. 
 
 That naked woman with her curly head resting on her 
 folded arms was the awakening of an art that had lived 
 in isolation. The slight frame, that scarcely rested on 
 the green divan and the fine lace cushions, seemed on the 
 point of rising in the air with the mighty impulse of 
 resurrection. 
 
 Renovales thought of the two masters, equally great, 
 and still so different. One had the imposing majesty 
 of famous monuments serene, correct, cold, filling the 
 horizon of history with their colossal mass, growing old 
 in glory without the centuries opening the least crack in 
 their marble walls. On all sides the same fagade noble, 
 symmetrical, calm, without the vagaries of caprice. It 
 was reason solid, well-balanced, alien to enthusiasm and 
 weakness, without feverish haste. The other was as 
 great as a mountain, with the fantastic disorder of 
 Nature, covered with tortuous inequalities. On one side 
 the wild, barren cliff; beyond, the glen, covered with 
 blossoming heath; below, the garden with its perfumes 
 and birds; on the heights, the crown of dark clouds, 
 heavy with thunder and lightning. It was imagination 
 in unbridled career, with breathless halts and new flights 
 its brow in the infinite and its feet implanted on earth. 
 
 The life of Don Diego was summed up in these words : 
 "He had painted/' That was his whole biography. 
 Never in his travels in Spain and Italy did he feel curious 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 19 
 
 to see anything but pictures. In the court of the Poet- 
 king, he had vegetated amid gallantries and masquerades, 
 calm as a monk of painting, always standing before his 
 canvas and model to-day a jester, to-morrow a little 
 Infanta without any other desire than to rise in rank 
 among the members of the royal household, to see a 
 cross of red cloth sewed on his black jerkin. He was a 
 lofty soul, enclosed in a phlegmatic body that never tor- 
 mented him with nervous desires nor disturbed the calm, 
 of his work with violent passions. When he died the 
 good Dona Juana, his wife, died too, as though they 
 sought each other, unable to remain apart after their 
 long, uneventful pilgrimage through the world. 
 
 Goya "had lived." His life was that of the nobleman- 
 artist a stormy novel, full of mysterious amours. His 
 pupils, on parting the curtains of his studio, saw the silk 
 of royal skirts on their master's knees. The dainty 
 duchesses of the period resorted to that robust Aragonese 
 of rough, manly gallantry to have him paint their cheeks, 
 laughing like mad at these intimate touches. When he 
 contemplated some divine beauty on the tumbled bed, he 
 transferred her form to the canvas by an irresistible 
 impulse, an imperious necessity of reproducing beauty; 
 and the legend that floated about the Spanish artist con- 
 nected an illustrious name with all the beauties whom his 
 brush immortalized. 
 
 To paint without fear or prejudice, to take delight in 
 reproducing on canvas the glory of the nude, the lus- 
 trous amber of woman's flesh with its pale roses like a 
 sea-shell, was Renovales' desire and envy ; to live like the 
 famous Don Francisco a free bird with restless, shining 
 plumage in the midst of the monotony of the human 
 barn-yard ; in his passions, in his diversions, in his tastes, 
 to be different from the majority of men, since he was 
 
20 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 already different from them in his way of appreciating 
 life. 
 
 But, ah ! his existence was like that of Don Diego un- 
 broken, monotonous, laid out by level in a straight line. 
 He painted, but he did not live. People praised his 
 work for the accuracy with which he reproduced Nature, 
 for the gleam of light, for the indefinable color of the 
 atmosphere, and the exterior of things; but something 
 was lacking, something that stirred within him and 
 fought in vain to leap the vulgar barriers of daily ex- 
 istence. 
 
 The memory of the romantic life of Goya made him 
 think of his own life. People called him a master ; they 
 bought everything he painted at good prices, especially 
 if it was in accordance with some one else's tastes and 
 contrary to his artistic desire; he enjoyed a calm exist- 
 ence, full of comforts ; in his studio, almost as splendid 
 as a palace, the fagade of which was reproduced in the 
 illustrated magazines, he had a wife who was convinced 
 of his genius and a daughter who was almost a woman 
 and who made the troop of his intimate pupils stammer 
 with embarrassment. The only evidences of his Bohe- 
 mian past that remained were his soft felt hats, his long 
 beard, his tangled hair and a certain carelessness in his 
 dress; but when his position as a "national celebrity" 
 demanded it, he took out of his wardrobe a dress suit 
 with the lapel covered with the insignia of honorary 
 orders and played his part in official receptions. He had 
 thousands of dollars in the bank. In his studio, palette 
 in hand, he conferred with his broker, discussing what 
 sort of investments he ought to make with the year's 
 profits. His name awakened no surprise or aversion in 
 high society, where it was fashionable for ladies to have 
 their portraits painted by him. 
 
 In the early days he had provoked scandal and pro- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 21 
 
 tests by his boldness in color and his revolutionary way 
 of seeing Nature, but there was not connected with his 
 name the least offence against the conventions of society. 
 His women were women of the people, picturesque and 
 repugnant ; the only flesh that he had shown on his can- 
 vases was that of a sweaty laborer or the chubby child. 
 He was an honored master, who cultivated his stupen- 
 dous ability with the same calm that he showed in his 
 business affairs. 
 
 What was lacking in his life? Ah! Renovales smiled 
 ironically. His whole life suddenly came to mind in a 
 tumultuous rush of memories. Once more he fixed his 
 glance on that woman, shining white like a pearl amphora, 
 with her arms above her head, her breasts erect and tri- 
 umphant, her eyes resting on him, as if she had known 
 him for many years, and he repeated mentally with an 
 expression of bitterness and dejection: 
 
 "Goya's Maja, the Maja Desnuda!" 
 
II 
 
 As Mariano Renovales recalled the first years of his 
 life, his memory, always sensitive to exterior impres- 
 sions, called up the ceaseless clang of hammers. From 
 the rising of the sun till the earth began to darken with 
 the shadows of twilight the iron sang or groaned on the 
 anvil, jarring the walls of the house and the floor of the 
 garret, where Mariano used to play, lying on the floor 
 at the feet of a pale, sickly woman with serious, deep-set 
 eyes, who frequently dropped her sewing to kiss the little 
 one with sudden violence, as though she feared she would 
 not see him again. 
 
 Those tireless hammers that had accompanied Mari- 
 ano's birth, made him jump out of bed as soon as day 
 broke and go down to the shop to warm himself beside 
 the glowing forge. His father, a good-natured Cyclops 
 hairy and blackened walked back and forth, turning 
 over the irons, picking up files, giving orders to his as- 
 sistants with loud shouts, in order to be heard in the din 
 of the hammering. Two sturdy fellows, stripped to the 
 waist, swung their arms, panting over the anvil, and the 
 iron now red, now golden leaped in bright showers, 
 scattered in crackling sprays, peopling the black atmos- 
 phere of the shop with a swarm of fiery flies that died 
 av/ay in the soot of the corners. 
 
 "Take care, little one !" said the father, protecting his 
 delicate curly-haired head with one of his great hands. 
 
 The little fellow felt attracted by the colors of the 
 glowing iron, till with the thoughtlessness of childhood 
 
 22 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 25 
 
 he sometimes tried to pick up the fragments that glowed 
 on the ground like fallen stars. 
 
 His father would push him out of the shop, and out- 
 side the door black with soot Mariano could see 
 stretching out below him in the flood of sunlight the fields 
 with their red soil cut into geometric figures by stone 
 walls ; at the bottom the valley with groups of poplars 
 bordering the winding, crystal stream, and before him 
 the mountains, covered to the very tops with dark pine 
 woods. The shop was in the suburbs of a town and from 
 it and the villages of the valley came the jobs that sup- 
 ported the blacksmith new axles for carts, plowshares, 
 scythes, shovels, and pitchforks in need of repair. 
 
 The incessant poundmg of the hammers seemed to stir 
 up the little fellow, inspiring him with a fever of activity, 
 tearing him from his childish amusements. When he 
 was eight years old, he used to seize the rope of the bel- 
 lows and pull it, delighting in the shower of sparks that 
 the current of air drove out of the lighted coals. The 
 Cyclops was gratified at the strength of his son, robust 
 and vigorous like all the men of his family, with a pair of 
 fists that inspired a wholesome respect in all the village 
 lads. He was one of his own blood. From his poor 
 mother, weak and sickly, he inherited only his propensity 
 toward silence and isolation that sometimes, when the 
 fever of activity died out in him, kept him for hours at 
 a time watching the fields, the sky or the brooks that 
 came tumbling down over the pebbles to join the stream 
 at the bottom of the valley. 
 
 The boy hated school, showing a holy horror of let- 
 ters. His strong hands shook with uncertainty when he 
 tried to write a word. On the other hand, his father 
 and the other people in the shop admired the ease with 
 which he could reproduce objects in a simple, ingenuous 
 drawing, in which no detail of naturalness was lacking. 
 
24- WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 His pockets were always full of bits of charcoal and he 
 never saw a wall or stone that had a suggestion of 
 whiteness, without at once tracing on it a copy of the 
 objects that struck his eyes because of some marked pecu- 
 liarity. The outside walls of the shop were black with 
 little Mariano's drawings. Along the walls ran the pigs 
 of Saint Anthony, with their puckered snouts and twisted 
 tails, that wandered through the village and were sup- 
 ported by public charity, to be raffled on the festival of 
 the saint. And in the midst of this stout procession stood 
 cut the profiles of the blacksmith and all the workmen 
 of the shop, with an inscription beneath, that no doubt 
 might arise as to their identity. 
 
 "Come here, woman," the blacksmith would shout to 
 his sick wife when he discovered a new sketch. ''Come 
 and see what our son has done. A devil of a boy!" 
 
 And influenced by this enthusiasm, he no longer com- 
 plained when Mariano ran away from school and the 
 bellows rope to spend the whole day running- through 
 the valley or the village, a piece of charcoal in his hand, 
 covering the rocks of the mountain and the house walls 
 with black lines, to the despair of the neighbors. In the 
 tavern in the Plaza Mayor he had traced the heads of 
 the most constant customers, and the innkeeper pointed 
 them out proudly, forbidding anyone to touch the wall 
 for fear the sketches would disappear. This work was 
 a source of vanity to the blacksmith when .Sundays, 
 after mass, he went in to dil.'k a glass with his friends. 
 On the wall of the rectory ht nad traced a Virgin, before 
 which the most pious old women in the village stopped 
 with deep sighs. 
 
 The blacksmith with a flush of satisfaction accepted 
 all the praises that were showered on the little fellow as 
 if they belonged in large part to himself. Where had 
 that prodigy come from, when all the rest of his family 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 25 
 
 were such brutes? And he nodded affirmatively when 
 the village notables spoke of doing something for the boy. 
 To be sure, he did not know what to do, but they were 
 right ; his Mariano was not destined to hammer iron like 
 his father. He might become as great a personage as 
 Don Rafael, a gentleman who painted saints in the capi- 
 tal of the province and was a teacher of painting in a 
 big house, full of pictures, in the city. During the sum- 
 mer he came with his family to live in an estate in the 
 valley. 
 
 This Don Rafael was a man of imposing gravity; a 
 saint with a large family of children, who wore a frock- 
 coat as if it were a cassock and spoke with the suavity 
 of a friar through his white beard that covered his thin,' 
 pink cheeks. In the village church they had a wonderful 
 picture painted by him, a Purisima, whose soft glowing 
 colors made the legs of the pious tremble. Besides, the 
 eyes of the image had the marvelous peculiarity of look- 
 ing straight at those who contemplated it, following them 
 even though they changed position. A veritable miracle. 
 It seemed impossible that that good gentleman who came 
 up every morning in the summer to hear mass in the vil- 
 lage, had painted that supernatural work. An English- 
 man had tried to buy it for its weight in gold. No one 
 had seen the Englishman, but every one smiled sarcas- 
 tically when they commented on the offer. Yes, indeed, 
 they were likely to let the picture go ! Let the heretics 
 rage with all their millions. The Purisima would stay in 
 her chapel to the envy of the whole w r orld and es- 
 pecially of the neighboring villages. 
 
 When the parish priest went to visit Don Rafael to 
 speak to him about the blacksmith's son, the great man 
 already knew about his ability. He had seen his draw- 
 ings in the village; the boy had some talent and it was 
 a pity not to guide him in the right path. After this 
 
26 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 came the visits of the blacksmith and his son, both trem- 
 bling when they found themselves in the attic of the 
 country house that the great painter had converted into 
 a studio, seeing close at hand the pots of color, the oily 
 palette, the brushes and those pale blue canvases on 
 which the rosy, chubby cheeks of the cherubim or the 
 ecstatic face of the Mother of God were beginning to 
 assume form. 
 
 At the end of the summer the good blacksmith de- 
 cided to follow Don Rafael's advice. As long as he was 
 so good as to consent to helping the boy, he was not 
 going to be the one to interfere with his good fortune. 
 The shop gave him enough to live on. All it meant was 
 to work a few years longer, to support himself till the 
 end of his life beside the anvil, without an assistant or 
 a successor. His son was born to be somebody, and it 
 was a serious sin to stop his progress by scorning the 
 help of his good protector. 
 
 His mother, who constantly grew weaker and more 
 sickly, cried as if the journey to the capital of the prov- 
 ince were to the end of the world. 
 
 "Good-by, my boy. I shall never see you again." 
 
 And in truth it was the last time that Mariano saw 
 that pale face with its great expressionless eyes, now 
 almost wiped out of his memory like a whitish spot in 
 which, in spite of all his efforts, he could not succeed in 
 restoring the outline of the features. 
 
 In the city his life was radically different. Then for 
 the first time he understood what it was his hands were 
 striving for as they moved the charcoal over the white- 
 washed walls. Art was revealed to his eyes in those 
 silent afternoons, passed in the. convent where the provin- 
 cial museum was situated, while his master, Don Rafael, 
 argued with other gentlemen in the professor's hall, or 
 signed papers in the secretary's office. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 27 
 
 Mariano lived at his protector's house, at once his 
 servant and his pupil. He carried letters to the dean and 
 the other canons, who were friends of his master and 
 who accompanied him on his walks or spent social eve- 
 nings in his studio. More than once he visited the locu- 
 tories of nunneries, to deliver through the heavy gratings 
 presents from Don Rafael to certain black and white 
 shadows, which attracted by this sturdy young country 
 boy, and aware that he meant to be a painter, over- 
 whelmed him with the eager questions born of their 
 seclusion. Before he went away they would hand him, 
 through the revolving window, cakes and candied lemons 
 or some other goody, and then, with a word of advice, 
 would say good-by in their thin, soft voices, which sifted 
 through the iron of the gratings. 
 
 "Be a good boy, little Mariano. Study, pray. Be a 
 good Christian, the Lord will protect you and perhaps 
 you will get to be as great a painter as Don Rafael, who 
 is one of the first in the world." 
 
 How the master laughed at the memory of the childish 
 simplicity that made him see in his master the most mar- 
 velous painter on earth ! . . . Mornings, when he at- 
 tended the classes in the School of Fine Arts, he grew 
 angry at his comrades, a disrespectful rabble, brought up 
 in the streets, sons of mechanics, who, as soon as the 
 professor turned his back, pelted each other with the 
 crumbs of bread meant to wipe out their drawings, and 
 cursed Don Rafael, calling him a "Christer" and a 
 "Jesuit." 
 
 The afternoon Mariano passed in the studio, at his 
 master's side. How excited he was the first time he 
 placed a palette in his hand and allowed him to copy on 
 an old canvas a child St. John which he had finished for 
 a society ! . . . While the boy with his forehead wrinkled 
 in his eagerness, tried to imitate his master's work, he 
 
28 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 listened to the good advice that the master gave 
 without looking up from the canvas over which his an- 
 gelic brush was running. 
 
 Painting must be religious; the first pictures in the 
 world had been inspired by religion; outside of it, life 
 offered nothing but base materialism, loathsome sins. 
 Painting must be ideal, beautiful. It must always repre- 
 sent pretty subjects, reproduce things as they ought to 
 be, not as they really are, and above all, look up to 
 heaven, since there is true life, not on this earth, a valley 
 of tears. Mariano must modify his instincts that was 
 his master's advice must lose his fondness for draw- 
 ing coarse subjects people as he saw them, animals in 
 all their material brutality, landscapes in the same form 
 as his eyes gazed upon. 
 
 He must have idealism. Many painters were almost 
 saints ; only thus could they reflect celestial beauty in the 
 faces of their madonnas. And poor Mariano strove to 
 be ideal, to catch a little of that beatific serenity which 
 surrounded his master. 
 
 Little by little he came to understand the methods 
 which Don Rafael employed to create these masterpieces 
 which called forth cries of admiration from his circle of 
 canons and the rich ladies that gave him commissions 
 for pictures. When he intended to begin one of his 
 Purisimas, which were slowly invading the churches and 
 convents of the province, he arose early and returned to 
 his studio after mass and communion. In this way he 
 felt an inner strength, a calm enthusiasm, and, if he felt 
 depressed in the midst of the work, he once more had 
 recourse to this inspiring medicine. 
 
 The artist, besides, must be pure. He had taken a vow 
 of chastity after he had reached the age of fifty, some- 
 what late to be sure, but it was not because he had not 
 known before this certain means of reaching the per- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 29 
 
 feet idealism of a celestial painter. His wife, who had 
 grown old in her countless confinements, exhausted by 
 the tiresome fidelity and virtue of the master, was no 
 longer anything but the companion who gave the re- 
 sponses when he prayed his rosaries and Trisagia at 
 night. He had several daughters, who weighed on his 
 conscience like the reproachful memory of a disgraceful 
 materialism, but some were already nuns and the others 
 were on the way, while the idealism of the artist in- 
 creased as these evidences of his impurity disappeared 
 from the house and went to hide away in a convent where 
 they upheld the artistic prestige of their father. 
 
 Sometimes the great painter hesitated before a 
 Purisima, which was always the same, as if he painted it 
 with a stencil. Then he spoke mysteriously to his dis- 
 ciple : 
 
 "Mariano, tell the gentlemen not to come to-morrow. 
 We have a model." 
 
 And when the studio was closed to the priests and 
 the other respectable friends, with heavy step in came 
 Rodriguez, a policeman, with a cigarette stub under his 
 heavy bristling mustache and one hand on the handle of 
 his sword. Dismissed from the gendarmerie for intoxi- 
 cation and cruelty, and finding himself without employ- 
 ment, by some strange chance he began to devote himself 
 to serving as a painter's model. The pious artist, who 
 held him in a sort of terror, nagged by his constant pe- 
 titions, had secured for him this position as policeman, 
 and Rodriguez took advantage of every opportunity to 
 show his rough appreciation, slapping the master's shoul- 
 ders with his great hands and blowing in his face, his 
 breath redolent with nicotine and alcohol. 
 
 "Don Rafael, you are my father. If anybody touches 
 you, I'll fix him, whoever he is." 
 
 And the ascetic artist, with a feeling of satisfaction at 
 
SO WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 this protection, blushed and waved his hands in protest 
 against the frankness of the rude fellow with his threats 
 for the men he would "fix." 
 
 He threw his helmet on the ground, handed his heavy 
 sword to Mariano, and like a man that knows his duty, 
 took out of the bottom of a chest a white woolen tunic 
 and a piece of blue cloth like a cloak, placing both gar- 
 ments on his body with the skill of practice. 
 
 Mariano looked at him with astonished eyes but with- 
 out any temptation to laugh. They were mysteries of art, 
 surprises that were reserved only for those who, like 
 him, had the good fortune to live on terms of intimacy 
 with the great master. 
 
 "Ready, Rodriguez?" Don Rafael asked impatiently. 
 
 And Rodriguez, erect in his bath robe with the blue 
 rag hanging from his shoulders, clasped his hands and 
 lifted his fierce gaze to the ceiling, without ceasing to 
 suck the stub that singed his mustache. The master did 
 not need the model except for the robes of the figure, to 
 study the folds of the celestial garment, which must not 
 reveal the slightest evidence of human contour. The pos- 
 sibility of copying a woman had never passed through his 
 imagination. That was falling into materialism, glorify- 
 ing the flesh, inviting temptation; Rodriguez was all he 
 needed ; one must be an idealist. 
 
 The model continued in his mystic attitude with his 
 body lost in the innumerable folds of his blue and white 
 raiment, while under it the square toes of his army boots 
 stuck out, and he held up his grotesque, flat head, crowned 
 with bristling hair, coughing and choking from the smoke 
 of the cigar, without ceasing to look up and without sepa- 
 rating his hands clasped in an attitude of worship. 
 
 Sometimes, tired out by the industrious silence of the 
 master and the pupil, Rodriguez uttered a few grumbles 
 that little by little took the form of words and finally de- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 31 
 
 veloped into the story of the deeds of his heroic period, 
 when he was a rural policeman and "could take a shot 
 at anyone and pay for it afterward with a report." 
 The Purisima grew excited at these memories. His 
 hands separated with a tremble of murderous joy, the 
 carefully arranged folds were disturbed, his bloodshot 
 eyes no longer looked heavenward, and with a hoarse 
 voice he told of tremendous beatings he administered, of 
 men who fell to the ground writhing with pain, the shoot- 
 ing of prisoners which afterwards were reported as at- 
 tempts to escape ; and to give greater relief to this auto- 
 biography which he declaimed with bestial pride, he 
 sprinkled his words with interjections as vulgar as they 
 were lacking in respect for the first personages of the 
 heavenly court. 
 
 "Rodriguez, Rodriguez!" exclaimed the master, hor- 
 ror-stricken. 
 
 "At your command, Don Rafael." 
 
 And the Purisima, after passing the stub from one side 
 of his mouth to the other, once more folded his hands, 
 straightened up, showing his red-striped trousers under 
 the tunic, and lost his gaze on high, smiling with ecstasy, 
 as if he contemplated on the ceiling all his heroic deeds 
 of which he felt so proud. 
 
 Mariano was in despair before his canvas. He could 
 never imitate his illustrious master. He was incapable 
 of painting anything but what he saw, and his brush, 
 after reproducing the blue and white raiment, stopped, 
 hesitating at the face, calling in vain on imagination. 
 After futile efforts it was the grotesque mask of Rodri- 
 guez that appeared on the canvas. 
 
 And the pupil had a sincere admiration for the ability 
 of Don Rafael, for that pale head veiled in the light of 
 its halo, a pretty, expressionless face of childish beauty, 
 
32 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 which took the place of the policeman's fierce head in the 
 picture. 
 
 This sleight-of-hand seemed to the boy the most as- 
 tounding evidence of art. When would he reach the easy 
 prestidigitation of his master! 
 
 With time the difference between Don Rafael and his 
 pupil became more marked. At school his comrades 
 gathered around him, recognizing his superiority and 
 praising his drawings. Some professors, enemies of his 
 master, lamented that such talent should be lost beside 
 that "saint-painter." Don Rafael was surprised at what 
 Mariano did outside of his studio figures and land- 
 scapes, directly observed which, according to him, 
 breathed the brutality of life. 
 
 His Ci/:le of serious gentlemen began to discover some 
 merit in the pupil. 
 
 "He will never reach your height, Don Rafael," they 
 said. "He lacks unction, he has no idealism, he will 
 never paint a good Virgin but as a worldly painter he 
 has a future." 
 
 The master, who loved the boy for his submissive 
 nature and the purity of his habits, tried in vain to make 
 him follow the right way. If he would only imitate him, 
 his fortune was made. He would die without a succes- 
 sor and his studio and his fame would be his. The boy 
 only had to see how, little by little, like a good ant of 
 the Lord, the master had gathered together a fair sized 
 future with his brush. By virtue of his idealism, he had 
 his country house there in the village, and no end of 
 estates, the tenants of which came and visited him in 
 his studio, carrying on endless discussions over the pay- 
 ment and amount of the rents in front of the poetic 
 Virgins. The Church was poor because of the impiety 
 of the times, it could not pay as generously as in other 
 centuries, but commissions were numerous, and a Virgin 
 

 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 33 
 
 in all her purity was a matter of only three days but 
 young Renovales made a troubled, wry face, as if a 
 painful sacrifice were demanded of him. 
 
 "I can't, Master. I'm an idiot. I don't know how to 
 invent things. I paint only what I see/' 
 
 And when he began to see naked bodies in the so- 
 called "life" class he devoted himself zealously to this 
 study, as if the flesh caused in him the most violent in- 
 toxication. Don Rafael was appalled by finding in the 
 corners of his house sketches that portrayed shameful 
 nudes in all their reality. Besides, the progress of his 
 pupil caused him some uneasiness ; he saw in his painting 
 a vigor that he himself had never had. He even noted 
 some falling-off in his circle of admirers. The good 
 canons, as always, admired his Virgins, but some of them 
 had their portraits painted by Mariano, praising the skill 
 of his brush. 
 
 One day he said to his pupil, firmly : 
 
 "You know that I love you as I would a son, Mariano, 
 but you are wasting your time with me. I cannot teach 
 you anything. Your place is somewhere else. I thought 
 you might go to Madrid. There you will find men of 
 your stamp." 
 
 His mother was dead ; his father was still in the black- 
 smith shop, and when he saw him come home with sev- 
 eral duros, the pay for portraits he had made, he looked 
 on this sum as a fortune. It did not seem possible that 
 anyone would give money in exchange for colors. A 
 letter from Don Rafael convinced him. Since that wise 
 gentleman advised that his son should go to Madrid, he 
 must agree. 
 
 "Go to Madrid, my boy, and try to make money soon, 
 for your father is old and will not always be able to 
 help you." 
 
 At the age of sixteen, Renovales landed in Madrid 
 
34, WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 and finding himself alone, with only his wishes for his 
 guide, devoted himself zealously to his work. He spent 
 the morning in the Museo del Prado, copying all the 
 heads in Velasquez's pictures. He felt that till then he 
 had been blind. Besides, he worked in an attic studio 
 with some other companions and evenings painted water- 
 colors. By selling these and some copies, he managed to 
 eke out the small allowance his father sent him. 
 
 He recalled with a sort of homesickness those years of 
 poverty, of real misery, the cold nights in his wretched 
 bed, the irritating meals Heaven knows what was in 
 them eaten in a bar-room near the Teatro Real ; the dis- 
 cussions in the corner of a cafe, under the hostile glances 
 of the waiters who were provoked that a dozen long- 
 haired youths should occupy several tables and order all 
 together only three coffees and many bottles of water. 
 
 The light-hearted young fellows stood their misery 
 without difficulty and, to make up for it, what a fill of 
 fancies they had, what a glorious feast of hopes! A 
 new discovery every day. Renovales ran through the 
 realm of art like a wild colt, seeing new horizons spread- 
 ing out before him, and his career caused an outburst of 
 scandal that amounted to premature celebrity. The old 
 men said that he was the only boy who "had the stuff 
 in him" ; his comrades declared that he was a "real 
 painter," and in their iconoclastic enthusiasm compared 
 his inexperienced works with those of the recognized 
 old masters ''poor humdrum artists" on whose bald 
 pates they felt obliged to vent their spleen in order to 
 show the superiority of the younger generation. 
 
 Renovales' candidacy for the fellowship at Rome 
 caused a veritable revolution. The younger set, who 
 swore by him and considered him their illustrious cap- 
 tain, broke out in threats, fearful lest the "old boys" 
 should sacrifice their idol. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 35 
 
 When at last his manifest superiority won him the fel- 
 lowship, there were banquets in his honor, articles in the 
 papers, his picture was published in the illustrated maga- 
 zines, and even the old blacksmith made a trip to Madrid, 
 to breathe with tearful emotion part of the incense that 
 was burned for his son. 
 
 In Rome a cruel disappointment awaited Renovales. 
 His countrymen received him rather coldly. The younger 
 men looked on him as a rival and waited for his next 
 works with the hope of a failure ; the old men who lived 
 far from their fatherland examined him with malignant 
 curiosity. "And so that big chap was the blacksmith's 
 son, who caused so much disturbance among the ignorant 
 people at home! . . . Madrid was not Rome. They 
 would soon see what that genius could do !" 
 
 Renovales did nothing in the first months of his stay 
 in Rome. lie answered with a shrug of his shoulders 
 those who asked for his pictures with evident innuendo. 
 He had come there not to paint but to study; that was 
 what the State was paying him for. And he spent more 
 than half a year drawing, always drawing in the famous 
 art galleries, where, pencil in hand, he studied the 
 famous works. The paint boxes remained unopened in 
 one corner of the studio. 
 
 Before long he came to detest the great city, because 
 of the life the artists led in it. What was the use of fel- 
 lowships ? People studied less there than in other places. 
 Rome was not a school, it was a market. The painting 
 merchants set up their business there, attracted by the 
 gathering of artists. All old and beginners, famous 
 and unknown felt the temptation of money; all were 
 seduced by the easy comforts of life, producing works 
 for sale, painting pictures in accordance with the sugges- 
 tions of some German Jews who frequented the studios, 
 
36 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 designating the sizes and the types that were in style in 
 order to spread them over Europe and America. 
 
 When Renovales visited the studios, he saw nothing 
 but genre pictures, sometimes gentlemen in long dress 
 coats, others tattered Moors or Calabrian peasants. 
 They were pretty, faultless paintings, for which they 
 used as models a manikin, or the families of ciociari 
 whom they hired every morning in the Piazza di Espagna 
 beside the Sealinata of the Trinity ; the everlasting coun- 
 try-woman, swarthy and black-eyed, with great hoops 
 in her ears and wearing a green skirt, a black waist and 
 a white head-dress caught up on her hair with large pins ; 
 the usual old man with sandals, a 'woolen cloak and a 
 pointed hat with spiral bands on his snowy head that 
 was a fitting model for the Eternal Father. The artists 
 judged each other's ability by the number of thousand 
 lire they took in during a year ; they spoke with respect 
 of the famous masters who made a fortune out of the 
 millionaires of Paris and Chicago for easel-pictures that 
 nobody saw. Renovales was indignant. This sort of art 
 was almost like that of his first master, even if it was 
 "worldly" as Don Rafael had said. And that was what 
 they sent him to Rome for ! 
 
 Unpopular with his countrymen because of his brusque 
 ways, his rude tongue and his honesty, which made him. 
 refuse all commissions from the art merchants, he sought 
 the society of artists from other countries. Among the 
 cosmopolitan group of young painters who were quar- 
 tered in Rome, Renovales soon became popular. 
 
 His energy, his exuberant spirits, made him a con- 
 genial, merry comrade, when he appeared in the studios 
 of the Via di Babuino or in the cholocate rooms and cafes 
 of the Corso, where the artists of different nationalities 
 gathered in friendly company.' 
 
 Mariano, at the age of twenty, was an athletic fellow, 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 37 
 
 a worthy scion of the man who was pounding iron from, 
 morning till night in a far away corner of Spain. One 
 day an English youth, a friend of his, read him a page of 
 Ruskin in his honor. "The plastic arts are essentially 
 athletic." An invalid, a half paralyzed man, might be a 
 great poet, a celebrated musician, but to be a Michael 
 Angelo or a Titian a man must have not merely a privi- 
 leged soul, but a vigorous body. Leonardo da Vinci 
 broke a horseshoe in his hands; the sculptors of the 
 Renaissance worked huge blocks of marble with their 
 titanic arms or chipped off the bronze with their gravers ; 
 the great painters were often architects and, covered with 
 dust, moved huge masses. Renovales listened thought- 
 fully to the words of the great English sestheticist. He, 
 too, was a strong soul in an athlete's body. 
 
 The appetites of his youth never went beyond the 
 manly intoxications of strength and movement. At- 
 tracted by the abundance of models which Rome offered, 
 he often undressed a ciociara in his studio, delighting in 
 drawing the forms of her body. He laughed, like the 
 big giant that he was, he spoke to her with the same free- 
 dom as if she were one of the poor women that came 
 out to stop him at night as he returned alone to the 
 Academy of Spain, but when the work was over and 
 she was dressed out with her ! He had the chastity of 
 .strong men. He worshiped the flesh, but only to copy 
 its lines. The animal contact, the chance meeting, with- 
 out love, without attraction, with the inner reserve of 
 two people who do not know each other and who look on 
 each other with suspicion, filled him with shame. What 
 he wanted to do was to study, and women only served as 
 |;a hindrance in great undertakings. He consumed the 
 surplus of his energy in athletic exercise. After one of 
 his feats of strength, which filled his comrades with en- 
 thusiasm, he would come in fresh, serene, indifferent, as 
 
38 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 though he were coming out of a bath. He fenced with 
 the French' painters of the Villa Medici; learned to box 
 with Englishmen and Americans; organized, with some 
 German artists, excursions to a grove near Rome, which 
 were talked about for days in the cafes of the Corso. 
 He drank countless healths with his companions to the 
 Kaiser whom he did not know and for whom he did not 
 care a rap. He would thunder in his noisy voice the 
 traditional Gaudeainus Igitur and finally would catch two 
 models of the party around the waist and with his arms 
 stretched out like a cross carry them through the woods 
 till he dropped them on the grass as if they were feathers. 
 Afterwards he would smile with satisfaction at the ad- 
 miration of those good Germans, many of them sickly 
 and near-sighted, who compared him with Siegfried and 
 the other muscular heroes of their warlike mythology. 
 
 In the Carnival season, when the Spaniards organized 
 a cavalcade of the Quixote, he undertook to represent the 
 knight Pentapolin "him of the rolled-up sleeves," and 
 in the Corso there were applause and cries of admiration 
 for the huge biceps that the knight-errant, erect on his 
 horse, revealed. When the spring nights came, the 
 artists marched in a procession across the city to the 
 Jewish quarter to buy the first artichokes the popular 
 dish in Rome, in the preparation of which an old Hebrew 
 woman was famous. Renovales went at the head of the 
 carciofalatta, bearing the banner, starting the songs 
 which were alternated with the cries of all sorts of an- 
 imals; and his comrades marched behind him, reckless 
 and insolent under the protection of such a chieftain. As 
 long as Mariano was with them there was no danger.; 
 They told the story that in the alleys of the Trastevere 
 he had given a deadly beating to two bullies of the dis- 
 trict, after taking away their stilettos. 
 
 Suddenly the athlete shut himself up in the Academy 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 39 
 
 and did not come down to the city. For several days 
 they talked about him at the gatherings of artists. He 
 was painting ; an exhibition that was going to take place 
 in Madrid was close at hand and he wanted to take to it 
 a picture to justify his fellowship. He kept the door of 
 his studio closed to everyone, he did not permit com- 
 ment nor advice, the canvas would appear just as he 
 conceived it. His comrades soon forgot him and Re- 
 novales ended his work in seclusion, and left for his 
 country with it. 
 
 It was a complete success, the first important step on 
 the road that was to lead him to fame. Now he remem- 
 bered with shame, with remorse, the glorious uproar his 
 picture "The Victory of Pavia" stirred up. People 
 crowded in front of the huge canvas, forgetting the rest 
 of the Exhibition. And as, at that time, the Government 
 was strong, the Cortes was closed and there was no 
 serious accident in any of the bull-rings, the newspapers, 
 for lack of any more lively event, hastened in cheap 
 rivalry to reproduce the picture, to talk about it, publish- 
 ing portraits of the author, profiles, as well as front 
 views, large and small, expatiating on his life in Rome 
 and his eccentricities, and recalled with tears of emotion 
 the poor old man who far away in his village was pound- 
 ing iron, hardly knowing of his son's glory. 
 
 With one bound Renovales passed from obscurity to 
 the light of apotheosis. The older men whose duty it 
 was to judge his work became benevolent and extended 
 kindly sympathy. The little tiger was getting tame. 
 Renovales had seen the world and now he was coming 
 back to the good traditions ; he was going to be a painter 
 like the rest. His picture had portions that were like 
 Velasquez, fragments worthy of Goya, corners that re- 
 called El Greco; there was everything in it, except Re- 
 novales, and this amalgam of reminiscences was its chief 
 
40 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 merit, what attracted general applause and won it the 
 first medal. 
 
 A magnificent debut it was. A dowager duchess, a 
 great protectress of the arts, who never bought a picture 
 or a statue but who entertained at her table painters and 
 sculptors of renown, finding in this an inexpensive 
 pleasure and a certain distinction as an illustrious lady, 
 wished to make Renovales' acquaintance. He overcame 
 the stand-offishness of his nature that kept him away 
 from all social relations. Why should he not know high 
 society? He could go wherever other men could. And 
 he put on his first dress-coat, and after the banquets of 
 the duchess, where his way of arguing with members of 
 the Academy provoked peals of merry laughter, he visited 
 other salons and for several weeks was the idol of society 
 which, to be sure, was somewhat scandalized by his faux 
 fas, but still pleased with the timidity that overcame him 
 after his daring sallies. The younger set liked him be- 
 cause he handled a sword like a Saint George. Although 
 a painter and son of a blacksmith, he was in every way a 
 respectable person. The ladies flattered him with their 
 most amiable smiles, hoping that the fashionable artist 
 would honor them with a portrait gratis, as he had done 
 with the duchess. 
 
 In this period of high-life, always in dress clothes 
 from seven in the evening, without painting anything but 
 women who wanted to appear pretty and discussed 
 gravely with the artist which gown they should put on 
 to serve as a model, Renovales met his wife Josephina. 
 
 The first time that he saw her among so many ladies 
 of arrogant bearing and striking presence, he felt at- 
 tracted towards her by force of contrast. The bashful- 
 ness, the modesty, the insignificance of the girl impressed 
 him. She was small, her face offered no other beauty 
 than that of youth, her body had the charm of delicacy. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 41 
 
 Like himself, the poor girl was there out of a sort of 
 condescendence on the part of the others ; she seemed to 
 be there by sufferance and she shrank in it, as if afraid 
 of attracting attention. Renovales always saw her in the 
 same evening gown somewhat old, with that appearance 
 of weariness which a garment constantly made over to 
 follow the course of the fashions is wont to acquire. The 
 gloves, the flowers, the ribbons had a sort of sadness in 
 their freshness, as if they betrayed the sacrifices, the 
 domestic exertions it had taken to procure them. She 
 was on intimate terms with all the girls who made a tri- 
 umphal entrance into the drawing-rooms, inspiring praise 
 and envy with their new toilettes; her mother, a majestic 
 lady, with a big nose and gold glasses, treated the ladies 
 of the noblest families with familiarity; but in spite of 
 this intimacy there was apparent around the mother and 
 daughter the gap of somewhat disdainful affection, in 
 which commiseration bore no small part. They were 
 poor. The father had been a diplomat of some distinc- 
 tion who, at his death, left his wife no other source of 
 income than the widow's pension. Two sons were abroad 
 as attaches of an embassy, struggling with the scantiness 
 of their salary and the demands of their position. The 
 mother and daughter lived in Madrid, chained to the 
 society in which they were born, fearing to abandon it, 
 as if that would be equivalent to a degradation, remain- 
 ing during the day in a fourth-floor apartment, furnished 
 with the remnants of their past opulence, making un- 
 heard-of sacrifices in order to be able in the evening to 
 rub elbows worthily with those who had been their equals. 
 
 Some relative of Dona Emilia, the mother, contributed 
 to her support, not with money (never that!) but by 
 loaning her the surplus of their luxury, that she and her 
 daughter might maintain a pale appearance of comfort. 
 
 Some of them loaned them their carriage on certain 
 
42 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 days, so that they might drive through the Castellana and 
 the Retiro, bowing to their friends as the carriages 
 passed ; others sent them their box at the Opera on eve- 
 nings when the bill was not a brilliant one. Their pity 
 made them remember them, too, when they sent out in- 
 vitations to birthday dinners, afternoon teas, and the like. 
 "We mustn't forget the Torrealtas, poor things." And 
 the next day, the society reporters included in the list 
 of those present at the function "the charming Senorita 
 de Torrealta and her distinguished mother, the widow of 
 the famous diplomat of imperishable memory," and Dona 
 Emilia, forgetting her situation, fancying she was in the 
 good old times, went to everything, in the same black 
 gown, annoying with her "my dears" and her gossip the 
 great ladies whose maids were richer and ate better than 
 she and her daughter. If some old gentleman took refuge 
 beside her, the diplomat's wife tried to overwhelm him 
 with the majesty of her recollections. "When we were 
 ambassadors in Stockholm." "When my friend Eugenie 
 was empress. . . ." 
 
 The daughter, endowed with her instinctive girlish 
 timidity, seemed better to realize her position. She would 
 remain seated among the older ladies, only rarely ven- 
 turing to join the other girls who had been her boarding- 
 school companions and who now treated her condescend- 
 ingly, looking on her as they would upon a governess 
 who had been raised to their station, out of remembrance 
 for the past. Her mother was annoyed at her timidity. 
 She ought to dance a lot, be lively and bold, like the 
 other girls, crack jokes, even if they were doubtful, that 
 the men might repeat them and give her the reputation 
 of being a wit. It was incredible that with the bringing 
 up she had had, she should be so insignificant. The idea ! 
 The daughter of a great man about whom people used 
 to crowd as soon as he entered the first salons in Europe ! 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 4,3 
 
 A girl who had been educated at the school of the Sacred 
 Heart in Paris, who spoke English, a little German, and 
 spent the day reading when she did not have to clean a 
 pair of gloves or make over a dress ! Didn't she want 
 to get married? Was she so well satisfied with that 
 fourth-story apartment, that wretched cell so unworthy 
 of their name ? 
 
 Josephina smiled sadly. Get married! She never 
 would get to that in the society they frequented. Every- 
 one knew they were poor. The young men thronged the 
 drawing-rooms in search of women with money. If by 
 chance one of them did come up to her, attracted by her 
 pale beauty, it was only to whisper to her shameful sug- 
 gestions while they danced; to propose uncompromising 
 engagements, friendly relations with a prudence modeled 
 on the English, flirtations that had no result. 
 
 Renovales did not realize how his friendship with 
 Josephina began. Perhaps it was the contrast between 
 himself and the little woman who hardly came up to his 
 shoulder and who seemed about fifteen when she was 
 already past twenty. Her soft voice with its slight lisp 
 came to his ears like a caress. He laughed when he 
 thought of the possibility of embracing that graceful, 
 slender form; it would break in pieces in his pugilist's 
 hands, like a wax doll. Mariano sought her out in the 
 drawing-rooms which she and her mother were accus- 
 tomed to frequent, and spent all the time sitting at her 
 side, feeling an impulse to confide in her as a brother, a 
 desire of telling her all about herself, his past, his pres- 
 ent work, his hopes, as if she were a room-mate. She 
 listened to him, looking at him with her brown eyes that 
 seemed to smile at him, nodding assent, often without 
 having heard what he said, receiving like a caress the 
 exuberance of that nature which seemed to overflow in 
 
44 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 waves of fire. He was different from all the men she 
 had known. 
 
 When someone nobody knows who perhaps one of 
 Josephina's friends, noticed this intimacy, to make sport 
 of her, she spread the news. The painter and the Tor- 
 realta girl were engaged. That was when the interested 
 parties discovered that they loved each other. It was 
 something more than friendship that made Renovales 
 pass through Josephina's street mornings, looking at the 
 high windows in the hope of seeing her dainty silhouette 
 through the panes. One night at the duchess' when 
 they were left alone in the hallway, Renovales caught her 
 hand and lifted it to his lips, but so timidly that they 
 scarcely touched her glove. He was afraid after his 
 rudeness, felt ashamed of his violence; he thought he 
 was hurting the delicate, slender girl; but she let her 
 hand stay in his, and at the same time bowed her head 
 and began to cry. 
 
 "How good you are, Mariano !" 
 
 She felt the most intense gratitude, when she realized 
 that she was loved for the first time; loved truly, by a 
 man of some distinction, who fled from the women of 
 fortune to seek a humble, neglected girl like her. All the 
 treasures of affection which had been accumulating In 
 the isolation of her humiliating life overflowed. How 
 she could love the man who loved her, taking her out of 
 that parasite's existence, lifting her by his strength and 
 affection to the level of those who scorned her ! ! 
 
 The noble widow of Torrealta gave a cry of indigna- 
 tion when she learned of the engagement of the painter 
 and her daughter. "The blacksmith's son !" "The illus- 
 trious diplomat of imperishable memory !" But as if this 
 protest of her pride opened her eyes, she thought of the 
 years her daughter had spent going from one drawing- 
 room to another, without anyone paying any attention 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 45 
 
 to her. What dunces men were ! She thought, too, that 
 a celebrated painter was a personage; she remembered 
 the articles devoted to Renovales because of his last pic- 
 ture, and, above all, a thing that had the most effect on 
 her, she knew by hearsay of the great fortune that artists 
 amassed abroad, the hundreds of thousands of francs 
 paid for a canvas that could be carried under your arm. 
 Why might not Renovales be one of the fortunate? 
 
 She began to annoy her countless relatives with re- 
 quests for advice. The girl had no father and they 
 must take his place. Some answered indifferently. "The 
 painter ! Hump ! Not bad !" evidencing by their coldness 
 that it was all the same to them if she married a tax- 
 collector. Others insulted her unwittingly by showing 
 their approval. "Renovales? An artist with a great 
 future before him. What more do you want? You 
 ought to be thankful he has taken a fancy to her." But 
 the advice that decided her was that of her famous 
 cousin, the Marquis of Tarfe, a man to whom she looked 
 upon as the most distinguished citizen in the country, 
 without doubt because of his office as permanent head of 
 the Foreign Service, for every two years he was made 
 Minister of Foreign Affairs. 
 
 "It looks very good to me/' said the nobleman, hastily, 
 for they were waiting for him in the Senate. "It is a 
 modern marriage and we must keep up with the times. I 
 am a conservative, but liberal, very liberal and very 
 modern. I will protect the children. I like the marriage. 
 Art joining its prestige with a historic family! The 
 popular blood that rises through its merits and is mingled 
 with that of the ancient nobility!" 
 
 And the Marquis of Tarfe, whose marquisate did not 
 go back half a century, with these rhetorical figures of an 
 orator in the Senate and his promises of protection, con- 
 vinced the haughty widow. She was the one who spoke 
 
46 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 to Renovales, to relieve him of an explanation that would 
 be trying because of the timidity he felt in this society 
 that was not his own. 
 
 "I know all about it, Mariano, my dear, and you have 
 my consent." 
 
 But she did not like long engagements. When did he 
 intend to get married ? Renovales was more eager for it 
 than the mother. Josephina was different from other 
 women who hardly aroused his desire. His chastity, 
 which had been like that of a rough laborer, developed 
 into a feverish desire to make that charming doll his own 
 as soon as possible. Besides, his pride was flattered by 
 this union. His fiancee was poor; her only dowry was a 
 few ragged clothes, but she belonged to a noble family, 
 ministers, generals all of noble descent. They could 
 weigh by the ton the coronets and coats-of-arms of those 
 countless relatives who did not pay much attention to 
 Josephina and her mother, but who would soon be his 
 family. What would Senor Anton think, hammering 
 iron in the suburbs of his town? What would his com- 
 rades in Rome say, whose lot consisted in living with the 
 ciociare who served as their models, and marrying them 
 afterward out of fear for the stiletto of the venerable 
 Calabrian who insisted on providing a legitimate father 
 for his grandsons ! 
 
 The papers had much to say about the wedding, re- 
 peating with slight variations the very phrases of the 
 Marquis of Tarfe, "Art uniting with nobility." Reno- 
 vales wanted to leave for Rome with Josephina as soon 
 as the marriage was celebrated. He had made all the ar- 
 rangements for his new life there, investing in it all the 
 money he had received from the State for his picture and 
 the product of several pictures for the Senate for which 
 he received commissions through his illustrious rela- 
 tive-to-be. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 471 
 
 A friend in Rome (the jolly Cotoner) hac hired for 
 him an apartment in the Via Margutta and had furnished 
 it in accordance with his artistic taste. Dona Emilia 
 would remain in Madrid with one of her sons, who had 
 been promoted to a position in the Foreign Office. Every- 
 body, even the mother, was in the young couple's way. 
 And Dona Emilia wiped away an invisible tear with the 
 tip of her glove. Besides, she did not care to go back to 
 the countries where she had been somebody; she pre- 
 ferred to stay in Madrid ; there people knew her at least. 
 
 The wedding was an event. Not a soul in the huge 
 family was absent; all feared the annoying questions of 
 the illustrious widow who kept a list of relatives to the 
 sixth remove. 
 
 Senor Anton arrived two days before, in a new suit 
 with knee-breeches and a broad plush hat, looking some- 
 what confused at the smiles of those people who re- 
 garded him as a quaint type. Crestfallen and trembling 
 in the presence of the two women, with a countryman's 
 respect, he called his daughter-in-law "Senorita." 
 
 "No, papa, call me 'daughter.' Say Josephina to me." 
 
 But in spite of Josephina's simplicity and the tender 
 gratitude he felt when he saw her look at his son with 
 such loving eyes, he did not venture to take the liberty of 
 speaking to her as his child and made the greatest efforts 
 to avoid this danger, always speaking to her in the third 
 person. 
 
 Dona Emilia, with her gold glasses and her majestic 
 bearing, caused him even greater emotion. He always 
 called her "Sefiora marquesa," for in his simplicity he 
 could not admit that that lady was not at least a mar- 
 chioness. The widow, somewhat disarmed by the good 
 man's homage, admitted that he was a "rube" of some 
 natural talent, a fact that made her tolerate the ridicu- 
 lous note of his knee breeches. 
 
48 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 In the chapel of the Marquis of Tarfe's palace, after 
 looking dumbfounded at the great throng of nobility that 
 had gathered for his son's wedding, the old man, stand- 
 ing in the doorway, began to cry : 
 
 "Now I can die, O Lord. Now I can die!" 
 
 And he repeated his sad desire, without noticing the 
 laughter of the servants, as if, after a life of toil, happi- 
 ness were the inevitable forerunner of death. 
 
 The bride and groom started on their trip the same 
 day. Seiior Anton for the first time kissed his daughter- 
 in-law on the forehead, moistening it with his tears, and 
 went home to his village, still repeating his longing for 
 death, as though nothing were left in the world for him 
 to hope for. 
 
 Renovales and his wife reached Rome after several 
 stops on the way. Their short stay in various cities of 
 the Riviera, the days in Pisa and Florence, though de- 
 lightful, as keeping the memory of their first intimacy, 
 seemed unspeakably vulgar, when they were installed in 
 their little house in Rome. There the real honeymoon 
 began, by their own fireside, free from all intrusion, far 
 from the confusion of hotels. 
 
 Josephina, accustomed to a life of secret privation, to 
 the misery of that fourth-floor apartment in which she 
 and her mother lived as though they were camping out, 
 keeping all their show for the street, admired the co- 
 quettish charm, the smart daintiness of the house m the 
 Via Margutta. Mariano's friend, who had charge of the 
 furnishing of the house, a certain Pepe Cotoner, who 
 hardly ever touched his brushes and who devoted all his 
 artistic enthusiasm to his worship of Renovales, had cer- 
 tainly done things well. 
 
 Josephina clapped her hands in childish joy when she 
 saw the bedroom, admiring its sumptuous Venetian fur- 
 niture, with its wonderful inlaid pearl and ebony, a 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 49 
 
 princely luxury that the painter would have to pay for 
 in instalments. 
 
 Oh ! The first night of their stay in Rome ! How well 
 Renovales remembered it! Josephina, lying on the 
 monumental bed, made for the wife of a Doge, shook 
 with the delight of rest, stretching her limbs before she 
 hid them under the fine sheets, showing herself with the 
 abandon of a woman who no longer has any secrets to 
 keep. The pink toes of her plump little feet moved as 
 if they were calling Renovales. 
 
 Standing beside the bed, he looked at her seriously, 
 with his brows contracted, dominated by a desire that he 
 hesitated to express. He wanted to see her, to admire 
 her; he did not know her yet, after those nights in the 
 hotels when they could hear strange voices on the other 
 side of the thin walls. 
 
 It was not the caprice of a lover, it was the desire 
 of a painter, the demand of an artist. His eyes were 
 hungry for beauty. 
 
 She resisted, blushing, a trifle angry at this demand 
 which offended her deepest prejudices. 
 
 "Don't be foolish, Mariano, dear. Come to bed; don't 
 talk nonsense." 
 
 But he persisted obstinately in his desire. She must 
 overcome her bourgeois scruples, art scoffed at such 
 modesty, human beauty was meant to be shown in all its 
 radiant majesty and not to be kept hidden, despised and 
 cursed. 
 
 He did not want to paint her ; he did not dare to ask 
 for that; but he did want to see her, to see her and 
 admire her, not with a coarse desire, but with religious 
 adoration. 
 
 And his hands, restrained by the fears of hurting her, 
 gently pulled her weak arms that were crossed on her 
 breast in the endeavor to resist his advances. She 
 
50 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 laughed: "You silly thing. You're tickling me you're 
 hurting me." But little by little, conquered by his per- 
 sistency, her feminine pride flattered by this worship of 
 her body, she gave in to him, allowed herself to be 
 treated like a child, with soft remonstrances as if she 
 were undergoing torture, but without resisting any 
 longer. 
 
 Her body, free from veils, shone with the whiteness of 
 pearl. Josephina closed her eyes as if she wanted to flee 
 from the shame of her nakedness. On the smooth sheet, 
 her graceful form was outlined in a slightly rosy tone, 
 intoxicating the eyes of the artist. 
 
 Josephina's face was not much to look at, but her 
 body ! If he could only overcome her scruples some time 
 and paint her! 
 
 Renovales kneeled down beside the bed in a transport 
 of admiration. 
 
 "I worship you, Josephina. You are as fair as Venus. 
 No, not Venus. She is cold and calm, like a goddess, and 
 you are a woman. You are like what are you like? 
 Yes, now I see the likeness. You are Goya's little Maja, 
 with her delicate grace, her fascinating daintiness. You 
 are the Maja Desnuda! 
 
Ill 
 
 RENOVALES' life was changed. In love with his wife, 
 fearing that she might lack some comfort, and thinking 
 with anxiety of the Torrealta widow, who might com- 
 plain that the daughter of the "illustrious diplomat of 
 imperishable memory" was not happy because she had 
 lowered herself to the extent of marrying a painter, he 
 worked incessantly to maintain with his brush the com- 
 forts with which he had surrounded Josephina. 
 
 He, who had had so much scorn for industrial art, 
 painting for money, as did his comrades, followed their 
 example, but with the energy that he showed in all his 
 undertakings. In some of the studios there were cries 
 of protest against this tireless competitor who lowered 
 prices scandalously. He had sold his brush for a year to 
 one of those Jewish dealers who exported paintings at 
 so much a picture, and under agreement not to paint for 
 any other dealer. Renovales worked from morning till 
 night changing subjects when it was demanded by what 
 he called his impresario. "Enough ciociari, now for some 
 Moors." Afterwards the Moors lost their market-value 
 and the turn of the musketeers came, fencing a valiant 
 duel ; then pink shepherdesses in the style of Watteau or 
 ladies in powdered wigs embarking in a golden gondola 
 to the sound of lutes. To give freshness to his stock, he 
 would interpolate a sacristy scene with much show of 
 ' embroidered chasubles and golden incensaries, or an oc- 
 casional bacchanalian, imitating from memory, without 
 models, Titians' voluptuous forms and amber flesh. When 
 the list was ended, the ciociari were once more in style 
 
 n 
 
52 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 and could be begun again. The painter with his extraor- 
 dinary facility of execution produced two or three pic- 
 tures a week, and the impresario, to encourage him in his 
 work, often visited him afternoons, following the move- 
 ments of his brush with the enthusiasm of a man who 
 appreciated art at so much a foot and so much an hour. 
 The news he brought was of a sort to infuse new zest. 
 
 The last bacchanal painted by Renovales was in a 
 fashionable bar in New York. His pageant of the 
 Abruzzi was in one of the noblest castles in Russia. 
 Another picture, representing a dance of countesses dis- 
 guised as shepherdesses in a field of violets, was in the 
 possession of a Jewish baron, a banker in Frankfort. 
 The dealer rubbed his hands, as he spoke to the painter 
 with a patronizing air. His name was becoming famous, 
 thanks to him, and he would not stop until he had won 
 him a world-wide reputation. Already his agents were 
 asking him to send nothing but the works of Signor 
 Renovales, for they were the best sellers. But Mariano 
 answered him with a sudden outburst of bitterness. All 
 those canvases were mere rot. If that was art, he would 
 prefer to break stone on the high roads. 
 
 But his rebellion against this debasement of his art 
 disappeared when he saw his Josephina in the house 
 whose ornamentation he was constantly improving, con- 
 verting it into a jewel case worthy of his love. She was 
 happy in her home, with a splendid carriage in which 
 to drive every afternoon and perfect freedom to spend 
 money on her clothes and jewelry. Renovales' wife 
 lacked nothing; she had at her disposal, as adviser and 
 errand-boy, Cotoner, who spent the night in a garret that 
 served him as a studio in one of the cheap districts and 
 the rest of the day with the young couple. She was mis- 
 tress of the money; she had never seen so many bank- 
 notes at once. When Renovales handed her the pile of 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 53 
 
 lires which the impresario gave him she said with a little 
 laugh of joy, "Money, money!" and ran and hid it away 
 with the serious expression of a diligent, economical 
 housewife only to take it out the next day and squander 
 it with a childish carelessness. What a wonderful thing 
 painting was! Her illustrious father (in spite of all that 
 her mother said) had never made so much money in all 
 his travels through the world, going from cotillon to 
 cotillon as the representative of his king. 
 
 While Renovales was in the studio, she had been to 
 drive in the Pincio, bowing from her landau to the count- 
 less wives of ambassadors who were stationed at Rome, 
 to aristocratic travelers stopping in the city, to whom 
 she had been introduced in some drawing-room, and to 
 all the crowd of diplomatic attaches who live about the 
 double court of the Vatican and the Quirinal. 
 
 The painter was introduced by his wife into an official 
 society of the most rigid formality. The niece of the 
 Marquis of Tarfe, perpetual foreign minister, was re- 
 ceived with open arms by the high society of Rome, the 
 most exclusive in Europe. At every reception at the 
 two Spanish embassies, "the famous painter Renovales 
 and his charming wife" were present and these invita- 
 tions had spread to the embassies of other countries. 
 Almost every night there was some function. Since there 
 were two diplomatic centers, one at the court of the 
 Italian king, the other at the Vatican, the receptions and 
 evening parties were frequent in this isolated society 
 that gathered every night, sufficient for its own en- 
 joyment. 
 
 When Renovales got home at dark, tired out with his 
 work, he would find Josephina, already half dressed, 
 waiting for him, and Cotoner helped him to put on his 
 evening clothes. 
 
 "The cross !" exclaimed Josephina, when she saw him 
 
54, WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 with his dress-coat on. "Why, man alive, how did you 
 happen to forget your cross? You know that they al- 
 wear something there." 
 
 Cotoner went for the insignia, a great cross the Span- 
 ish government had given him for his picture, and the 
 artist, with the ribbon across his shirt-front and a bril- 
 liant circle on his coat, started out with his wife to spend 
 the evening among diplomats, distinguished travelers and 
 cardinals' nephews. 
 
 The other painters were furious with envy when they 
 learned how often the Spanish ambassador and his wife, 
 the consul and prominent people connected with the 
 Vatican visited his studio. They denied his talent, at- 
 tributing these distinctions to Josephina's position. They 
 called him a courtier and a flatterer, alleging that he had 
 married to better his position. One of his most constant 
 visitors was Father Recovero, the representative of a 
 monastic order that was powerful in Spain, a sort of 
 cowled ambassador who enjoyed great influence with the 
 Pope. When he was not in Renovales' studio, the latter 
 was sure that he was at his house, doing some favor for 
 Josephina who felt proud of her friendship with this in- 
 fluential friar, so jovial and scrupulously correct in spite 
 of his coarse clothes. Renovales' wife always had some 
 favor to ask of him, her friends in Madrid were un- 
 ceasing in their requests. 
 
 The Torrealta widow contributed to this by her con- 
 stant chatter among her acquaintances about the high 
 position her daughter occupied in Rome. According to 
 her, Mariano was making millions; Josephina was re- 
 ported to be a great friend of the Pope, her house was 
 full of Cardinals and if the Pope did not visit her it was 
 only because the poor thing was a prisoner in the Vatican. 
 And so the painter's wife had to keep sending to Madrid 
 some rosary that had been passed over St. Peter's t mb 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 55 
 
 pr reliques taken from the Catacombs. She urged 
 Father Recovero to negotiate difficult marriage dispensa- 
 tions and interested herself in behalf of the petitions of 
 pious ladies, friends of her mother. The great festivals 
 of the Roman Church filled her with enthusiasm because 
 of their theatrical interest and she was very grateful to 
 the generous friar who never forgot to reserve her a 
 good place. There never was a reception of pilgrims in 
 Saint Peter's with a triumphal march of the Pope car- 
 ried on a platform amid feather fans, at which Jo- 
 sephina was not present. At other times the good Father 
 made the mysterious announcement that on the next 
 day Pallestri, the famous male soprano of the papal 
 chapel, was going to sing ; the Spanish lady got up early, 
 leaving her husband still in bed, to hear the sweet voice of 
 the pontifical eunuch whose beardless face appeared 
 in shop windows among the portraits of dancers and 
 fashionable tenors. 
 
 Renovales laughed good-naturedly at the countless oc- 
 cupations and futile entertainments of his wife. Poor 
 irl, she must enjoy herself; that was what he was 
 working for. He was sorry enough that he could go 
 with her only in her evening diversions. During the 
 day he entrusted her to his faithful Cotoner who at- 
 tended her like an old family servant, carrying her 
 bundles when she went shopping, performing the duties 
 of butler and sometimes of chef. 
 
 Renovales had made his acquaintance when he came 
 to Rome. He was his best friend. Ten years his sen- 
 ior, Cotoner showed the worship of a pupil and the af- 
 fections of an older brother for the young artist. Every- 
 one in Rome knew him, laughing at his pictures on the 
 rare occasions when he painted, and appreciated his 
 ^accc Timodating nature that to some extent dignified 
 his ^ arasite's existence. Short, rotund, bald-headed, 
 
56 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 with projecting ears and the ugliness of a good-natured, 
 merry satyr, Signer Cotoner, when summer came, al- 
 ways found refuge in the castle of some cardinal in the 
 Roman Campagna. During the winter he was a famil- 
 iar sight in the Corso, wrapped in his greenish mack- 
 intosh, the sleeves of which waved like a bat's wings. 
 He had begun in his own province as a landscape paint- 
 er but he wanted to paint figures, to equal the mas- 
 ters, and so he landed in Rome in the company of the 
 bishop of his diocese who looked on him as an honor to 
 the church. He never moved from the city. His prog- 
 ress was remarkable. He knew the names and histories 
 of all the artists, no one could compare with him in his 
 ability to live economically in Rome and to find where 
 things were cheapest. If a Spaniard went through the 
 great city, he never missed visiting him. The children 
 of celebrated painters looked on him as a sort of nurse, 
 for he had put them all to sleep in his arms. The great 
 triumph of his life was having figured in the cavalcade 
 of the Quixote as Sancho Panza. He always painted 
 the same picture, portraits of the Pope in three different 
 sizes, piling them up in the attic that served him for a 
 studio and bedroom. His friends, the cardinals whom 
 he visited frequently, took pity on "Poor Signor Cot- 
 oner" and for a few lire bought a picture of the Pontiff 
 horribly ugly, to present it to some village church where 
 it would arouse great admiration since it came from 
 Rome and was by a painter who was a friend of Hi* 
 Eminence. 
 
 These purchases were a ray of joy for Cotoner, who 
 came to Renovales' studio with his head up and wearing 
 a smile of affected modesty. 
 
 "I have made a sale, my boy. A pope; a large one, 
 two meter size." 
 
 And with a sudden burst of confidence in his talent, 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 57 
 
 he talked of the future. Other men desired medals, 
 triumphs in the exhibitions; he was more modest. He 
 would be satisfied if he could guess who would be Pope 
 when the present Pope died, in order to be able to paint 
 up pictures, of him by the dozen ahead of time. What a 
 triumph to put the goods on the market the day after 
 the Conclave! A perfect fortune! And well ac- 
 quainted with all the cardinals, he passed the Sacred 
 College in mental review with the persistency of a gam- 
 bler in a lottery, hesitating between the half dozen who 
 aspired to the tiara. He lived like a parasite among 
 the high functionaries of the Church, but he was in- 
 different to religion, as if this association with them 
 had taken away all his belief. The old man clad in 
 white and the other red gentlemen inspired respect in 
 him because they were rich and served indirectly his 
 wretched portrait business. His admiration was wholly 
 devoted to Renovales. In the studio of other artists he 
 received their irritating jests with his usual calm smile 
 of affability, but they could not speak ill of Renovales 
 nor discuss his ability. To his mind, Renovales could 
 produce nothing but masterpieces and in his blind ad- 
 miration he even went so far as to rave naively over 
 the easel pictures he painted for his impresario. 
 
 Sometimes Josephina unexpectedly appeared in her 
 husband's studio and chatted with him while he painted, 
 praising the canvases that had a pretty subject. She 
 preferred to find him alone in these visits, painting from 
 his fancy without any other model than some clothes 
 placed on a manikin. She felt a sort of aversion to 
 models, and Renovales tried in vain to convince her of 
 the necessity of using them. He had talent to paint 
 beautiful things without resorting to the assistance of 
 those ordinary old men and above all, of those women 
 with their disheveled hair, their flashing eyes and their 
 
58 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 wolfish teeth, who, in the solitude and silence of the 
 studio, actually terrified her. Renovales laughed. What 
 nonsense! Jealous little girl! As if he were capable 
 of thinking of anything but art with a palette in his 
 hand! 
 
 One afternoon, when Josephina suddenly came into 
 the studio she saw on the model's platform a naked wo- 
 man, lying in some furs, showing the curves of her yel- 
 low back. The wife compressed her lips and pretended 
 not to see her, listened to Renovales with a distracted 
 air, as he explained this innovation. He was painting 
 a bacchanal and it was impossible for him to pro- 
 ceed without a model. It was a case of necessity, flesh 
 could not be done from memory. The model, at ease 
 before the painter, felt ashamed of her nakedness in 
 the presence of that fashionable lady, and after wrap- 
 ping herself up in the furs, hid behind a screen and has- 
 tily dressed herself. 
 
 Renovales recovered his serenity when he reached 
 home, seeing that his wife received him with her cus- 
 tomary eagerness, as if she had forgotten her displeas- 
 ure of the afternoon. She laughed at Cotoner's stories ; 
 after dinner they went to the theater and when bed- 
 time came, the painter had forgotten about the sur- 
 prise in the studio. He was falling asleep when he was 
 alarmed by a painful, prolonged sigh, as if some one 
 were stifling beside him. When he lit the light he saw 
 Josephina with both fists in her eyes, crying, her breast 
 heaving with sobs, and kicking in a childish fit of tem- 
 per till the bed-clothes were rolled in a ball and the ex- 
 quisite puff fell to the floor. 
 
 "I won't, I won't," she moaned with an accent of pro- 
 test. 
 
 The painter had jumped out of bed, full of anxiety, 
 going from one side to the other without knowing what 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 59 
 
 to do, trying to pull her hands away from her eyes, giv- 
 ing in, in spite of his strength, to Josephina's efforts 
 to free herself from him. 
 
 "But what's the matter? What is it you won't do? 
 What's happened to you?" 
 
 And she continued to cry, tossing about in the bed, 
 kicking in a nervous fury. 
 
 "Let me alone ! I don't like you ; don't touch me. I 
 won't let you, no, sir, I won't let you. I'm going away. 
 I'm going home to my mother." 
 
 Renovales, terrified at the fury of the little woman 
 who was always so gentle, did not know what to do to 
 calm her. He ran through the bedroom and the ad- 
 joining dressing room in his night shirt, that showed his 
 athletic muscles; he offered her water, going so far as 
 to pick up the bottles of perfumes in his confusion as 
 if they could serve him as sedatives, and finally he knelt 
 down, trying to kiss the clenched little hands that thrust 
 him away, catching at his hair and beard. 
 
 "Let me alone. I tell you to let me alone. I know 
 you don't love me. I'm going away." 
 
 The painter was surprised and afraid of the nervous- 
 ness in this beloved little doll; he did not dare to touch 
 her for fear of hurting her. As soon as the sun rose 
 she would leave that house forever. Her husband did 
 not love her. No one but her mother cared for her. He 
 was making her a laughing stock before people. And 
 all these incoherent complaints that did not explain 
 the motive for her anger, continued for a long time un- 
 til the artist guessed the cause. Was it the model, the 
 naked woman? Yes, that was it; she would not con- 
 sent to it, that in a studio that was practically her house, 
 low women should show themselves immodestly to her 
 husband's eyes. And as she protested against such 
 abominations, her twitching fingers tore the front of 
 
60 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 her night dress, showing the hidden charms that filled 
 Renovales with such enthusiasm. 
 
 The painter, tired out by this scene, enervated by the 
 cries and tears of his wife, could not help laughing 
 when he discovered the motive of her irritation. 
 
 "Ah! So it's all on account of the model. Be quiet, 
 girl, no woman shall come into the studio." 
 
 And he promised everything Josephina wished, in 
 order to be over with it as soon as possible. When it 
 was dark once more, she was still sighing, but now it was 
 in her husband's strong arms with her head resting on his 
 breast, lisping like a grieved child that tries to justify 
 the past fit of temper. It did not cost Mariano any- 
 thing to do her this favor. She loved him dearly, so 
 dearly, and she would love him still more if he respected 
 her prejudices. He might call her bourgeois, a com- 
 mon ordinary soul, but that was what she wanted to be, 
 just as she always had been. Besides, what was the need 
 of painting naked women ? Couldn't he do other things ? 
 She urged him to paint children in smocks and san- 
 dals, curly haired and chubby, like the child Jesus; old 
 peasant women with wrinkled, copper-colored faces, 
 bald-headed ancients with long beards; character 
 studies, but no young women, understand? No naked 
 beauties! Renovales said "yes" to everything, draw- 
 ing close to him that beloved form still trembling with 
 its past rage. They clung to each other with a sort of 
 anxiety, desirous of forgetting what had happened, and 
 the night ended peacefully for Renovales in the happi- 
 ness of reconciliation. 
 
 When summer came they rented a little villa at Cas- 
 tel-Gandolfo. Cotoner had gone to Rivoli in the train 
 of a cardinal and the married couple lived in the coun- 
 try accompanied only by a couple of maids and a man- 
 servant, who took care of Renovales' painting kit. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 61 
 
 Josephina was perfectly contented in this retirement, 
 far from Rome, talking with her husband at all hours, 
 free from the anxiety that filled her, when he was 
 working in his studio. For a month Renovales re- 
 mained in placid idleness. His art seemed forgotten; 
 the boxes of paints, the easels, all the artistic luggage 
 brought from Rome, remained packed up and forgot- 
 ten in a shed in the garden. Afternoons they took 
 long walks, returning home at nightfall slowly, with 
 their arms around each other's waists, watching the 
 strip of pale gold in the western sky, breaking the rural 
 silence with one of the sweet, passionate romances that 
 came from Naples. Now that they were alone in the 
 intimacy of a life without cares or friendships, the en- 
 thusiastic love of the first days of their married life 
 reawakened. But the "demon of painting" was not long 
 in spreading over him his invisible wings, which seemed 
 to scatter an irresistible enchantment. He became 
 bored at the long hours in the bright sun, yawned in his 
 wicker chair, smoking pipe after pipe, not knowing what 
 to talk about. Josephina, on her part, tried to drive 
 away the ennui by reading some English novel of aris- 
 tocratic life, tiresome and moral, to which she had taken 
 a great liking in her school girl days. 
 
 Renovales began to work again. His servant brought 
 out his artist's kit and he took up his palette as enthu- 
 siastically as a beginner, and painted for himself with a 
 religious fervor as if he thought to purify himself from 
 that base submission to the commissions of a dealer. 
 
 He studied Nature directly; painted delightful bits 
 of landscapes, tanned and repulsive heads that breathed 
 the selfish brutality of the peasant. But this artistic ac- 
 tivity did not seem to satisfy him. His life of in- 
 creased intimacy with Josephina aroused in him mys- 
 terious longings that he hardly dared to formulate. 
 
62 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 Mornings when his wife, fresh and rosy from her bath, 
 appeared before him almost naked, he looked at Her 
 with greedy eyes. 
 
 "Oh, if you were only willing! If you didn't have 
 that foolish prejudice of yours!" 
 
 And his exclamations made her smile, for her fem- 
 inine vanity was flattered by this worship. Renovales 
 regretted that his artistic talent had to go in search of 
 beautiful things when the supreme, definitive work was 
 at his side. He told her about Rubens, the great mas- 
 ter, who surrounded Elene Froment with the luxury 
 of a princess, and of her who felt no objection to free- 
 ing her fresh, mythological beauty from veils in order 
 to serve as a model for her husband. Renovales praised 
 the Flemish woman. Artists formed a family by them- 
 selves ; morality and the popular prejudices were meant 
 for other people. They lived under the jurisdiction of 
 Beauty, regarding as natural what other people looked 
 on as a sin. 
 
 Josephina protested against her husband's wishes 
 with a playful indignation but she allowed him to ad- 
 mire her. Her abandon increased every day. Morn- 
 ings, when she got up, she remained undressed longer, 
 prolonging her toilette while the artist walked around 
 her, praising her various beauties. "That is Rubens, 
 pure and simple, that's Titian's color. Look, little girl, 
 lift up your arms, like this. Oh, you are the Maja, 
 Goya's little Maja." And she submitted to him with a 
 gracious pout, as if she relished the expression of wor- 
 ship and disappointment which her husband wore at 
 possessing her as a woman and not possessing her as 
 a model. 
 
 One afternoon when a scorching wind seemed to 
 stifle the countryside with its breath, Josephina capit- 
 ulated. They were in their room, with the windows 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 63 
 
 closed, trying to escape the terrible sirocco by shutting 
 it out and putting on thin clothes. She did not want 
 to see her husband with such a gloomy face nor listen 
 to his complaints. As long as he was crazy and was 
 set on his whim, she did not dare to oppose him. He 
 could paint her; but only a study, not a picture. When 
 he was tired of reproducing her flesh on the canvas 
 they would destroy it, just as if he had done nothing. 
 
 The painter said "yes" to everything, eager to have 
 his brush in hand as soon as possible, before the beauty 
 he craved. For three days he worked with a mad fever, 
 with his eyes unnaturally wide open, as if he meant to 
 devour the graceful outlines with his sight. Josephina, 
 accustomed now to being naked, posed with uncon- 
 scious abandon, with that feminine shamelessness which 
 hesitates only at the first step. Oppressed by the heat, 
 she slept while her husband kept on painting. 
 
 When the work was finished, Josephina could not 
 help admiring it. "How clever you are! But am I 
 really like that, so pretty?" Mariano showed his satis- 
 faction. It was his masterpiece, his best. Perhaps in 
 all his life he might never find another moment like 
 that, of prodigious mental intensity, what people com- 
 monly call inspiration. She continued to admire her- 
 self in the canvas, just as she did some mornings in the 
 great mirror in the bedroom. She praised the various 
 parts of her beauty with frank immodesty. Dazzled by 
 the beauty of her body she did not notice the face, that 
 seemed unimportant, lost in soft veils. When her eyes 
 fell on it she showed a sort of disappointment. 
 
 "It doesn't look much like me ! It isn't my face !" 
 
 The artist smiled. It was not she; he had tried to dis- 
 guise her face, nothing but her face. It was a mask, a 
 concession to social conventions. As it was, no one 
 
64. WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 would recognize her and his work, his great work, might 
 appear and receive the admiration of the world. 
 
 "Because, we aren't going to destroy it," Renovales 
 continued with a tremble in his voice, "that would be 
 a crime. Never in my life will I be able to do anything 
 like it again. We won't destroy it, will we, little girl?" 
 
 The little girl remained silent for a good while with 
 her gaze fixed on the picture. Renovales' eager eyes 
 saw a cloud slowly rise over her face, like a shadow 
 on a white wall. The painter felt as though the floor 
 were sinking under his feet ; the storm was coming. Jo- 
 sephina turned pale, two tears slipped slowly down her 
 cheeks, two others took their places to fall with them 
 and then more and more. 
 
 "I won't! I won't!" 
 
 It was the same hoarse, nervous, despotic cry that 
 had set his hair on end with anxiety and fear that night 
 in Rome. The little woman looked with hatred at the 
 naked body that radiated its pearly light from the depths 
 of the canvas. She seemed to feel the terror of a sleep- 
 walker who suddenly awakens in the midst of a square 
 surrounded by a thousand curious, eager eyes and in 
 her fright does not know what to do nor where to flee. 
 How could she have assented to such a disgraceful 
 thing? 
 
 "I won't have it!" she cried angrily. "Destroy it, 
 Mariano, destroy it." 
 
 But Mariano seemed on th^ point of weeping too. 
 Destroy it! Who could demand such a foolish thing? 
 That figure was not she; no one would recognize her. 
 What was the use of depriving him of a signal triumph? 
 But his wife did not listen to him. She was rolling on 
 the floor with the same convulsions and moans as on 
 the night of the stormy scene, her hands were clenched 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 65 
 
 like a crook, her feet kicked like a dying lamb's and her 
 mouth, painfully distorted, kept crying hoarsely: 
 
 "I won't have it ! I won't have it ! Destroy it !" 
 
 She complained of her lot with a violence that 
 wounded Renovales. She, a respectable woman, sub- 
 mitted to that degradation as if she were a street walker. 
 If she had only known ! How was she going to imagine 
 that her husband would make such abominable proposals 
 to her ! 
 
 Renovales, offended at these insults, at these lashes 
 which her shrill, piercing voice dealt his artistic tal- 
 ent, left his wife, let her roll on the floor and with 
 clenched fists, went from one end of the room to the 
 other, looking at the ceiling, muttering all the oaths, 
 Spanish and Italian, that were in current use in his 
 studio. 
 
 Suddenly he stood still, rooted to the floor by terror 
 and surprise. Josephina, still naked, had jumped on the 
 picture with the quickness of a wild cat. With the first 
 stroke of her finger nails, she scratched the canvas from 
 top to bottom, mingling the colors that were still soft, 
 tearing off the thin shell of the dry parts. Then she 
 caught up the little knife from the paint box and rip! 
 the canvas gave a long moan, parted under the thrust 
 of that white arm which seemed to have a bluish cast in 
 the violence of her wrath. 
 
 He did not move. For a moment he felt indignant, 
 tempted to throw himself on her but he lapsed into a 
 childish weakness, ready to cry, to take refuge in a cor- 
 ner, to hide his weak, aching head. She, blind with 
 wrath, continued to vent her fury on the picture, tan- 
 gling her feet in the wood of the frame, tearing off 
 pieces of canvas, walking back and forth with her prey 
 like a wild beast. The artist had leaned his head against 
 the wall, his strong breast shook with cowardly sobs. 
 
66 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 To the almost fatherly grief at the loss of his work was 
 added the bitterness of disappointment. For the first 
 time he foresaw what his life was going to be. What 
 a mistake he had made in marrying that girl who ad- 
 mired his art as a profession, as a means of making 
 money, and who was trying to mold him to the prej- 
 udices and scruples of the circle in which she was born ! 
 He loved her in spite of this and he was certain that 
 she did not love him less, but, still, perhaps it would 
 have been better to remain alone, free for his art and, 
 in case a companion was necessary, to find a fair maid 
 of all work with all the splendor and intellectual hu- 
 mility of a beautiful animal that would admire and obey 
 her master blindly. 
 
 Three days passed in which the painter and his wife 
 hardly spoke to each other. They looked at each other 
 askance, humbled and broken by this domestic trouble. 
 But the solitude in which they lived, the necessity of 
 remaining together made the reconciliation imperative. 
 She was the first to speak, as if she were terrified by the 
 sadness and dejection of that huge giant who wandered 
 about as peevish as a sick man. She threw her arms 
 around him, kissed his forehead, made a thousand gra- 
 cious efforts to bring a faint smile to his face. "Who 
 loved him ? His Josephina. His Mafa but not his Maja 
 Desnuda; that was over forever. He must never think 
 of those horrible things. A decent painter does not 
 think of them. What would all her friends say? There 
 were many pretty things to paint in the world. They 
 must live in each other's love, without his displeasing 
 her with his hateful whims. His affection for the nude 
 was a shameful remnant of his Bohemian days. 
 
 And Renovales, won over by his wife's petting, made 
 peace, tried to forget his work and smiled with the 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 67 
 
 resignation of a slave who loves his chain because it 
 assures him peace and life. 
 
 They returned to Rome at the beginning of the fall. 
 Renovales began his work for the contractor, but after 
 a few months the latter seemed dissatisfied. Not that 
 Signer Mariano was losing power, not at all, but his 
 agents complained of a certain monotony in the sub- 
 jects of his works. The dealer advised him to travel; 
 he might stay awhile in Umbria, painting peasants in 
 ascetic landscapes, or old churches; he might and this 
 was the best thing to do move to Venice. How much 
 Signer Mariano could accomplish in those canals! And 
 it was thus that the idea of leaving Rome first came to 
 the painter. 
 
 Josephina did not object. That daily round of re- 
 ceptions in the countless embassies and legations was 
 beginning to bore her. Now that the charm of the 
 first impressions had disappeared, Josephina noticed 
 that the great ladies treated her with an annoying con- 
 descension as if she had descended from her rank in 
 marrying an artist. Besides, the younger men in the 
 embassies, the attaches of different nationalities, some 
 light, some dark, who sought relief from their celibacy 
 without going outside diplomatic society, were disgrace- 
 fully impudent as they danced with her or went through 
 the figures of a cotillion, as if they considered her an 
 easy conquest, seeing her married to an artist who could 
 not display an ugly uniform in the drawing rooms. 
 They made cynical declarations to her in English or 
 German and she had to keep her temper, smiling and bit- 
 ing her lips, close to Renovales, who did not understand 
 a word and showed his satisfaction at the attentions 
 of which his wife was the object on the part of the fash- 
 ionable youths whose manners he tried to imitate. 
 
 The trip was decided on. They would go to Venice! 
 
68 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 Their friend Cotoner said "Good-by," he was sorry to 
 part from them but his place was in Rome. The Pope 
 was ailing just at that time and the painter, in the hope 
 of his death, was preparing canvases of all sizes, striv- 
 ing to guess who would be his successor. 
 
 As he went back in his memories, Renovales always 
 thought of his life in Venice with a sort of pleasant 
 homesickness. It was the best period of his life. The 
 enchanting city of the lagoons,- bathed in golden light, 
 lulled by the lapping of the water, fascinated him from 
 the first moment, making him forget his love for the 
 human form. For some time his enthusiasm for the 
 nude was calmed. He worshiped the old palaces, the 
 solitary canals, the lagoon with its green, motionless wa- 
 ter, the soul of a majestic past, which seemed to breathe 
 in the solemn old age of the dead, eternally smiling city. 
 
 They lived in the Foscarini palace, a huge building 
 with red walls and casements of white stone that opened 
 on a little alley of water adjoining the Grand Canal. It 
 was the former abode of merchants, navigators and 
 conquerors of the Isles of the East who in times gone 
 by had worn on their heads the golden horn of the 
 Doges. The modern spirit, utilitarian and irreverent, 
 had converted the palace into a tenement, dividing gilded 
 drawing rooms with ugly partitions, establishing 
 kitchens in the filigreed arcades of the seignorial court, 
 filling the marble galleries to which the centuries gave 
 the amber-like transparency of old ivory, with clothes 
 hung out to dry and replacing the gaps in the superb 
 mosaic with cheap square tiles. 
 
 Renovales and his wife occupied the apartment near- 
 est the Grand Canal. Mornings, Josephina saw from a 
 bay window the rapid silent approach of her husband's 
 gondola. The gondolier, accustomed to the service of 
 artists, shouted to the painter, till Renovales came down 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 69 
 
 with his box of water-colors and the boat started im- 
 mediately through the narrow, winding canals, moving 
 the silvered comb of its prow from one side to the other 
 as if it were feeling the way. What mornings of placid 
 silence in the sleeping .water of an alley, between two 
 palaces whose boldly projecting roofs kept the sur- 
 face of the little canal in perpetual shadow! The gon- 
 dolier slept stretched out in one of the curving ends of 
 his boat and Renovales, sitting beside the black can- 
 opy, painted his Venetian water-colors, a new type that 
 his impresario in Rome received with the greatest en- 
 thusiasm. His deftness enabled him to produce these 
 works with as much facility as if they were mechan- 
 ical copies. In the maze of canals he had one of his own 
 which he called his "estate" on account of the money it 
 netted him. He had painted again and again its dead, 
 silent waters which all day long were never rippled ex- 
 cept by his gondola; two old palaces with broken blinds, 
 the doors covered with the crust of years, stairways 
 rotted with mold and in the background a little arch 
 of light, a marble bridge and under it the life, the move- 
 ment, the sun of a broad, busy canal. The neglected 
 little alley came to life every week under Renovales' 
 brush he could paint it with his eyes shut and the busi- 
 ness initiative of the Roman Jew scattered it through 
 the world. 
 
 The afternoons Mariano passed with his wife. Some- 
 times they went in a gondola to the promenade of the 
 Lido and sitting on the sandy beach, watched the angry 
 surface of the open Adriatic, that stretched its tossing 
 white caps to the horizon, like a flock of snowy sheep 
 hurrying in the rush of a panic. 
 
 Other afternoons they walked in the Square of Saint 
 Mark, under the arcades of its three rows of palaces 
 where they could see in the background, by the last rays 
 
70 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 of the sun, the pale gold of the basilica gleaming, as if 
 in its walls and domes there were crystallized all the 
 wealth of the ancient Republic. 
 
 Renovales, with his wife on his arm, walked calmly as 
 if the majesty of the place impelled him to a sort of 
 noble bearing. The august silence was not disturbed by 
 the deafening hubbub of other great capitals; no rat- 
 tling of carts or footsteps of horses or hucksters' cries. 
 The Square, with its white marble pavement, was a 
 huge drawing room through which the visitors passed 
 as if they were making a call. The musicians of the 
 Venice band were gathered in the center with their hats 
 surmounted by black waving plumes. The blasts of the 
 Wagnerian brasses, galloping in the mad ride of the 
 Valkyries, made the marble columns shake and seemed 
 to. give life to the four golden horses that reared over 
 space with silent whinnies on the cornice of St. Mark's. 
 
 The dark-feathered doves of Venice scattered in play- 
 ful spirals, somewhat frightened at the music, finally 
 settled, like rain, on the tables of the cafe. Then, tak- 
 ing flight again, they blackened the roof of the palaces 
 and once more swooped down like a mantle of metallic 
 luster on the groups of English tourists in green veils 
 and round hats, who called them in order to offer them 
 grain. 
 
 Josephina, with childish eagerness, left her husband 
 in order to buy a cone full of grain, and spreading it 
 out in her gloved hands she gathered the wards of St. 
 Mark around her; they rested on the flowers of her 
 head, fluttering like fantastic crests, they hopped on her 
 shoulders, or lined up on her outstretched arms, they 
 clung desperately to her slight hips, trying to walk 
 around her waist, and others, more daring, as if pos- 
 sessed of human mischievousness, scratched her 
 breast, reached out their beaks striving to caress her 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 71 
 
 ruddy, half -opened lips through the veil. She laughed, 
 trembling at the tickling of the animated cloud that 
 rubbed against her body. Her husband watched her, 
 laughing too, and certain that no one but she would un- 
 derstand him, he called to her in Spanish. 
 
 "My, but you are beautiful! I wish I could paint 
 your picture ! If it weren't for the people, I would kiss 
 you/' 
 
 Venice was the scene of her happiest days. She lived 
 quietly while her husband worked, taking odd corners 
 of the city for his models. When he left the house, her 
 placid calm was not disturbed by any trouble- 
 some thought. This was painting, she was sure, and 
 not the conditions of affairs in Rome, where he would 
 shut himself up with shameless women who were not 
 afraid to pose stark naked. She loved him with a re- 
 newed passion, she petted him with constant caresses. 
 It was then that her daughter was born, their only child. 
 
 Majestic Dona Emilia could not remain in Madrid 
 when she learned that she was going to be a grand- 
 mother. Her poor Josephina, in a foreign land, with 
 no one to take care of her but her husband, who had 
 some talent according to what people said, but who 
 seemed to her rather ordinary! At her son-in-law's 
 expense, she made the trip to Venice and there she 
 stayed for several months, fuming against the city, which 
 she had never visited in her diplomatic travels. The 
 distinguished lady considered that no cities were inhab- 
 itable except the capitals that have a court. Pshaw! 
 Venice ! A shabby town that no one liked but writers of 
 romanzas and decorators of fans, and where there were 
 nothing higher than consuls. She liked Rome with its 
 Pope and kings. Besides, it made her seasick to ride 
 in the gondolas and she complained constantly of the 
 rheumatism, blaming it to the dampness of the lagoons. 
 
72 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 Renovales, who had feared for Josephina's life, be- 
 lieving that her weak, delicate constitution could not 
 stand the shock, broke out into cries of joy when he 
 received the little one in his arms and looked at the 
 mother with her head resting on the pillow as if she were 
 dead. Her white face was hardly outlined against the 
 white of the linen. His first thought was for her, for 
 the pale features, distorted by the recent crisis, which 
 gradually were growing calmer with rest. Poor little 
 girl! How she had suffered! But as he tip-toed out 
 of the bed room in order not to disturb the heavy sleep 
 that, after two cruel days, had overpowered the sick wo- 
 man, he gave himself up to his admiration for the bit of 
 flesh that lay in the huge flabby arms of the grand- 
 mother, wrapped in fine linen. Ah, what a dear little 
 thing! He looked at the livid little face, the big head, 
 thinly covered with hair, seeking for some suggestion 
 of himself in this surge of flesh that was in motion and 
 still without definite form. "Mamma, whom does she 
 look like?" 
 
 Dona Emilia was surprised at his blindness. Whom; 
 should she look like? Like him, no one but him. She 
 was large, enormous; she had seen few babies as large 
 as this one. It did not seem possible that her poor 
 daughter could live after giving birth to "that." They 
 could not complain that she was not healthy; she was 
 as ruddy as a country baby. 
 
 "She's a Renovales; she's yours, wholly yours, Ma- 
 riano. We belong to a different class." 
 
 And Renovales, without noticing his mother's words, 
 saw only that his daughter was like him, overjoyed to 
 see how robust she was, shouting his pleasure at the 
 health of which the grandmother spoke in a disappointed 
 tone. 
 
 In vain did he and Dona Emilia try to dissuade Jo- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT, 73 
 
 sephina from nursing the baby. The little woman, in 
 spite of the weakness that kept her motionless in bed, 
 wept and cried almost as she had in the crises that had 
 so terrified Renovales. 
 
 "I won't have it," she said with that obstinacy that 
 made her so terrible. 
 
 "I won't have a strange woman's milk for my daugh- 
 ter. I will nurse her, her mother." 
 
 And they had to give the baby to her. 
 
 When Josephina seemed recovered, her mother, feel- 
 ing that her mission was over, went home to Madrid. 
 She was bored to death in that silent city of Venice, 
 night after night she thought she was dead, for she could 
 not hear a single sound from her bed. The calm, in- 
 terrupted now and then by the shouts of the gondoliers 
 filled her with the same terror that she felt in a ceme- 
 tery. She had no friends, she did not "shine"; there 
 was nobody in that dirty hole and nobody knew her. 
 She was always recalling her distinguished friends in 
 Madrid where she thought she was an indispensable 
 personage. The modesty of her granddaughter's chris- 
 tening left a deep impression in her mind in spite of the 
 fact that they gave her name to the child; an insignifi- 
 cant little party that needed only two gondolas; she, 
 who was the godmother, with the godfather, an old 
 Venetian painter, who was a friend of Renovales and, 
 besides, Renovales himself and two artists, a French- 
 man and another Spaniard. The Patriarch of Venice 
 did not officiate at the baptism, not even a bishop. And 
 she knew so many of them at home. A mere priest, 
 who was in a shameful hurry, had been sufficient to 
 christen the granddaughter of the famous diplomat, in 
 a little church, as the sun was setting. She went away 
 repeating once more that Josephina was killing herself, 
 that it was perfect folly for her to nurse the baby in 
 
74 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 her delicate condition, regretting that she did not fol- 
 low the example of her mother who had always in- 
 trusted her children to nurses. 
 
 Josephina cried bitterly when her mother went, but 
 Renovales said "good-by" with ill-concealed joy. Bon 
 voyage! He simply could not endure the woman, al- 
 ways complaining that she was being neglected when 
 she saw how her son-in-law was working to make her 
 daughter happy. The only thing he agreed with her in 
 was in scolding Josephina tenderly for her obstinacy 
 in nursing the baby. Poor little Maja Desnuda! Her 
 form had lost its bud-like daintiness in the full flower 
 of motherhood. 
 
 She appeared more robust, but the stoutness was ac- 
 companied by an anemic weakness. Her husband, see- 
 ing how she was losing her daintiness, loved her with 
 more tender compassion. Poor little girl ! How good 
 she was ! She was sacrificing herself for her daughter. 
 
 When the baby was a year old, the great crisis in 
 Renovales' life occurred. Desirous of taking a "bath 
 in art," of knowing what was going on outside of the 
 dungeon in which he was imprisoned, painting at so 
 much a piece, he left Josephina in Venice and made a 
 short trip to Paris to see its famous Salon. He came 
 back transfigured, with a new fever for work and a 
 determination to transform his existence which filled his 
 wife with astonishment and fear. He was going to 
 break with his impresario, he would no longer debase 
 himself with that false painting, even if he had to beg 
 for his living. Great things were being done in the 
 world, and he felt that he had the courage to be an in- 
 novator, following the steps of those modern painters 
 who made such a profound impression on him. 
 
 Now he hated old Italy, where artists went to study 
 under the protection of ignorant governments. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT, 75 
 
 In reality what they found there was a market of 
 tempting commissions where they soon grew accus- 
 tomed to taking orders, to the luxurious, indifferent life 
 of easy profit. He wanted to move to Paris. But Jo- 
 sephina, who listened to Renovales' fancies in silence, 
 unable to understand them for the most part, modified 
 this determination by her advice. She too wanted to 
 leave Venice. The city seemed gloomy in the winter 
 with its ceaseless rains that left the bridges slippery and 
 the marble alleys impassable. Since they were deter- 
 mined to break up camp, why not go back to Ma- 
 drid? Mamma was sick, she complained in all her 
 letters at living so far from her daughter. Josephina 
 wanted to see her, she had a presentiment that her 
 mother was going to die. Renovales thought it over; 
 he too wanted to go back to Spain. He felt homesick; 
 he thought of the great stir he would cause there, teach- 
 ing his new methods amid the general routine. The de- 
 sire of shocking the Academicians, who had accepted 
 him before because he had renounced his ideals, tempted 
 him. 
 
 They went back to Madrid with little Milita, as they 
 called her for short, abbreviating the diminutive of Em- 
 ilia. Renovales brought with him as his whole capital 
 some few thousand lire, that represented Josephina's 
 savings and the product of his sale of part of the fur- 
 niture that decorated the poorly furnished halls of the 
 Foscarini palace. 
 
 At first it was hard. Dona Emilia died a few months 
 after they reached Madrid. Her funeral did not come 
 up to the dreams the illustrious widow had always fash- 
 ioned. Hardly a score of her countless relatives were 
 present. Poor old lady, if she had known how her hopes 
 were destined to be disappointed! Renovales was al- 
 most glad of the event. With it, the only tie that bound 
 
76 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 them to society was broken. He and Josephina lived 
 in a fifth story flat on the Calle de Alcala, near the Plaza 
 de Toros, with a large terrace that the artist converted 
 into a studio. Their life was modest, secluded, hum- 
 ble, without friends or functions. She spent the day 
 taking care of her daughter and the house, without 
 help except a dull, poorly-paid maid. Oftentimes when 
 she seemed most active, she fell into a sudden languor, 
 complaining of strange, new ailments. 
 
 Mariano hardly ever worked at home; he painted out 
 of doors. He despised the conventional light of the 
 studio, the closeness of its atmosphere. He wandered 
 through the suburbs of Madrid and the neighboring 
 provinces in search of rough, simple types, whose faces 
 seemed to bear the stamp of the ancient Spanish soul. 
 He climbed the Guadarrama in the midst of winter, 
 standing alone in the snowy fields like an Arctic ex- 
 plorer, to transfer to his canvas the century-old pines, 
 twisted and black under their caps of frozen sleet. 
 
 When the Exhibition took place, Renovales' name 
 became famous in a flash. He did not present a huge 
 picture with a key, as he had at his first triumph. They 
 were small canvases, studies prompted by a chance 
 meeting; bits of nature, men and landscapes reproduced 
 with an astonishing, brutal truth that shocked the pub- 
 lic. 
 
 The sober fathers of painting writhed as if they had 
 received a slap in the face, before those sketches that 
 seemed to flame among the other dead, leaden pictures. 
 They admitted that Renovales was a painter, but he 
 lacked imagination, invention, his only merit was his abil- 
 ity to transfer to the canvas what his eyes saw. The 
 younger men flocked to the standard of the new master; 
 there were endless disputes, impassioned arguments, 
 deadly hatred, and over this battle Renovales' name 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 77 
 
 flitted, appearing almost daily in the newspapers, till he 
 was almost as celebrated as a bull-fighter or an orator in 
 the Congress. 
 
 The struggle lasted for six years, giving rise to a 
 storm of insults and applause every time that Renovales 
 exhibited one of his works, and meanwhile the mas- 
 ter, discussed as he was, lived in poverty, forced to 
 paint watercolors in the old style which he secretly sent 
 to his dealer in Rome. But all combats have their end. 
 The public finally accepted as unquestionable a name 
 that they saw every day; his enemies, weakened by the 
 unconscious effect of public opinion, grew tired, and the 
 master like all innovators, as soon as the first success of 
 the scandal was over, began to limit his daring, prun- 
 ing and softening his original brutality. The dreaded 
 painter became fashionable. The easy, instantaneous 
 success he had won at the beginning of his career was 
 renewed, but more solidly and more definitely, like a 
 conquest made by rough, hard paths when there is a 
 struggle at every step. 
 
 Money, the fickle page, came back to him, holding 
 the train of glory. He sold pictures at prices unheard 
 of in Spain and they grew fabulously as they were re- 
 peated by his admirers. Some American millionaires, 
 surprised that a Spanish painter should be mentioned 
 abroad and that the principal reviews in Europe should 
 reproduce his works, bought canvases as objects of 
 great luxury. The master, embittered by the poverty 
 of his years of struggle, suddenly felt a longing for 
 money, an overpowering greed that his friends had never 
 known in him. His wife seemed to grow more sick- 
 ly every day; her daughter was growing up and 
 he wanted his Milita to have the education and the lux- 
 uries of a princess. They now had a respectable house 
 of their own, but he wanted something better for them. 
 
78 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 His business instinct, which everyone recognized in him 
 when he was not blinded by some artistic prejudice, 
 strove to make his brush an instrument of great profits. 
 
 Pictures were bound to disappear, according to the 
 master. Modern rooms, small and soberly decorated, 
 were not fitted for the large canvases that ornamented 
 the walls of drawing rooms in the old days. Besides, 
 the reception rooms of the present, like the rooms in a 
 doll's house, were good merely for pretty pictures 
 marked by stereotyped mannerisms. Scenes taken from 
 nature were out of place in this background. The 
 only way to make money then was to paint portraits 
 and Renovales forgot his distinction as an innovator in 
 order to win at any cost fame as a portrait painter of 
 society people. He painted members of the royal fam- 
 ily in all sorts of postures, not omitting any of their im- 
 portant occupations; on foot, and on horseback, with a 
 general's plumes or a gray hunting jacket, killing pi- 
 geons or riding in an automobile. He portrayed the 
 beauties of the oldest families, concealing imperceptibly, 
 with clever dissimulation, the ravages of time, giving 
 firmness to the flabby flesh with his brush, holding up 
 the heavy eyelids and cheeks that sagged with fatigue 
 and the poison of rouge. After successes at court, the 
 rich considered a portrait by Renovales as an indispen- 
 sable decoration for their drawing rooms. They sought 
 him because his signature cost thousands of dollars; to 
 possess a canvas by him was an evidence of opulence, 
 quite as necessary as an automobile of the best make. 
 
 Renovales was as rich as a painter can be. It was at 
 that time that he built what envious people called his 
 "pantheon" ; a magnificent mansion behind the iron grat- 
 ing of the Retiro. 
 
 He had a violent desire to build a home after his own 
 heart and image, like thoee mollwsks that build a shell 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 791 
 
 with the substance of their bodies so that it may serve 
 both as a dwelling and a defense. There awakened in 
 him that longing for show, for pompous, swaggering, 
 amusing originality that lies dormant in the mind of 
 every artist. At first he planned a reproduction of Ru- 
 bens' palace in Antwerp, open loggie for studios, leafy 
 gardens covered with flowers at all seasons, and in 
 the paths, gazelles, giraffes, birds of bright plumage, 
 like flying flowers, and other exotic animals which this 
 great painter used as models in his desire to copy Na- 
 ture in all its magnificence. 
 
 But he was forced to give up this dream, on account 
 of the nature of the building sites in Madrid, a few 
 thousand feet of barren, chalky soil, bounded by a 
 wretched fence and as dry as only Castile can be. Since 
 this Rubenesque ostentation was not possible, he took 
 refuge in Classicism and in a little garden he erected a 
 sort of Greek temple that should serve at once as a 
 dwelling and a studio. On the triangular pediment rose 
 three tripods like torch-holders, that gave the house the 
 appearance of a commemorative tomb. But in order 
 that those who stopped outside the grating might make 
 no mistake, the master had garlands of laurel, palettes 
 surrounded with crowns, carved on the stone fagade, 
 and in the midst of this display of simple modesty a 
 short inscription in gold letters of average size "Re- 
 novales." Exactly like a store. Inside, in two studios 
 where no one ever painted and which led to the real 
 working studio, the finished pictures were exhibited on 
 easels covered with antique textures, and callers gazed 
 with wonder at the collection of properties fit for a thea- 
 ter, suits of armor, tapestries, old standards hanging 
 from the ceiling, show-cases full of ancient knick- 
 knacks, deep couches with canopies of oriental stuffs 
 supported by lances, century old coffers and open secre- 
 
80 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT' 
 
 taries shining with the pale gold of their rows of draw- 
 ers. 
 
 These studios where no one studied were like the 
 luxurious line of waiting rooms in the house of a doc- 
 tor who charges twenty dollars for a consultation, or 
 like the anterooms, furnished in dark leather with ven- 
 erable pictures, of a famous lawyer, who never opens 
 his mouth without carrying off a large portion of his 
 client's fortune. People who waited in these two 
 studios spacious as the nave of a church, with the si- 
 lent majesty which comes with the lapse of years, were 
 brought to the necessary frame of mind to make them 
 submit to the enormous prices the master demanded. 
 
 Renovales had "made good" and he could rest calm- 
 ly, as his admirers said. And still the master was 
 gloomy ; his nature, embittered by his years of silent suf- 
 fering, broke out in violent fits of temper. 
 
 The slightest attack by some insignificant enemy was 
 enough to send him into a rage. His pupils thought it 
 was due to the fact that he was getting old. His .strug- 
 gles had so aged him that with his heavy beard and his 
 round shoulders he looked ten years older than he was. 
 
 In this white temple, on the pediment of which his 
 name shone in letters of glorious gold, he was not so 
 happy as in the modest houses in Italy or the little gar- 
 ret near the Plaza de Toros. All that was left of the 
 Josephina of the first months of his married life was a 
 distant shadow. The "Maja Desnuda" of the happy 
 nights in Rome and Venice was nothing but a memory. 
 On her return to Spain the false stoutness of mother- 
 hood had disappeared. 
 
 She grew thin, as if some hidden fire were devouring 
 her; the flesh that had covered her body with graceful 
 curves melted away in the flames that burned within her. 
 The sharp angles and dark hollows of her skeleton be- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 81 
 
 gan to show beneath her pale, flabby flesh. Poor "Maja 
 Desnuda" ! Her husband pitied her, attributing her de- 
 cline to the struggles and cares she had suffered when 
 they first returned to Madrid. 
 
 For her sake, he was eager to conquer, to become 
 rich, that he might provide her with the comforts he 
 had dreamed of. Her illness seemed to be mental; it 
 was neurasthenia, melancholia. The poor woman had 
 suffered without doubt at being condemned to a pau- 
 per's existence, in Madrid, where she had once lived 
 in comparative splendor, this time in a wretched house, 
 struggling with poverty, forced to perform the most 
 menial tasks. She complained of strange pains, her legs 
 lost their strength, she sank into a chair where she would 
 stay motionless for hours at a time, weeping with- 
 out knowing why. Her digestion was poor; for weeks 
 her stomach refused all nourishment. At night she 
 would toss about in bed, unable to sleep and at day- 
 break she was up flitting about the house with a 
 feverish activity, turning things upside down, finding 
 fault with the servant, with her husband, with herself, 
 until suddenly she would collapse from the height of 
 her excitement and begin to cry. 
 
 These domestic trials broke the painter's spirit, but 
 he bore them patiently. Now a gentle sympathy was 
 added to his former love, when he saw her so weak, 
 without any remnant of her former charm except her 
 eyes, sunk in their bluish sockets, bright with the mys- 
 terious fire of fever. Poor little girl! Her struggles 
 brought her to such a pass. Her weakness filled Re- 
 no vales with a sort of remorse. Her lot was that of the 
 soldier who sacrifices himself for his general's glory. 
 He had conquered, but he left behind him the woman 
 he loved, fallen in the struggle because she was the 
 weaker. 
 
82 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 He admired, too, her maternal self-sacrifice. The 
 baby, Milita, who attracted attention because of her 
 whiteness and ruddiness, had the strength that her 
 mother lacked. The greediness of this strong, enslav- 
 ing creature had absorbed all of the mother's life. 
 
 When the artist was rich and installed his family in 
 the new house, he thought that Josephina was going 
 to get well. The doctors were confident of a rapid im- 
 provement. The first day that they walked through the 
 parlors and studios of the new house, taking note of 
 the furniture and the valuables, old and new, with a 
 glance of satisfaction, Renovales put him arm around 
 the waist of the weak little doll, bending his head over 
 her, caressing her forehead with his bearded lips. 
 
 Everything was hers, the house and its sumptuous 
 decorations, hers too was the money that was left and 
 that he would continue to make. She was the owner, 
 the absolute mistress, she could spend all she wanted to, 
 he would stand for everything. She could wear stylish 
 clothes, have carriages, make her former friends green 
 with envy, be proud of being the wife of a famous 
 painter, much more proud than others who had landed 
 a ducal crown by marriage. Was she satisfied? 
 
 She said "Yes," nodding her assent weakly, and she 
 even stood on tip-toe to kiss the lips that seemed to 
 caress her through a cloud of hair, but her expression 
 was sad and her listless movements were like a with- 
 ered flower's, as if there was no joy on earth that could 
 lift her out of this dejection. 
 
 After a few days, when the first impress of the change 
 in her mode of life was over, the old outbreaks 
 that had so often disturbed their former dwelling be- 
 gan again in the luxurious palace. 
 
 Renovales found her in the dining-room with her 
 head in her hands, crying, but unwilling to explain the 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 83 
 
 cause of her tears. When he tried to take her in his 
 arms, caressing her like a child, the little woman became 
 as agitated as if she had received an insult 
 
 "Let me go!" she cried with a hostile look. "Don't 
 touch me. Go away!" 
 
 At other times he looked all over the house for her 
 in vain, questioning Milita who, accustomed to her moth- 
 er's outbreaks and made selfish by her girlish strength, 
 paid little attention to her and kept on playing with her 
 dolls. 
 
 "I don't know, papa; she's probably crying up stairs," 
 she would answer naively. 
 
 And in some corner of the upper story, in the bed- 
 room, beside the bed or among the clothes in the ward- 
 robe, the husband would find her, sitting on the floor 
 with her chin in her hands, her eyes fixed on the wall 
 as if she were looking at something invisible and mys- 
 terious that only she could see. She was not crying, 
 her eyes were dry and enlarged with an expression of 
 terror, and her husband tried in vain to attract her at- 
 tention. She remained motionless, cold, indifferent to 
 his caresses, as if he were a stranger, as if there were a 
 hopeless gap between them. 
 
 "I want to die," she said in a serious, tense tone. "I 
 am -of no use in the world; I want to rest." 
 
 The deadly resignation would change a moment later 
 into furious antagonism. Renovales could never teH 
 how the quarrel began. The most insignificant word on 
 his part, the expression of his face, silence even, was 
 all that was needed to bring on the storm. Josephina 
 began to speak with a taunting accent that made her 
 words cut like cold steel. She found fault with the 
 painter for what he did and what he did not do, for his 
 most trifling habits, for what he painted, and presently, 
 extending the radius of her insults to include the whole 
 
S4, WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 world, she broke out into denunciations of the distin- 
 guished people who formed her husband's clientele and 
 brought him such profits. He might be satisfied with 
 painting the portraits of those people, disreputable so- 
 ciety men and women. Her mother, who was in close 
 touch with that society, had told her many stories about 
 them. The women she knew still better; almost all of 
 them had been her companions at boarding-school or her 
 friends. They had married to make sport of their hus- 
 bands; they all had a past, they were worse than the 
 women who walked the streets at night. This house 
 with all its fagade of laurels and its gold letters was 
 a brothel. One of these fine days she would come into 
 the studio and throw them into the street to have their 
 pictures painted somewhere else. 
 
 "For God's sake, Josephina," Renovales murmured 
 with a troubled voice, "don't talk like that. Don't think 
 of such outrageous things. I don't see how you can 
 talk that way. Milita will hear us." 
 
 Now that her nervous anger was exhausted, Josephina 
 would burst into tears and Renovales would have to 
 leave the table and take her to bed, where she lay, cry- 
 ing out for the hundredth time that she wanted to die. 
 
 This life was even more intolerable because he was 
 faithful to his wife, because his love, mingled with habit 
 and routine, kept him firmly devoted to her. 
 
 At the end of the afternoon, several of his friends 
 used to gather in his studio, among them the jolly Co- 
 toner who had moved to Madrid. When the twilight 
 crept in through the huge window and made them all 
 prone to friendly confidences, Renovales always made 
 the same statement. 
 
 "As a boy I had my good times just like anyone else, 
 but since I was married I have never had anything to 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 85 
 
 do with any woman except my own wife. I am proud 
 to say so." 
 
 And the big man drew himself up to his full height 
 and stroked his beard, as proud of his faithfulness- to 
 his wife as other men are of their good fortune in love. 
 
 When they talked about beautiful women in his pres- 
 ence, or looked at portraits of great foreign beauties, 
 the master did not conceal his approval. 
 
 "Very beautiful ! Very pretty to paint !" 
 
 His enthusiasm over beauty never went beyond the 
 limits of art. There was only one woman in the world 
 for him, his wife; the others were models. 
 
 He, who carried in his mind a perfect orgy of flesh, 
 who worshiped the nude with religious fervor, re- 
 served all his manly homage for his wife who grew con- 
 stantly more sickly, more gloomy, and waited with the 
 patience of a lover for a moment of calm, a ray of sun- 
 light among the incessant storms. 
 
 The doctors, who admitted their inability to cure the 
 nervous disorder that was consuming the wife, had 
 hopes of a sudden change and recommended to the 
 husband that he should be extremely kind to her. This 
 only increased his patient gentleness. They attributed 
 the nervous trouble to the birth and nursing of the child, 
 that had broken her weak health; they suspected, too, 
 the existence of some unknown cause that kept the sick 
 woman in constant excitement. 
 
 Renovales, who studied his wife closely in his eager- 
 ness to recover peace in his house, soon discovered the 
 true cause of her illness. 
 
 Milita was growing up; already she was a woman. 
 She was fourteen years old and wore long skirts, and 
 her healthy beauty was beginning to attract the glances 
 of men. 
 
 "One of these days they'll carry her off," said the 
 
86 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 master laughing. And his wife, when she heard him 
 talking about marriage, making conjectures on his fu- 
 ture son-in-law, closed her eyes and said in a tense voice, 
 that revealed her insuperable obstinacy: 
 
 "She shall marry anyone she wants to, except a 
 painter. I would rather see her dead than that." 
 
 It was then Renovales divined his wife's true illness. 
 It was jealousy, a terrific, deadly, ruinous jealousy; it 
 was the sadness of realizing that she was sickly. She 
 was certain of her husband; she knew his declarations 
 of faithfulness to her. But when the painter spoke of 
 his artistic interests in her presence, he did not hide his 
 worship of beauty, his religious cult of form. Even if 
 he was silent, she penetrated his thoughts; she read in 
 him that fervor which dated from his youth and had 
 grown greater as the years went by. When she looked 
 at the statues of sovereign nakedness that decorated 
 the studios, when she glanced through the albums of 
 pictures where the light of flesh shone brightly amid 
 the shadows of the engraving, she compared them men- 
 tally with her own form emaciated by illness. 
 
 Renovales' eyes that seemed to worship every beauty 
 of form were the same eyes that saw her in all her ugli- 
 ness. That man could never love her. His faithfulness 
 was pity, perhaps habit, unconscious virtue. She could 
 not believe that it was love. This illusion might be 
 possible with another man, but he was an artist. By day 
 he worshiped beauty; at night he was brought face to 
 face wifch ugliness, with physical wretchedness. 
 
 She was constantly tormented by jealousy, that embit- 
 tered her mind and consumed her life, a jealousy that 
 was inconsolable for the very reason that it had no real 
 foundation. 
 
 The consciousness of her ugliness brought with it a 
 sadness, an insatiable envy of everyone, a desire to die 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 8* 
 
 but to kill the world first, that she might drag 1 it down 
 with her in her fall. 
 
 Her husband's caresses irritated her like an insult 
 Maybe he thought he loved her, maybe his advance* 
 were in good faith, but she read his thoughts and she 
 found there her irresistible enemy, the rival that over- 
 shadowed her with her beauty. And there was no rem- 
 edy for this. She was married to a man who, as long! 
 as he lived, would be faithful to his religion of beauty _^ 
 How well she remembered the days when she had re- 
 fused to allow her husband to paint her youthful body! 
 If youth and beauty would but come back to her, she 
 would recklessly cast off all her veils, would stand in 
 the middle of the studio as arrogantly as a bacchante, 
 crying, 
 
 "Paint! Satisfy yourself with my flesh, and when- 
 ever you think of your eternal beloved, whom you call 
 Beauty, fancy that you see her with my face, that she 
 has my body!" 
 
 It was a terrible misfortune to be the wife of an 
 artist. She would never marry her daughter to a 
 painter ; she would rather see her dead. Men who carry 
 with them the demon of form, cannot live in peace and 
 happiness except with a companion who is eternally 
 young, eternally fair. 
 
 Her husband's fidelity made her desperate. That 
 chaste artist was always musing over the memory of 
 naked beauties, fancying pictures he did not dare to 
 paint for fear of her. With her sick woman's penetra- 
 tion, she seemed to read this longing in her husband's 
 face. She would have preferred certain infidelity, to 
 see him in love with another woman, mad with passion. 
 He might return from such a wandering outside the 
 bonds of matrimony, wearied and humble, begging her 
 forgiveness; but from the other, he would never return. 
 
!88 AVOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 When Renovales discovered the cause of her sadness, 
 he tenderly undertook to cure his wife's mental disor- 
 der. He avoided speaking of his artistic interests in her 
 presence; he discovered terrible defects in the fair la- 
 dies who sought him as a portrait painter; he praised 
 Josephina's spiritual beauty; he painted pictures of her, 
 putting her features on the canvas, but beautifying them 
 with subtle skill. 
 
 She smiled, with that eternal condescension that a 
 woman has for the most stupendous, most shameful de- 
 ceits, as long as they flatter her. 
 
 "It's you," said Renovales, "your face, your charm, 
 your air of distinction. I really don't think I have made 
 you as beautiful as you are." 
 
 She continued to smile, but soon her look grew hard, 
 her lips tightened and the shadow spread little by lit- 
 tle across her face. 
 
 She fixed her eyes on the painter's as if she were scru- 
 tinizing his thoughts. 
 
 It was a lie. Her husband was flattering her; he 
 thought he loved her, but only his flesh was faithful. 
 The invincible enemy, the eternal beloved, was mistress 
 of his mind. 
 
 Tortured by this mental unfaithfulness and by the 
 rage which her helplessness produced, she would gradu- 
 ally fall into one of the nervous storms that broke out 
 in a shower of tears and a thunder of insults and re- 
 criminations. 
 
 Renovales' life was a hell at the very time when he 
 possessed the glory and wealth which he had dreamed 
 of so many years, building on them his hope of happi- 
 ness. 
 
IV! 
 
 IT was three o'clock in the afternoon when the painter 
 went home after his luncheon with the Hungarian. 
 
 As he entered the dining-room, before going to the 
 studio, he saw two women with their hats and veils on 
 who looked as if they were getting ready to go out. One 
 of them, as tall as the painter, threw her arms around his 
 neck. 
 
 "Papa, dear, we waited for you until nearly two 
 o'clock. Did you have a good luncheon ?" 
 
 And she kissed him noisily, rubbing her fresh, rosy 
 cheeks against the master's gray beard. 
 
 Renovales smiled good naturedly under this shower of 
 caresses. Ah, his Milita ! She was the only joy in that 
 gloomy, showy house. It was she who sweetened that 
 atmosphere of tedious strife which seemed to emanate 
 from the sick woman. He looked at his daughter with 
 an air of comic gallantry. 
 
 "Very pretty ; yes, I swear you are very pretty to-day. 
 You are a perfect Rubens, my dear, a brunette Rubens. 
 And where are we going to show off ?" 
 
 He looked with a father's pride at that strong, rosy 
 body, in which the transition to womanhood was marked 
 by a sort of passing delicacy the result of her rapid 
 growth and a dark circle around her eyes. Her soft, 
 mysterious glance was that of a woman who is beginning 
 to understand the meaning of life. She dressed with a 
 sort of exotic elegance ; her clothes had a masculine ap- 
 pearance; her mannish collar and tie were in keeping 
 with the rigid energy of her movements, with her wide- 
 
 80 
 
90 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 soled English boots, and the violent swing of her legs that 
 opened her skirts like a compass when she walked, more 
 intent on speed and a heavy step than on a graceful car- 
 riage. The master admired her healthy beauty. What a 
 splendid specimen ! The race would not' die out with her. 
 She was like him, wholly like him ; if he had been a 
 woman, he would have been like his Milita. 
 
 She kept on talking, without taking her arms from her 
 father's shoulders, with her eyes, tremulous like molten 
 gold, fixed on the master. 
 
 She was going for her daily walk with "Miss," a two 
 hours' tramp through the Castellana and the Retiro, with- 
 out stopping a moment to sit down, taking a peripatetic 
 lesson in English on the way. For the first time Re- 
 novales turned around to speak to "Miss," a stout woman 
 with a red, wrinkled face who, when she smiled, showed 
 a set of teeth that shone like yellow dominoes. In the 
 studio Renovales and his friends often laughed at 
 "Miss's" appearance and eccentricities, at her red wig 
 that was placed on her head as carelessly as a hat, at her 
 terrible false teeth, at her bonnets that she made herself 
 out of chance bits of ribbon and discarded ornaments, of 
 her chronic lack of appetite, that forced her to live on 
 beer, which kept her in a continual state of confusion, 
 which was revealed in her exaggerated curtsies. Soft 
 and heavy from drink, she was alarmed at the approach 
 of the hour of the walk, a daily torment for her, as she 
 tried painfully to keep up with Milita's long strides. See- 
 ing the painter looking at her, she turned even redder and 
 made three profound curtsies. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Renovales, oh, sir !" 
 
 And she did not call him "Lord," because the master 
 greeting her with a nod, forgot her presence and began to 
 talk again with his daughter. 
 
 Milita was eager to hear about her father's luncheon 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 91 
 
 with Tekli. And so he had had some Chianti? Selfish 
 man ! When he knew how much she liked it ! He ought 
 to have let them know sooner that he would not be home. 
 Fortunately Cotoner was at the house and mamma had 
 made him stay, so that they would not have to lunch 
 alone. Their old friend had gone to the kitchen and pre- 
 pared one of those dishes he had learned to make in the 
 days when he was a landscape-painter. Milita observed 
 that all landscape-painters knew something about cook- 
 ing. Their outdoor life, the necessities of their wander- 
 ing existence among country inns and huts, defying pov- 
 erty, gave them a liking for this art. 
 
 They had had a very pleasant luncheon; mamma had 
 laughed at Cotoner 's jokes, who was always in good 
 humor, but during the dessert, when Soldevilla, Re- 
 novales' favorite pupil, came, she had felt indisposed and 
 had disappeared to hide her eyes swimming with tears 
 and her breast that heaved with sobs. 
 
 "She's probably upstairs," said the girl with a sort of 
 indifference, accustomed to these outbreaks. "Good-by, 
 papa, dear, a kiss. Cotoner and Soldevilla are waiting 
 for you in the studio. Another kiss. Let me bite you." 
 
 And after fixing her little teeth gently in one of the 
 master's cheeks, she ran out, followed by Miss, who was 
 already puffing in anticipation at the thought of the tire- 
 some walk. 
 
 Renovales remained motionless as if he hesitated to 
 shake off the atmosphere of affection in which his daugh- 
 ter enveloped him. Milita was his, wholly his. She loved 
 her mother, but her affection was cold in comparison with 
 the ardent passion she felt for him that vague, instinc- 
 tive preference girls feel for their fathers and which is, 
 as it were, a forecast of the worship the man they love 
 will later inspire in them. 
 
 For a moment he thought of looking for Josephina to 
 
92 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 console her, but after a brief reflection, he gave up the 
 idea. It probably was nothing ; his daughter was not dis- 
 turbed ; a sudden fit such as she usually had. If he went 
 upstairs he would run the risk of an unpleasant scene 
 that would spoil the afternoon, rob him of his desire to 
 work and banish the youthful light-heartedness that filled 
 him after his luncheon with Tekli. 
 
 He turned his steps towards the last studio, the only 
 one that deserved the name, for it was there he worked, 
 and he saw Cotoner sitting in a huge armchair, the seat 
 of which sagged under his corpulent frame, with his 
 elbows resting on the oaken arms, his waistcoat unbut- 
 toned to relieve his well-filled paunch, his head sunk be- 
 tween his shoulders, his face red and sweating, his eyes 
 half closed with the sweet joy of digestion in that com- 
 fortable atmosphere heated by a huge stove. 
 
 Cotoner was getting old; his mustache was white and 
 his head was bald, but his face was as rosy and shining 
 as a child's. He breathed the placidness of a respectable 
 old bachelor whose only love is for good living and who 
 appreciates the digestive sleepiness of the boaconstrictor 
 as the greatest of happiness. 
 
 He was tired of living in Rome. Commissions were 
 scarce. The Popes lived longer than the Biblical patri- 
 archs. The chromo portraits of the Pontiff had simply 
 forced him out of business. Besides, he was old and the 
 young painters who came to Rome did not know him; 
 they were poor fellows who looked on him as a clown, 
 and never laid aside their seriousness except to make 
 sport of him. His time had passed. The echoes of 
 Mariano's triumphs at home had come to his ears, had 
 determined him to move to Madrid. Life was the same 
 everywhere. He had friends in Madrid, too. And here 
 he had continued the life he had led in Rome, without 
 any effort, feeling a kind of longing for glory in that 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT/ 93 
 
 narrow personality which had made him a mere day- 
 laborer in art, as if his relations with Renovales im- 
 posed on him the duty of seeking a place near his in the 
 world of painting. 
 
 He had gone back to landscapes, never winning any 
 greater success than the simple admirations of wash- 
 women and brickmakers who gathered around his easel 
 in the suburbs of Madrid, whispering to each other that 
 the gentleman who wore on his lapel the variegated but- 
 ton of his numerous Papal Orders, must be a famous old 
 "buck," one of the great painters the papers talked about. 
 Renovales had secured for him two honorable mentions 
 at the Exhibitions and after this victory, shared with all 
 the young chaps who were just beginning, Cotoner set- 
 tled down in the rut, to rest forever, counting that the 
 mission of his life was fulfilled. 
 
 Life in Madrid was no more difficult for him than in 
 Rome. He slept at the house of a priest whom he had 
 known in Italy, and had accompanied on his tours as 
 Papal representative. This chaplain, who was employed 
 in the office of the Rota, considered it a great honor to 
 entertain the artist, recalling his friendly relations with 
 the cardinals and believing that he was in correspondence 
 with the Pope himself. 
 
 They had agreed on a sum which he was to pay for his 
 lodging, but the priest did not seem to be in any hurry 
 for payment; he would soon give him a commission for 
 a painting for some nuns for whom he was confessor. 
 
 The eating problem offered still less difficulty for Co- 
 toner. He had the days of the week divided among 
 various rich families noted for their piety, whom he had 
 met in Rome during the great Spanish pilgrimages. They 
 were wealthy miners from Bilbao, gentlemen farmers 
 from Andalusia, old marchionesses who thought about 
 God a great deal, but continued to live their comfortable 
 
94 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 life to which they gave a serious tone by the respectable 
 color of devotion. 
 
 The painter felt closely attached to this little group; 
 they were serious, religious and they ate well. Every- 
 one called him "good Cotoner." The ladies smiled with 
 gratitude when he presented them with a rosary or some 
 other article of devotion brought from Rome. If they 
 expressed the desire of obtaining some dispensation from 
 the Vatican, he would offer to write to "his friend the 
 cardinal." The husbands, glad to entertain an artist so 
 cheaply, consulted him about the plan for a new chapel 
 or the designs for an altar, and on their saint's day they 
 would receive with a condescending mien some present 
 from Cotoner a "little daub/' a landscape painted on a 
 piece of wood, that often needed an explanation before 
 they could understand what it was meant for. 
 
 At dinners he was a constant source of amusement for 
 these people of solid principles and measured words, with 
 his stories of the strange doings of the "Monsignori" or 
 the "Eminences" he used to know in Rome. They lis- 
 tened to these jokes with a sort of unction, however 
 dubious they were, seeing that they came from such re- 
 spectable personages. 
 
 When the round of invitations was interrupted by ill- 
 ness or absence, and Cotoner lacked a place to dine, he 
 stayed at Renovales' house without waiting for -an invi- 
 tation. The master wanted him to live with them, but 
 he did not accept. He was very fond of the family; 
 Milita played with him as if he were an old dog, 
 Josephina felt a sort of affection for him, because his 
 presence reminded her of the good old days in Rome. 
 But Cotoner, in spite of this, seemed to be somewhat re- 
 luctant, divining the storms that darkened the master's 
 life. He preferred his free existence, to which he adapted 
 himself with the ease of a parasite. After dinner was 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 95 
 
 over, he would listen to the weighty discussions between 
 learned priests and serious old church-goers, nodding his 
 approval, and an hour later he would be jesting impiously 
 in some cafe or other with painters, actors and journal- 
 ists. He knew everybody; he only needed to speak to 
 an artist twice and he would call him by his first name 
 and swear that he loved and admired him from the bot- 
 tom of his heart. When Renovales came into the studio, 
 he shook oft" his drowsiness and stretched out his short 
 legs so that he could touch the floor and get out of the 
 chair. 
 
 "Did they tell you, Mariano? A magnificent dish! I 
 made them an Andalusian pot-pourri ! They were tickled 
 to death over it!" 
 
 He was enthusiastic over his culinary achievement as 
 if all his merits were summed up in this skill. After- 
 wards, while Renovales was handing his coat and hat to 
 the servant who followed him, Cotoner with the curiosity 
 of an intimate friend who wants to know all the details 
 of his idol's life, questioned him about his luncheon with 
 the foreigner. 
 
 Renovales lay down on a divan deep as a niche, be- 
 tween two bookcases and lined with piles of cushions. 
 As they spoke of Tekli, they recalled friends in Rome, 
 painters of different nationalities who twenty years be- 
 fore had walked with their heads high, following the 
 star of hope as if they were hypnotized. Renovales, in 
 his pride in his strength, incapable of hypocritical mod- 
 esty, declared that he was the only one who had suc- 
 ceeded. Poor Tekli was a professor ; his copy of Velas- 
 quez amounted to nothing more than the work of a 
 patient cart horse in art. 
 
 "Do you think so ?" asked Cotoner doubtfully. "Is his 
 work so poor?'* 
 
 His selfishness kept him from saying a word against 
 
96 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT; 
 
 anyone; he had no faith in criticism, he believed blindly 
 in praise; thereby preserving his reputation as a good 
 fellow, which gave him the entree everywhere and made 
 his life easy. The figure of the Hungarian was fixed in 
 his memory and made him think of a series of luncheons 
 before he left Madrid. 
 
 "Good afternoon, master." 
 
 It was Soldevilla who came out from behind a screen 
 with his hands clasped behind his back under the tail of 
 his short sack coat, his head in the air, tortured by the 
 excessive height of his stiff, shining collar, throwing out 
 his chest so as to show off better his velvet waistcoat. 
 His thinness and his small stature were made up for by 
 the length of his blond mustache that curled around his 
 pink little nose as if it were trying to reach the straight, 
 scraggly bangs on his forehead. This Soldevilla was 
 Renovales' favorite pupil "his weakness" Cotoner called 
 him. The master had fought a great battle to win him 
 the fellowship at Rome ; afterward he had given him the 
 prize at several exhibitions. 
 
 He looked on him almost as a son, attracted perhaps 
 by the contrast between his own rough strength and the 
 weakness of that artistic dandy, always proper, always 
 amiable, who consulted this master about everything, 
 even if afterwards he did not pay much attention to his 
 advice. When he criticized his fellow painters, he did it 
 with a venomous suavity, with a feminine finesse. Re- 
 novales laughed at his appearance and his habits and 
 Cotoner joined in. He was like china, always shining; 
 you could not find the least speck of dust on him; you 
 were sure he slept in a cupboard. These present-day 
 painters! The two old artists recalled the disorder of 
 their youth, their Bohemian carelessness, with long 
 beards and huge hats, all their odd extravagances to dis- 
 tinguish them from the rest of men, forming a world by 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 97 
 
 themselves. They felt out of humor with these painters 
 of the last batch proper, prudent, incapable of doing 
 anything absurd, copying the fashions of the idle and 
 presenting the appearance of State functionaries, clerks, 
 who wielded the brush. 
 
 His greeting over, Soldevilla fairly overwhelmed the 
 master with his effusive praise. He had been admiring 
 the portrait of the Countess of Alberca. 
 
 "A perfect marvel, master. The best thing you have 
 painted, and it's only half done, too." 
 
 This praise aroused Renovales. He got up, shoved 
 aside the screen and pulled out an easel that held a 
 large canvas, until it was opposite the light that came in 
 through the wide window. 
 
 On a gray background stood a woman dressed in white, 
 with that majesty of beauty that is accustomed to ad- 
 miration. The aigrette of feathers and diamonds seemed 
 to tremble on her tawny yellow curls, the curve of her 
 breasts was outlined through the lace of her low-necked 
 gown, her gloves reached above her elbows, in one of her 
 hands she held a costly fan, in the other, a dark cloak, 
 lined with flame-colored satin, that slipped from her bare 
 shoulders, on the point of falling. The lower part of 
 the figure was merely outlined in charcoal on the white 
 canvas. The head, almost finished, seemed to look at the 
 three men with its proud eyes, cold, but with a false 
 coldness that bespoke a hidden passion within, a dead 
 volcano that might come to life at any moment. 
 
 She was a tall, stately woman, with a charming, well- 
 proportioned figure, who seemed to keep the freshness of 
 youth, thanks to the healthy, comfortable life she led. 
 The corners of her eyes were narrowed with a tired fold. 
 
 Cotoner looked at her from his seat with chaste calm- 
 ness, commenting tranquilly on her beauty, feeling above 
 temptation. 
 
98 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "It's she, you've caught her, Mariano. She has been 
 a great woman." 
 
 Renovales appeared offended at this comment. 
 
 "She is," he said with a sort of hostility. "She is 
 still." 
 
 Cotoner could not argue with his idol and he hastened 
 to correct himself. 
 
 "She is a charming woman, very attractive, yes sir, 
 and very stylish. They say she is talented and cannot 
 bear to let men who worship her suffer. She has cer- 
 tainly enjoyed life." 
 
 Renovales began to bristle again, as if these words 
 cut him. 
 
 "Nonsense ! lies, calumnies !" he said angrily. "Inven- 
 tions of some young fellows who spread these disgrace- 
 ful reports because they were rejected." 
 
 Cotoner began to explain away what he had said. He 
 did not know anything, he had heard it. The ladies at 
 whose houses he dined spoke ill of the Alberca woman, 
 but perhaps it was merely woman's gossip. There was 
 a moment of silence and Renovales, as if he wanted to 
 change the subject of conversation, turned to Solde- 
 villa. 
 
 "And you, aren't you painting any longer? I always 
 find you here in working hours." 
 
 He smiled somewhat knowingly as he said this, while 
 the youth blushed and tried to make excuses. He was 
 working hard, but every day he felt the need of drop- 
 ping into his master's studio for a minute before he went 
 to his own. 
 
 It was a habit he had formed when he was a beginner, 
 in that period, the best in his life, when he studied beside 
 the great painter in a studio far less sumptuous than this. 
 
 "And Milita ? Did you see her ?" continued Renovales 
 with a good-natured smile that had not lost its playful- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 99 
 
 ness. "Didn't she 'kid' you, for wearing that dazzling 
 new tie?" 
 
 Soldevilla smiled too. He had been in the dining-room 
 with Dona Josephina and Milita and the latter had made 
 fun of him as usual. But she did not mean anything ; the 
 master knew that Milita and he treated each other like 
 brother and sister. 
 
 More than once when she was a little tot and he a 
 lad, he had acted as her horse, trotting around the old 
 studio with the little scamp on his back, pulling his hair 
 and pounding him with her tiny fists. 
 
 "She's very cute," interrupted Cotoner. "She is the 
 most attractive, the best girl I know." 
 
 "And the unequaled Lopez de Sosa ?" asked the master, 
 once more in a playful tone. "Didn't that 'chauffeur* 
 that drives us crazy with his automobiles come to-day?" 
 
 Soldevilla's smile disappeared. He grew pale and his 
 eyes flashed spitefully. No, he had not seen the gentle- 
 man. According to the ladies, he was busy repairing an 
 automobile that had broken down on the Pardo road. 
 And as if the recollection of this friend of the family 
 was trying for him and he wished to avoid any further 
 allusions to him, he said "good-by" to the master. He 
 was going to work; he must take advantage of the two 
 hours of sunlight that were left. But before he went 
 out he stopped to say another word in praise of the 
 portrait of the countess. 
 
 The two friends remained alone for a long while in 
 silence. Renovales, buried in the shadow of that niche 
 of Persian stuffs with which his divan was canopied, 
 gazed at the picture. 
 
 "Is she going to come to-day?" asked Cotoner, pointing 
 to the canvas. 
 
 Renovales shrugged his shoulders. To-day or the next 
 
100 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT, 
 
 day; it was impossible to do any serious work with that 
 woman. 
 
 He expected her that afternoon ; but he would not feel 
 surprised if she failed to keep her appointment. For 
 nearly a month he had been unable to get in two days 
 in succession. She was always engaged; she was presi- 
 dent of societies for the education and emancipation of 
 woman; she was constantly planning festivals and raf- 
 fles ; the activity of a tired woman of society, the flutter- 
 ing of a wild bird that made her want to be everywhere 
 at the same time, without the will to withdraw when once 
 she was started in the current of feminine excitement. 
 Suddenly the painter whose eyes were fixed on the por- 
 trait gave a cry of enthusiasm. 
 
 ''What a woman, Pepe ! What a woman to paint !" 
 
 His eyes seemed to lay bare the beauty that stood on 
 the canvas in all its aristocratic grandeur. They strove 
 to penetrate the mystery of that covering of lace and 
 silk, to see the color and the lines of the form that was 
 hardly revealed through the gown. This mental recon* 
 struction was helped by the bare shoulders and the 
 curve of her breasts that seemed to tremble at the edge 
 of her dress, separated by a line of soft shadow. 
 
 "That's just what I told your wife/' said the Bohemian 
 naively. "If you paint beautiful women, like the coun- 
 tess, it is merely for the sake of painting them and not 
 that you would think of seeing in them anything more 
 than a model." 
 
 "Aha ! So my wife has been talking to you about that !" 
 
 Cotoner hastened to set his mind at ease, fearing his 
 digestion might be disturbed. A mere trifle, nervousness 
 on the part of poor Josephina, who saw the dark side of 
 everything in her illness. 
 
 She had referred during the luncheon to the Albercg, 
 woman and her portrait. She did not seem to be very 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPH A-NT \J\ 101 
 
 fond of her, in spite of tfoe-'fact.tnit lstf/4iftd^ V>eeh her 
 companion in boarding-school. She felt as other women 
 did ; the countess was an enemy, who inspired them with 
 fear. But he had calmed her and finally succeeded in 
 making her smile faintly. There was no use in talking 
 about that any longer. 
 
 But Renovales did not share his friend's optimism. 
 He was well aware of his wife's state of mind ; he under- 
 stood now the motive that had made her flee from the 
 table, to take refuge upstairs and to weep and long for 
 death. She hated Concha as she did all the women who 
 entered his studio. But this impression of sadness did 
 not last very long in the painter; he was used to his 
 wife's susceptibility. Besides, the consciousness of his 
 faithfulness calmed him. His conscience was clean, and 
 Josephina might believe what she would. It would only 
 be one more injustice and he was resigned to endure his 
 slavery without complaint. 
 
 In order to forget his trouble, he began to talk about 
 painting. The recollection of his conversation with Tekli 
 enlivened him, for Tekli had been traveling all over 
 Europe and was well acquainted with what the most 
 famous masters were thinking and painting. 
 
 "I'm getting old, Cotoner. Did you think I didn't 
 know it? No, don't protest. I know that I am not old; 
 forty-three years. I mean that I have lost my gait and 
 cannot get started. It's a long time since I have done 
 anything new ; I always strike the same note. You know 
 that some people, envious of my reputation are always 
 throwing that defect in my face, like a vile insult." 
 
 And the painter, with the selfishness of great artists 
 who always think that they are neglected and the world 
 begrudges them their glory, complained at the slavery 
 that was imposed upon him by his good fortune. Making 
 money! What a calamity for art! If the world were 
 
102 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 go verted; by ;ln$ .commotu sense, artists with talent would 
 be supported by the State, which would generously pro- 
 vide for all their needs and whims. There would be no 
 need of bothering about making a living. "Paint what 
 you want to, and as you please/' Then great things 
 would be done and art would advance with giant strides, 
 not constrained to debase itself by flattering public vul- 
 garity and the ignorance of the rich. But now, to be a 
 celebrated painter it was necessary to make money and 
 this could not be done except by portraits, opening a shop, 
 painting the first one that appeared, without the right of 
 choice. Accursed painting! In writing, poverty was a 
 merit. It stood for truth and honesty. But the painter 
 must be rich, his talent was judged by his profits. The 
 fame of his pictures was connected with the idea of 
 thousands of dollars. When people talked about his 
 work they always said, "He's making such and such a 
 sum of money," and to keep up this wealth, the indis- 
 pensable companion of his glory, he had to paint by the 
 job, cringing before the vulgar throng that pays. 
 
 Renovales walked excitedly around the portrait. Some- 
 times this laborer's work was tolerable, when he was 
 painting beautiful women and men whose faces had the 
 light of intelligence. But the vulgar politicians, the rich 
 men that looked like porters, the stout dames with dead 
 faces that he had to paint! When he let his love for 
 truth overcome him and copied the model as he saw it, 
 he won another enemy, who paid the bill grumblingly and 
 went away to tell everyone that Renovales was not so 
 great as people thought. To avoid this he lied in his 
 painting, having recourse to the methods employed by 
 other mediocre artists and this base procedure tormented 
 his conscience, as if he were robbing his inferiors who 
 deserved respect for the very reason that they were 
 less endowed for artistic production than he. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 103 
 
 "Besides, that is not painting, the whole of painting. 
 We think we are artists because we can reproduce a face, 
 and the face is only a part of the body. We tremble 
 with fear at the thought of the nude. We have forgotten 
 it. We speak of it with respect and fear, as we would 
 of something religious, worthy of worship, but some- 
 thing we never see close at hand. A large part of our 
 talent is the talent of a dry-goods clerk. Cloth, nothing 
 but cloth ; garments. The body must be carefully wrap- 
 ped up or we flee from it as from a danger." 
 
 He ceased his nervous walking to and fro and stopped 
 in front of the picture, fixing his gaze on it. 
 
 "Imagine, Pepe," he said in an undertone, looking first 
 instinctively toward the door, with that eternal fear of 
 being heard by his wife in the midst of his artistic rap- 
 tures. "Imagine, if that woman would undress; if I 
 could paint her as she certainly is." 
 
 Cotoner burst into laughter with a look like a knavish 
 friar. 
 
 "Wonderful, Mariano, a masterpiece. But she won't. 
 I'm sure she would refuse to undress, though I admit she 
 isn't always particular." 
 
 Renovales shook his fists in protest. 
 
 "And why won't they ? What a rut ! What vulgarity !" 
 
 In his artistic selfishness he fancied that the world had 
 been created without any other purpose than supporting 
 painters, the rest of humanity was made to serve them as 
 models, and he was shocked at this incomprehensible 
 modesty. Ah, where could they find now the beauties of 
 Greece, the calm models of sculptors, the pale Venetian 
 ladies painted by Titian, the graceful Flemish women of 
 Rubens, and the dainty, sprightly beauties of Goya? 
 Beauty was eclipsed forever behind the veils of hypoc- 
 risy and false modesty. Women had one lover to-day, 
 another to-morrow and still they blushed at recalling the 
 
104 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 woman of other times, far more pure than they> ~^ho did 
 not hesitate to reveal to the public admiration the perfect 
 work of God, the chastity of the nude. 
 
 Renovales lay down on the divan again, and in the twi- 
 light he talked confidentially with Cotoner in a subdued 
 voice, sometimes looking toward the door as if he feared 
 being overheard. 
 
 For some time he had been dreaming of a masterpiece. 
 He had it in his imagination complete even to the least 
 details. He saw it, closing his eyes, just at it would be, 
 if he ever succeeded in painting it. It was Phryne, the 
 famous beauty of Athens, appearing naked before the 
 crowd of pilgrims on the beach of Delphi. All the suffer- 
 ing humanity of Greece walked on the shore of the sea 
 toward the famous temple, seeking divine intervention 
 for the relief of their ills, cripples with distorted limbs, 
 repulsive lepers, men swollen with dropsy, pale, suffer- 
 ing women, trembling old men, youths disfigured in hid- 
 eous expressions, withered arms like bare bones, shape- 
 less elephant legs, all the phases of a perverted Nature, 
 the piteous, desperate expressions of human pain. When 
 they see on the beach Phryne, the glory of Greece, whose 
 beauty was a national pride, the pilgrims stop and gaze 
 upon her, turning their backs to the temple, that outlines 
 its marble columns in the background of the parched 
 mountains; and the beautiful woman, filled with pity by 
 this procession of suffering, desires to brighten their sad- 
 ness, to cast a handful of health and beauty among their 
 wretched furrows, and tears off her veils, giving them 
 the royal alms of her nakedness. The white, radiant body 
 is outlined on the dark blue of the sea. The wind scat- 
 ters her hair like golden serpents on her ivory shoulders ; 
 the waves that die at her feet, toss upon her stars of foam 
 that make her skin tremble with the caress from her am- 
 ber neck down to her rosy feet. The wet sand, polished 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 105 
 
 and bright as a mirror, reproduces the sovereign naked- 
 ness, inverted and confused in serpentine lines that take 
 on the shimmer of the rainbow as they disappear. And 
 the pilgrims, on their knees, in the ecstasy of worship, 
 stretch out their arms toward the mortal goddess, be- 
 lieving that Beauty and eternal Health have come to 
 meet them. 
 
 Renovales sat up and grasped Cotoner's arm as he de- 
 scribed his future picture, and his friend nodded his ap- 
 proval gravely, impressed by the description. 
 
 "Very fine! Sublime, Mariano!" 
 
 But the master became dejected again after this flash 
 of enthusiasm. 
 
 The task was very difficult. He would have to go and 
 take up quarters on the shore of the Mediterranean, on 
 some secluded beach at Valencia or in Catalonia; he 
 would have to build a cabin on the very edge of the sand 
 where the water breaks with its bright reflections, and 
 take woman after woman there, a hundred if it was 
 necessary, in order to study the whiteness of their skin 
 against the blue of the sea and sky, until he found the 
 divine body of the Phryne he had dreamed. 
 
 "Very difficult," murmured Renovales. "I tell you it 
 is very difficult. There are so many obstacles to struggle 
 against." 
 
 Cotoner leaned forward with a confidential expression. 
 
 "And besides, there's the mistress," he said in a quiet 
 voice, looking at the door with a sort of fear. "I don't 
 believe Josephina would be very much pleased with this 
 picture and its pack of models." 
 
 The master lowered his head. 
 
 "If you only knew, Pepe! If you could see the life I 
 lead every day!" 
 
 "I know what it is," Cotoner hastened to say, "or 
 rather, I can imagine. Don't tell me anything." 
 
106 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT, 
 
 And in his haste to avoid the sad confidences of his 
 friend, there was a great deal of selfishness, the desire 
 not to disturb his peaceful calm with other men's sorrows 
 that excite only a distant interest. 
 
 Renovales spoke after a long silence. He often won- 
 dered whether an artist ought to be married or single. 
 Other men, of weak, hesitating character needed the 
 support of a comrade, the atmosphere of a family. 
 
 He recalled with relish the first few months of his 
 married life ; but since then it had weighed on him like a 
 chain. He did not deny the existence of love ; he needed 
 the sweet company of a woman in order to live, but with 
 intermissions, without the endless imprisonment of com- 
 mon life. Artists like himself ought to be free, he was 
 sure of it. 
 
 "Oh, Pepe, if I had only stayed like you, master of 
 my time and my work, without having to think what my 
 family will say if they see me painting this or that, what 
 great things I should have done !" 
 
 The old man, who had failed in all his tasks, was going 
 to say something when the door of the studio opened and 
 Renovales' servant came in, a little man with fat red 
 cheeks and a high voice which, according to Cotoner, 
 sounded like the messenger of a monastery. 
 
 "The countess." 
 
 Cotoner jumped out of his armchair. Those models 
 didn't like to see people in the studio. How could he get 
 out ? Renovales helped him to find his hat, coat and cane, 
 which with his usual carelessness he had left in different 
 corners of the studio. 
 
 The master pushed him out of a door that led into the 
 garden. Then, when he was alone, he ran to an old Vene- 
 tian mirror, and looked at himself for a moment in its 
 deep, bluish surface, smoothing his curly gray hair 
 with his fingers. 
 
V 
 
 SHE came in with, a great rustling of silks and laces, 
 her least step accompanied by the frou-frou of her skirts, 
 scattering various perfumes, like the breath of an exotic 
 garden. 
 
 "Good afternoon, mon cher maitre." 
 
 As she looked at him through her tortoise-shell lor- 
 gnette, hanging from a gold chain, the gray amber of her 
 eyes took on an insolent stare through the glasses, a 
 strange expression, half caressing, half mocking. 
 
 He must pardon her for being so late. She was sorry 
 for her lack of attention, but she was the busiest woman 
 in Madrid. The things she had done since luncheon! 
 Signing and examining papers with the secretary of the 
 ''Women's League," a conference with the carpenter and 
 the foreman (two rough fellows who fairly devoured her 
 with their eyes), who had charge of putting up the booths 
 for the great fair for the benefit of destitute working 
 women ; a call on the president of the Cabinet, a some- 
 what dissolute old gentleman, in spite of his gravity, who 
 received her with the airs of an old-fashioned gallant, 
 kissing her hand, as they used to in a minuet.' 
 
 "We have lost the afternoon, haven't we, maitre? 
 There's hardly sun enough to work by now. Besides, I 
 didn't bring my maid to help me." 
 
 She pointed with her lorgnette to the door of an alcove 
 that served as a dressing-room for the models and where 
 she kept the evening gown and the flame-colored cloak in 
 which he was painting her. 
 
 Renovales, after looking furtively at the entrance of 
 
 107 
 
108 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 the studio, assumed an arrogant air of swaggering gal- 
 lantry, such as he used to have in his youth in Rome, 
 free and obstreperous. 
 
 "You needn't give up on that account. If you will let 
 me, I'll act as maid for you." 
 
 The countess began to laugh loudly, throwing back her 
 head and shoulders, showing her white throat that shook 
 with merriment. 
 
 "Oh, what a good joke ! And how daring the master is 
 getting. You don't know anything about such things, 
 Renovales. All you can do is paint. You are not in 
 practice." 
 
 And in her accent of subtle irony, there was something 
 like pity for the artist, removed from mundane things, 
 whose conjugal virtue everyone knew. This seemed to 
 offend him for he spoke to the countess very sharply as 
 he picked up the palette and prepared the colors. There 
 was no need of changing her dress ; he would make use 
 of what little daylight remained to work on the head. 
 
 Concha took off her hat and then, before the same 
 Venetian mirror in which the painter had looked at him- 
 self, began to touch up her hair. Her arms curved 
 around her golden head, while Renovales contemplated 
 the grace of her back, seeing at the same time her face 
 and breast in the glass. She hummed as she arranged 
 her hair, with her eyes fixed on their own reflection, not 
 letting anything distract her in this important operation. 
 
 That brilliant, striking golden hair was probably 
 bleached. The painter was sure of it, but it did not seem 
 less beautiful to him on that account. The beauties of 
 Venice in the olden times used to dye their hair. 
 
 The countess sat down in an armchair, a short dis- 
 tance from the easel. She felt tired and as long as he 
 was not going to paint anything but her face, he would 
 not be so cruel as to make her stand, as he did on days of 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT, 109 
 
 real sittings. Renovates answered with monosyllables 
 and shrugs of his shoulders. That was all right for 
 what they were going to do. An afternoon lost. He 
 would limit himself to working on her hair and her fore- 
 head. She might take it easy, looking anywhere she 
 wanted to. 
 
 The master did not feel any desire to work either. A 
 dull anger disturbed him ; he was irritated by the ironical 
 accent of the countess who saw in him a man different 
 from other men, a strange being who was incapable of 
 acting like the insipid young men who formed her court 
 and many of whom, according to common gossip, were 
 her lovers. A strange woman, provoking and cold ! He 
 felt like falling on her, in his rage at her offence, and 
 beating her with the same scorn that he would a low 
 woman, to make her feel his manly superiority. 
 
 Of all the ladies whose pictures he had painted, none 
 had disturbed his artistic calm as she had. He felt at- 
 tracted by her mad jesting, by her almost childish levity, 
 and at the same time he hated her for the pitying air 
 with which she treated him. For her he was a good fel- 
 low, but very commonplace, who by some rare caprice 
 of Nature possessed the gift of painting well. 
 
 Renovales returned this scorn by insulting her men- 
 tally. That Countess of Alberca was a fine one. No 
 wonder people talked about her. Perhaps when she ap- 
 peared in his studio, always in a hurry and out of breath, 
 she came from a private interview with some one of those 
 young bloods that hung around her, attracted by her still 
 fresh, alluring maturity. 
 
 But if Concha spoke to him with her easy freedom, 
 telling him of the sadness she said she felt and allowing 
 herself to confide in him, as if they were united by a long 
 standing friendship, that was enough to make the master 
 change his thoughts immediately. She was a superior 
 
110 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 woman of ideals, condemned to live in a depressing aris- 
 tocratic atmosphere. All the gossip about her was a 
 calumny, a lie forged by envious people. She ought to 
 be the companion of a superior man, of an artist. 
 
 Renovales knew her history; he was proud of the 
 friendly confidence she had had in him. She was the 
 only daughter of a distinguished gentleman, a solemn 
 jurist, and a violent Conservative, a minister in the most 
 reactionary cabinets of the reign of Isabel II. She had 
 been educated at the same school as Josephina, who in 
 spite of the fact that Concha was four years her senior, 
 retained a vivid recollection of her lively companion. 
 "For mischief and deviltry you can't beat Conchita 
 Salazar." It was thus that Renovales heard her name 
 for the first time. Then when the artist and his wife had 
 moved from Venice to Madrid, he learned that she had 
 changed her name to that of the Countess of Alberca 
 by marrying a man who might have been her father. 
 
 He was an old courtier who performed his duties as a 
 grandee of Spain with great conscientiousness, proud of 
 his slavery to the royal family. His ambition was to 
 belong to all the honorable orders of Europe and as soon 
 as he was named to one of them, he had his picture 
 painted, covered with scarfs and crosses, wearing the 
 uniform of one of the traditional military Orders. His 
 wife laughed to see him, so little, bald and solemn, with 
 high boots, a dangling sword, his breast covered with 
 trinkets, a white plumed helmet resting in his lap. 
 
 During the life of isolation and privation with which 
 Renovales struggled so courageously, the papers brought 
 to the artist's wretched house the echoes of the triumphs 
 of the "fair Countess of Alberca." Her name appeared 
 in the first line of every account of an aristocratic func- 
 tion. Besides, they called her "enlightened," and talked 
 about her literary culture, her classic education which she 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 111 
 
 owed to Her "illustrious father," now dead. And with 
 this public news there reached the artist on the whisper- 
 ing wings of Madrid gossip other tales that represented 
 the Countess of Alberca as consoling herself merrily for 
 the mistake she had made in marrying an old man. 
 
 At Court, they had taken her name from the lists, as a 
 result of this reputation. Her husband took part at all 
 the royal functions, for he did not have a chance every 
 day to show off his load of honorary hardware, but she 
 stayed at home, loathing these ceremonious affairs. Re- 
 novales had often heard her declare, dressed luxuriously 
 and wearing costly jewels in her ears and on her breast, 
 that she laughed at his set, that she was on the inside, 
 she was an anarchist ! And he laughed as he heard her, 
 just as all men laughed at what they called the "ways" 
 of the Alberca woman. 
 
 When Renovales won success and, as a famous master, 
 returned to those drawing rooms through which he had 
 passed in his youth, he felt the attraction of the countess 
 who in her character as a "woman of intellect," insisted 
 on gathering celebrated men about her. Josephina did 
 not accompany him in this return to society. She felt ill ; 
 contact with the same people in the same places tired her ; 
 she lacked the strength to undertake even the trips her 
 doctors urged upon her. 
 
 The countess enrolled the painter in her following, ap- 
 pearing offended when he failed to present himself at 
 her house on the afternoons on which she received her 
 friends. What ingratitude to show to such a fervent ad- 
 mirer ! How she liked to exhibit him before her friends, 
 as if he were a new jewel! "The painter Renovales, the 
 famous master." 
 
 At one of these afternoon receptions, the count spoke 
 to Renovales with the serious air of a man who is 
 crushed beneath his worldly honors. 
 
112 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 1 
 
 "Concha wants a portrait done by you, and I like to 
 please her in every way. You can say when to begin. 
 She is afraid to propose it to you and has commissioned 
 me to do it. I know that your work is better than that 
 of other painters. Paint her well, so that she may be 
 pleased." 
 
 And noticing that Renovales seemed rather offended at 
 his patronizing familiarity, he added as if he were doing 
 him another favor, 
 
 "If you have success with Concha, you may paint my 
 picture afterward. I am only waiting for the Grand 
 Chrysanthemum of Japan. At the Government offices 
 they tell me the titles will come one of these days." 
 
 Renovales began the countess's portrait. The task was 
 prolonged by that rattle-brained woman who always came 
 late, alleging that she had been busy. Many days the 
 artist did not take a stroke with his brush ; they spent the 
 time chatting. At other times the master listened in 
 silence while she with her ceaseless volubility made fun of 
 her friends and related their secret defects, their most 
 intimate habits, their mysterious amours, with a kind of 
 relish, as if all women were her enemies. In the midst of 
 one of these confidential talks, she stopped and said with 
 a shy expression and an ironical accent: 
 
 "But I am probably shocking you, Mariano. You, who 
 are a good husband, a staunch family-man." 
 
 Renovales felt tempted to choke her. She was making 
 fun of him; she looked on him as a man different from, 
 the rest of men, a sort of monk of painting. Eager to 
 wound her, to return the blow, he interrupted once bru- 
 tally in the midst of her merciless gossip. 
 
 "Well, they talk about you, too, Concha. They say 
 things that wouldn't be very pleasing to the count." 
 
 He expected an outburst of anger, a protest, and all 
 that resounded in the silence of the studio was a merry, 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 113 
 
 reckless laugh that lasted a long time, stopping occa- 
 sionally, only to begin again. Then she grew pensive, 
 with the gentle sadness of women who are "misunder- 
 stood." She was very unhappy. She could tell him 
 everything because he was a good friend. She had mar- 
 ried when she was still a child ; a terrible mistake. There 
 was something else in the world besides the glare of for- 
 tune, the splendor of luxury and that count's coronet, 
 which had stirred her school-girl's mind. 
 
 "We have the right to a little love, and if not love, to a 
 little joy. Don't you think so, Mariano?" 
 
 Of course he thought so. And he declared it in such 
 a way, looking at Concha with alarming eyes, that she 
 finally laughed at his frankness and threatened him with 
 her finger. 
 
 "Take care, master. Don't forget that Josephina is 
 my friend and if you go astray, I'll tell her everything." 
 
 Renovales was irritated at her disposition, always rest- 
 less and capricious as a bird's, quite as likely to sit down 
 beside him in warm intimacy as to flit away with tor- 
 menting banter. 
 
 Sometimes she was aggressive, teasing the artist from 
 her very first words, as had just happened that afternoon. 
 
 They were silent for a long time he, painting with 
 an absent-minded air, she watching the movement of the 
 brush, buried in an armchair in the sweet calm of rest. 
 
 But the Alberca woman was incapable of remaining 
 silent long. Little by little her usual chatter began, pay- 
 ing no attention to the painter's silence, talking to relieve 
 the convent-like stillness of the studio with her words 
 and laughter. 
 
 The painter heard the story of her labors as president 
 of the " Women's League," of the great things she meant 
 to do in the holy undertaking for the emancipation of the 
 sex. And, in passing, led on by her desire of ridiculing 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT* 
 
 all women, she gaily made sport of her co-workers in 
 the great project; unknown literary women, school teach- 
 ers, whose lives were embittered by their ugliness, paint- 
 ers of flowers and doves, a throng of poor women with 
 extravagant hats and clothes that looked as though they 
 were hung on a bean-pole; feminine Bohemians, rebel- 
 lious and rabid against their lot, who were proud to have 
 her as their leader and who made it a point to call her 
 "Countess" in sonorous tones at every other word, in 
 order to flatter themselves with the distinction of this 
 friendship. The Alberca woman was greatly amused at 
 her following of admirers; she laughed at their intoler- 
 ance and their proposals. 
 
 "Yes, I know what it is/' said Renovales breaking his 
 long silence. "You want to annihilate us, to reign over 
 man, whom you hate." 
 
 The countess laughed at the recollection of the fierce 
 feminism of some of her acolytes. As most of them 
 were homely, they hated feminine beauty as a sign of 
 weakness. They wanted the woman of the future to be 
 without hips, without breasts, straight, bony, muscular, 
 fitted for all sorts of manual labor, free from the slavery 
 of love and reproduction. "Down with feminine fat !" 
 
 "What a frightful idea! Don't you think so, Ma- 
 riano?" she continued. "Woman, straight in front and 
 straight behind, with her hair cut short and her hands 
 hardened, competing with men in all sorts of struggles ! 
 And they call that emancipation ! I know what men are ; 
 if they saw us looking like that, in a few days they would 
 be beating us." 
 
 No, she was not one of them. She wanted to see a 
 woman triumph, but by increasing still more her charm 
 and her fascination. If they took away her beauty what 
 would she have left ? She wanted her to be man's equal 
 in intelligence, his superior by the magic of her beauty. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 115 
 
 "I don't hate men, Mariano, I am very much a woman, 
 and I like them. What's the use of denying it?" 
 
 "I know it, Concha, I know it," said the painter, with 
 a malicious meaning. 
 
 "What do you know? Lies, gossip that people tell 
 about me because I am not a hypocrite and am not always 
 wearing a gloomy expression." 
 
 And led on by that desire for sympathy that all women 
 of questionable reputation experience, she spoke once 
 more of her unpleasant situation. Renovales knew the 
 count, a good man in spite of his hobbies, who thought 
 of nothing but his honorary trinkets. She did everything 
 for him, watched out for his comfort, but he was nothing 
 to her. She lacked the most important thing heart- 
 love. 
 
 As she spoke she looked up, with a longing idealismi 
 that would have made anyone but Renovales smile. 
 
 "In this situation," she said slowly, looking into space, 
 "it isn't strange that a woman seeks happiness where she 
 can find it. But I am very unhappy, Mariano; I don't 
 know what love is. I have never loved." 
 
 Ah, she would have been happy, if she had married a 
 man who was her superior. To be the companion of a 
 great artist, of a scholar, would have meant happiness for 
 her. The men who gathered around her in her drawing- 
 rooms were younger and stronger than the poor count, 
 but mentally they were even weaker than he. There 
 was no such thing as virtue in the world, she admitted 
 that ; she did not dare to lie to a friend like the painter. 
 She had had her diversions, her whims, just as many 
 other women who passed as impregnable models of 
 virtue, but she always came out of these misdoings with 
 a feeling of disenchantment and disgust. She knew that 
 love was a reality for other women, but she had never 
 succeeded in finding it. 
 
116 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 Renovales had stopped painting. The sunlight no 
 longer came in through the wide window. The panes 
 took on a violet opaqueness. Twilight rilled the studio, 
 and in the shadows there shone dimly like dying sparks, 
 here the corner of a picture frame, beyond the old gold 
 of an embroidered banner, in the corners the pummel of 
 a sword, the pearl inlay of a cabinet. 
 
 The painter sat down beside the countess, sinking into 
 the perfumed atmosphere which surrounded her with a 
 sort of nimbus of keen voluptuousness. 
 
 He, too, was unhappy. He said it sincerely, believing 
 
 honestly in the lady's melancholy despair. Something 
 
 was lacking in his life ; he was alone in the world. And 
 
 ,as he saw an expression of surprise on Concha's face, he 
 
 pounded his chest energetically. 
 
 Yes, alone. He knew what she was going to say. He 
 had his wife, his daughter. About Milita he did not want 
 to talk; he worshiped her; she was his joy. When he 
 felt tired out with work, it gave him a sweet sense of 
 rest to put his arms around her neck. But he was still 
 too young to be satisfied with this joy of a father's love. 
 He longed for something more and he could not find it 
 in the companion of his life, always ill, with her nerves 
 constantly on edge. Besides, she did not understand him. 
 She never would understand him; she was a burden who 
 was crushing his talent. 
 
 Their union was based merely on friendship, on mutual 
 consideration for the suffering they had undergone to- 
 gether. He, too, had been deceived in taking for love 
 what was only an impulse of youthful attraction. He 
 needed a true passion; to live close to a soul that was 
 akin to his, to love a woman who was his superior, who 
 could understand him and encourage him in his bold 
 projects, who could sacrifice her commonplace prejudices 
 to the demands of art. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 117 
 
 He spoke vehemently, with his eyes fixed on Concha's 
 yes that shone with light from the window. 
 
 But Renovales was interrupted by a cruel, ironical 
 laugh, while the countess pushed back her chair, as if to 
 avoid the artist who slowly leaned forward toward her. 
 
 "Look out, you're slipping, Mariano ! I see it coming. 
 A little more and you would have made me a confession. 
 Heavens! These men! You can't talk to them like a 
 good friend, show them any confidence without their be- 
 ginning to talk love on the spot. If I would let you, in 
 less than a minute you would tell me that I am your ideal, 
 that you worship me." 
 
 Renovales, who had moved away from her, recovering 
 his sternness, felt cut by that mocking laugh and said in 
 a quiet tone : 
 
 "And what if it were true? What if I loved you?" 
 
 The laugh of the countess rang out again, but forced, 
 false, with a tone that seemed to tear the artist's breast. 
 
 "Just what I expected! The confession I spoke of! 
 That's the third one I've received to-day. But isn't it 
 possible to talk with a man of anything but love?" 
 
 She was already on her feet, looking around for her 
 hat, for she could not remember where she had left it. 
 
 "Fin going, cher mmtre. It isn't safe to stay here. I'll 
 try to come earlier next time so that the twilight won't 
 catch us. It's a treacherous hour; the moment of the 
 greatest follies." 
 
 The painter objected to her leaving. Her car- 
 riage had not yet come. She could wait a few min- 
 utes longer. He promised to be quiet, not to talk to her, 
 as long as it seemed to displease her. 
 
 The countess remained, but she would not sit down 
 in the chair. She walked around the studio for a few 
 moments and finally opened the organ that stood near 
 the window. 
 
118 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "Let's have a little music; that will quiet us. You, 
 Mariano, sit still as a mouse in your chair and don't 
 come near me. Be a good boy now." 
 
 Her fingers rested on the keys; her feet moved the 
 pedals and the Largo of Handel, grave, mystic, dreamy, 
 swelled softly through the studio. The melody filled 
 the wide room, already wrapped in shadows, it made its 
 way through the tapestries, prolonging its winged whis- 
 per through the other two studios, as though it were 
 the song of an organ played by invisible hands in a de- 
 serted cathedral at the mysterious hour of dusk. 
 
 Concha felt stirred with feminine sentimentality, that 
 superficial, whimsical, sensitiveness that made her 
 friends look on her as a great artist. The music filled 
 her with tenderness; she strove to keep back the tears 
 that came to her eyes, why, she could not tell. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped playing and looked around anx- 
 iously. The painter was behind her, she fancied she 
 felt his breath on her neck. She wanted to protest, to 
 make him draw back with one of her cruel laughs, but 
 she could not. 
 
 "Mariano," she murmured, "go sit down, be a good 
 boy and mind me. If you don't I'll be cross." 
 
 But she did not move; after turning half way around 
 on the stool, she remained facing the window with one 
 elbow resting on the keys. 
 
 They were silent for a long time ; she in this position, 
 he watching her face that now was only a white spot 
 in the deepening shadow. 
 
 The panes of the window took on a bluish opaque- 
 ness. The branches of the garden cut them like sin- 
 uous, shifting lines of ink. In the deep calm of the 
 studio the creaking of the furniture could be heard, that 
 breathing of wood, of dust, of objects in the silence and 
 shadow. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 119 
 
 Both of them seem to be captivated by the mystery of 
 the hour, as if the death of day acted as an anaesthetic 
 on their minds. They felt lulled in a vague, sweet 
 dream. 
 
 She tjrembled with pleasure. 
 
 "Mariano, go away," she said slowly, as if it cost her 
 an effort. "This is so pleasant, I feel as if I were in 
 a bath, a bath that penetrates to my very soul. But 
 it isn't right. Turn on the lights, master. Light ! Light ! 
 This isn't proper." 
 
 Mariano did not listen to her. He had bent over her, 
 taking her hand that was cold, unfeeling, as if it did 
 not notice the pressure of his. 
 
 Then, with a sudden start, he kissed it, almost bit it. 
 
 The countess seemed to awake and stood up, proudly, 
 angrily. 
 
 "That's childish, Mariano. It isn't fair." 
 
 But in a moment she laughed with her cruel laugh, as 
 if she pitied the confusion that Renovales showed when 
 he saw her anger. "You are pardoned, master. A kiss 
 on the hand means nothing. It is the conventional 
 thing. Many men kiss my hand." 
 
 And this indifference was a bitter torment for the art- 
 ist, who considered that his kiss was a sign of pos- 
 session. 
 
 The countess continued to search in the darkness, re- 
 peating in an irritated voice: 
 
 "Light, turn on the light. Where in the world is the 
 button?" 
 
 The light was turned on without Mariano's moving, 
 before she found the button she was looking for. Three 
 clusters of electric lights flashed out on the ceiling 
 of the studio, and their crowns of white needles, brought 
 out of the shadows the golden picture frames, the bril- 
 
120 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 liant tapestries, the shining arms, the showy furniture 
 and the bright-colored paintings. 
 
 They both blinked, blinded by the sudden brightness. 
 
 "Good evening," said a honeyed voice from the door- 
 way. 
 
 "Josephina!" 
 
 The countess ran toward her, embracing her effusive- 
 ly, kissing her bright red, emaciated cheeks. 
 
 "How dark you were," continued Josephina with a 
 smile that Renovales knew well. 
 
 Concha fairly stunned her with her flow of chatter. 
 The illustrious master had refused to light up, he 
 liked the twilight. An artist's whim! They had been 
 talking about their dear Josephina, while she was wait- 
 ing for her carriage to come. And as she said this, she 
 kept kissing the little woman, drawing back a little to 
 look at her better, repeating impetuously: 
 
 "My, how pretty you are to-day. You look better 
 than you did three days ago." 
 
 Josephina continued to smile. She thanked her. Her 
 carriage was waiting at the door. The servant had told 
 her when she came downstairs, attracted by the dis- 
 tant sound of the organ. 
 
 The countess seemed to be in a hurry to leave. She 
 suddenly remembered a host of things she had to do, 
 she enumerated the people who were waiting for her 
 at home. Josephina helped her to put on her hat and 
 veil and even then the countess gave her several good- 
 by kisses through the veil. 
 
 "God-by, ma chbre. Good-by, mignonne. Do you 
 remember our school days ? How happy we were there ! 
 Good-by, maitre." 
 
 She stopped at the door to kiss Josephina once more. 
 
 And finally, before she disappeared, she exclaimed in 
 the querulous tone of a victim who wants sympathy: 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 121 
 
 "I envy you, eh&rie. You, at least, are happy. You 
 have found a husband who worships you. Master, take 
 lots of care of her. Be good to her so that she may get 
 well and pretty. Take care of her or we shall quarrel." 
 
VI 
 
 RENOVALES had finished reading the evening papers in 
 bed as was his custom, and before putting out the light 
 he looked at his wife. 
 
 She was awake. Above the fold of the sheet he saw 
 her eyes, unusually wide open, fixed on him with a hos- 
 tile stare, and the little tails of her hair, that stuck out 
 under the lace of her night-cap straight and sedate. 
 
 "Aren't you asleep?" the painter asked in an affec- 
 tionate tone, in which there was some anxiety. 
 
 "No." 
 
 And after this hard monosyllable, she turned over in 
 the bed with her back to him. 
 
 Renovales remained in the darkness, with his eyes 
 open, somewhat disturbed, almost afraid of that body, 
 hidden under the same sheet, lying a short distance from 
 him, which avoided touching him, shrinking with mani- 
 fest repulsion. 
 
 Poor little girl! Renovales' better nature felt tor- 
 mented with a painful remorse. His conscience was a 
 cruel beast that had awakened, angry and implacable, 
 tearing him with scornful teeth. The events of the 
 afternoon meant nothing, a moment of thoughtlessness, 
 of weakness. Surely the countess would not remem- 
 ber it and he, for his part, was determined not to slip 
 again. 
 
 A pretty situation for a father of a family, for a man 
 whose youth was past, compromising himself in a love 
 affair, getting melancholy in the twilight, kissing a white 
 hand like an enamored troubadour! Good God! How 
 
 122 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 123 
 
 his friends would have laughed to see him in that pos- 
 ture! He must purge himself of that romanticism 
 which sometimes mastered him. Every man must fol- 
 low his fate, accepting life as he found it. He was 
 born to be virtuous, he must put up with the relative 
 peace of his domestic life, must accept its limited pleas- 
 ures as a compensation for the suffering his wife's ill- 
 ness caused him. He would be content with the feasts 
 of his thought, with the revels in beauty at the banquets 
 served by his fancy. He would keep his flesh faith- 
 ful though it amounted to perpetual privation. Poor 
 Josephina! His remorse at a moment of weakness 
 which he considered a crime, impelled him to draw closer 
 to her, as if he sought in her warmth and contact a 
 mute forgiveness. 
 
 Her body, burning with a slow fever, drew away as 
 it felt his touch, it shriveled like those timid molluscs 
 that shrink and hide at the least touch. She was awake. 
 He could not hear her breathing; she seemed dead in 
 the profound darkness, but he fancied her with her eyes 
 open, a scowl on her forehead and he felt the fear of 
 a man who has a presentiment of danger in the mys- 
 tery of the darkness. 
 
 Renovales too remained motionless, taking care not to 
 touch again that form which silently repelled him. The 
 sincerity of his repentance brought him a sort of con- 
 solation. Never again would he forget his wife, his 
 daughter, his respectability. 
 
 He would give up forever the longings of youth, 
 that recklessness, that thirst for enjoying all the pleas- 
 jures of life. His lot was cast; he would continue to 
 be what he always had been. He would paint portraits 
 and everything that was given to him as a commission ; 
 he would please the public ; he would make more money, 
 he would adapt his art to meet his wife's jealous de- 
 
124 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 mands, that she might live in peace; he would scoff at 
 that phantom of human ambition which men call glory. 
 Glory! A lottery, where the only chance for a prize 
 depended on the tastes of people still to be born ! Who 
 knew what the artistic inclinations of the future would 
 be? Perhaps it would appreciate what he was now pro- 
 ducing with such loathing; perhaps it would laugh scorn- 
 fully at what he wanted to paint. The only thing 
 of importance was to live in peace, as long as he could 
 be surrounded by happiness. His daughter would 
 marry. Perhaps her husband would be his favorite 
 pupil, that Soldevilla, so polite, so courteous, who was 
 mad over the mischievous Milita. If it was not he, it 
 would be Lopez de Sosa, a crazy fellow, in love with 
 his automobiles, who pleased Josephina more than the 
 pupil because he had not committed the sin of showing 
 talent and devoting himself to painting. He would have 
 grandchildren, his beard would grow white, he would 
 have the majesty of an Eternal Father and Josephina, 
 cared for by him, restored to health by an atmosphere 
 of affection, would grow old too, freed from her ner- 
 vous troubles. 
 
 The painter felt allured by this picture of patriarchal 
 happiness. He would go out of the world without hav- 
 ing tasted the best fruits which life offers, but still with 
 the peace of a soul that does not know the great heat 
 of passion. 
 
 Lulled by these illusions, the artist was sinking into 
 sleep. He saw in the darkness, the image of his calm 
 old age, with rosy wrinkles and silvery hair, at his side 
 a sprightly little old lady, healthy and attractive, with 
 wavy hair, and around them a group of children, many 
 children, some of them with their fingers in their noses, 
 others rolling on their backs on the floor, like playful 
 kittens, the older ones with pencils in their hands, mak- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 125 
 
 ing caricatures of the old couple and all shouting in a 
 chorus of loving cries: "Grandpa, dear! Pretty grand- 
 ma!" 
 
 In his sleepy fancy, the picture grew indistinct and 
 was blotted out. He no longer saw the figures, but the 
 loving cry continued to sound in his ears, dying away in 
 the distance. 
 
 Then it began to increase again, drew slowly nearer, 
 but it was a complaint, a howl like that of the victim 
 that feels the sacrificed knife at its throat. 
 
 The artist, terrified by this moan, thought that some 
 dark animal, some monster of the night was tossing 
 beside him, brushing him with its tentacles, pushing him 
 with the bony points of its joints. 
 
 He awoke and with his brain still cloudy with sleep, 
 the first sensation he experienced was a tremble of fear 
 and surprise, reaching from his head to his feet. The 
 invisible monster was beside him, dying, kicking vio- 
 lently, sticking him with its angular body. The howl 
 tore the darkness like a death rattle. 
 
 Renovales, aroused by his fear, awoke completely. 
 That cry came from Josephina. His wife was tossing 
 about in the bed, shrieking while she gasped for breath. 
 
 The electric button snapped and the white, hard light 
 of the lamp showed the little woman in the disorder of 
 her nervous outbreak; her weak limbs painfully con- 
 vulsed, her eyes, staring, dull with an uncanny vacancy; 
 her mouth contracted, dripping with foam. 
 
 The husband, dazed at this awakening, tried to take 
 her in his arms, to hold her gently against him, as if 
 his warmth might restore her calm. 
 
 "Let me alone," she cried brokenly. "Let go of me. 
 I hate you !" 
 
 And though she asked him to let go of her, she was 
 the one who clung to him, digging her fingers into his 
 
126 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 throat, as if she wanted to strangle him. Renovales, in- 
 sensible to this clutch which made little impression on 
 his strong neck, murmured with sad kindness: 
 
 "Squeeze! Don't be afraid of hurting me. Relieve 
 your feelings!" 
 
 Her hands, tired out with this useless pressure on 
 that muscular flesh, relaxed their grasp with a sort of 
 dejection. The outbreak lasted for some time, but tears 
 came and she lay exhausted, inert, without any other 
 signs of life than the heaving of her breast and a con- 
 stant stream of tears. 
 
 Renovales had jumped out of bed, moving about the 
 room in his night clothing, searching on all sides, with- 
 out knowing what he was looking for, murmuring lov- 
 ing words to calm his wife. 
 
 She stopped crying, struggling to enunciate each 
 syllable between her sobs. She spoke with her head 
 buried in her arms. The painter stopped to listen to 
 her, astounded at the coarse words that came from her 
 lips, as if the grief that stirred her soul had set afloat 
 all the shameful, filthy words she had heard in the 
 streets that were hidden in the depth of her memory. 
 
 "The !" (And here she uttered the classic word, 
 
 naturally, as if she had spoken thus all her life.) "The 
 shameless woman ! The !" 
 
 And she continued to volley a string of interjections 
 which shocked her husband to hear them coming from 
 those lips. 
 
 "But whom are you talking about? Who is it?" 
 
 She, as if she were only waiting for his question, sat 
 up in bed, got onto her knees, looking at him fixedly, 
 shaking her head on her delicate neck, so that the short, 
 straight locks of hair whirled around it. 
 
 "Whom do you suppose? The Alberca woman. That 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 127 
 
 peacock! Look surprised! You don't know what I 
 mean ! Poor thing !" 
 
 Renovales expected this, but when he heard it, he 
 assumed an injured expression, fortified by his deter- 
 mination to reform and by the certainty that he was 
 telling the truth. He raised his hand to his heart in a 
 tragic attitude, throwing back his shock of hair, not no- 
 ticing the absurdity of his appearance that was reflected 
 in the bedroom mirror. 
 
 "Josephina, I swear by all that I love most in the world 
 that your suspicions are not true. I have had nothing 
 to do with Concha. I swear it by our daughter I" 
 
 The little woman became more irritated. 
 
 "Don't swear, don't lie, don't name my daughter. You 
 deceiver ! You hypocrite ! You are all alike !" 
 
 Did he think she was a fool? She knew everything 
 that was going on around her. He was a rake, a false 
 husband, she had discovered it a few months after their 
 marriage ; a Bohemian without any other education than 
 the low associations of his class. And the woman 
 was as bad ; the worst in Madrid. There was a reason 
 why people laughed at the count everywhere. Ma- 
 riano and Concha understood each other; birds of a 
 feather; they made fun of her in her own house, in the 
 dark of the studio. 
 
 "She is your mistress," she said with cold anger. 
 "Come now, admit it. Repeat all those shameless 
 things about the rights of love and joy that you 
 talk about to your friends in the studio, those infamous 
 hypocrisies to justify your scorn for the family, for 
 marriage, for everything. Have the courage of your 
 convictions." 
 
 But Renovales, overwhelmed by this fierce outpour- 
 ing of words that fell on him like a rain of blows, could 
 only repeat, with his hand on his heart and the expres- 
 
128 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 sion of noble resignation of a man who suffers an in- 
 justice : 
 
 "I am innocent. I swear it. Your suspicions are ab- 
 solutely groundless." 
 
 And walking around to the other side of the bed, he 
 tried again to take Josephina in his arms, thinking he 
 could calm her, now that she seemed less furious and 
 that her angry words were broken by tears. 
 
 It was a useless effort. The delicate form slipped out 
 of his hands, repelling them with a feeling of horror 
 and repugnance. 
 
 "Let me alone. Don't touch me. I loathe you." 
 
 Her husband was mistaken if he thought that she was 
 Concha's enemy. Pshaw! She knew. what women were. 
 She even admitted (since he was so insistent in his pro- 
 testations of innocence) that there was nothing between 
 them. But if so, it was due solely to Concha she had 
 plenty of admirers and, besides, her old time friendship 
 would impel her not to embitter Josephina's life. Con- 
 cha was the one who had resisted and not he. 
 
 "I know you. You know that I can guess your 
 thoughts, that I read in your face. You are faithful 
 because you are a coward, because you have lacked 
 an opportunity. But your mind is loaded with foul 
 ideas ; I detest your spirit." 
 
 And before he could protest, his wife attacked him; 
 anew, pouring out in one breath all the observations 
 she had made, weighing his words and deeds with the 
 subtlety of a diseased imagination. 
 
 She threw in his face the expression of rapture in his 
 eyes when he saw beautiful women sit down before his 
 easel to have their portraits painted; his praise of 
 the throat of one, the shoulders of another; the almost 
 religious unction with which he examined the photo- 
 graphs and engravings of naked beauties, painted by 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 129 
 
 other artists whom he would like to imitate in his li- 
 centious impulses. 
 
 "If I should leave you! If I should disappear! Your 
 studio would be a brothel, no decent person could enter 
 it; you would always have some woman stripped in 
 there, painting some disgraceful picture of her/' 
 
 And in the tremble of her irritated voice there was re- 
 vealed the anger, the bitter disappointment she had ex- 
 perienced in the constant contact with this cult of beauty, 
 that paid no attention to her, who was aged before 
 her time, sickly, with the ugliness of physical misery, 
 whom each one of these enthusiastic homages wounded 
 like a reproach, marking the abyss between her sad con- 
 dition and the ideal that filled the mind of her husband. 
 
 "Do you think I don't know what you are thinking 
 about. I laugh at your fidelity. A lie ! Hypocrisy ! As 
 you get older, a mad desire is mastering you. If you 
 could, if you had the courage, you would run after these 
 creatures of beautiful flesh that you praise so highly. 
 You are commonplace. There's nothing in you but 
 coarseness and materialism. Form! Flesh! And they 
 call that artistic? I'd have done better to marry a shoe- 
 maker, one of those honest, simple men that takes his 
 poor little wife to dinner in a restaurant on Sunday and 
 worships her, not knowing any other." 
 
 Renovales began to feel irritated at this attack that 
 was no longer based on his actions but on his thoughts. 
 That was worse than the Inquisition. She had spied on 
 him constantly; always on the watch, she picked up his 
 least words and expressions, she penetrated his thoughts, 
 making his inclinations and enthusiasms a subject for 
 jealousy. 
 
 "Stop, Josephina. That's despicable. I won't be able 
 to think, to produce. You spy on me and pursue me 
 even in my art." 
 
ISO WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders scornfully. His art ! She 
 scoffed at it. 
 
 And she began again to insult painting, repenting 
 that she had joined her lot to an artist's. Men like him 
 ought not to marry respectable women, what people call 
 "homebodies." Their fate was to remain single or to 
 join with unscrupulous women who were in love with 
 their own form and were capable of exhibiting it in the 
 street, taking pride in their nakedness. 
 
 "I used to love you ; did you know it ?" she said cold- 
 ly. "I used to love you, but I no longer love you. 
 What's the use? I know that even if you swore to me 
 on your knees, you would never be faithful to me. You 
 might be tied to my apron strings but your thoughts 
 would go wandering off to caress those beauties you 
 worship. You've got a perfect harem in your head. I 
 think I am living alone with you and when I look at 
 you, the house is peopled with women that surround 
 me, that fill everything and mock at me ; all fair, like chil- 
 dren of the devil all naked, like temptations. Let me 
 alone, Mariano, don't come near me. I don't want 
 to see you. Put out the light." 
 
 And seeing that the artist did not obey her command, 
 she pressed the button herself. The cracking of her 
 bones could be heard as she wrapped herself up in the 
 bedclothes. 
 
 Renovales was left in utter darkness, and feeling his 
 way, he got into bed too. He no longer implored, he re- 
 mained silent, angry. The tender compassion that made 
 him put up with his wife's nervous attacks had disap- 
 peared. What more did she expect of him? How 
 far was it going to go? He lived the life of a recluse, 
 restraining his healthy passion, keeping a chaste fidel- 
 ity out of habit and respect, seeking an outlet in the ar- 
 dent vagaries of his fancy, and even that was a crime! 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 131 
 
 With the acumen of a sick woman, she saw within him, 
 divining his ideas, following their course, tearing off 
 the veil behind which he concealed those feasts of fancy 
 with which he passed his solitary hours. This persecu- 
 tion reached even his brain. He could not patiently en- 
 dure the jealousy of that woman who was embittered 
 by the loss of her youthful freshness. 
 
 She began her weeping again in the darkness. She 
 sobbed convulsively, tossing the clothes with the heaving 
 of her breast. 
 
 His anger made him insensible and hard. 
 
 "Groan, you poor wretch," he thought with a sort of 
 relish. "Weep till you ruin yourself. I won't be the one 
 to say a word." 
 
 Josephina, tired out by his silence, interjected words 
 amid her sobs. People made fun of her. She was a 
 constant laughing-stock. How his friends who hung on 
 his words, and the ladies who visited him in his 
 studio, laughed when they heard him enthusiastically 
 praising beauty in the presence of his sickly, broken- 
 down wife ! What did she amount to in that house, that 
 terrible pantheon, that home of sorrow? A poor 
 housekeeper who watched out for the artist's comforts. 
 And he thought that he was fulfilling his duty by 
 not keeping a mistress, by staying at home, but still 
 abusing her with his words that made her an object of 
 derision. If her mother were only alive ! If her broth- 
 ers were not so selfish, wandering about the world from 
 embassy to embassy, satisfied with life, paying no atten- 
 tion to her letters filled with complaints, thinking she 
 was insane because she was not contented with a distin- 
 guished husband and with wealth! 
 
 Renovales, in the darkness, lifted his hands to his fore- 
 head in despair, infuriated at the sing-song of her un- 
 just words. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "Her mother!" he thought. "It's lucky that intoler- 
 able old dame is under the sod forever. Her brothers! 
 A crowd of rakes that are always asking me for some- 
 thing whenever they get a chance. Heavens! Give 
 me the patience to stand this woman, the calm resigna- 
 tion to keep a cool head and not to forget that I am a 
 man!" 
 
 He scorned her mentally in order to maintain his in- 
 difference in this way. Bah! A woman! and a sick 
 one! Every man carries his cross and his was Jo- 
 sephina. 
 
 But she, as if she penetrated his thoughts, stopped 
 crying and spoke to him slowly in a voice that shook with 
 cruel irony. 
 
 "You need not expect anything from the Alberca wo- 
 man," she said suddenly with feminine incoherence. "I 
 warn you that she has worshipers by the dozen, young 
 and stylish, too, something that counts more with wom- 
 en than talent" 
 
 "What difference does that make to me ?" Renovales' 
 voice roared in the darkness with an outbreak of wrath. 
 
 "I'm telling you, so that you won't fool yourself. 
 Master, you are going to suffer a failure. You are very 
 old, my good man, the years are going by. So old and 
 so ugly that if you had looked the way you do when I 
 met you, I should never have been your wife in spite of 
 all your glory." 
 
 After this thrust, satisfied and calm, she seemed to 
 go to sleep. 
 
 The master remained motionless, lying on his back 
 with his head resting on his arms and his eyes wide 
 open, seeing in the darkness a host of red spots that 
 spread out in ceaseless rotation, forming floating, fiery 
 rings. His wrath had set his nerves on edge; the final 
 thrust made sleep impossible. He felt restless, wide- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 133 
 
 awake after this cruel shock to his pride. He thought 
 that in his bed, close to him, he had his worst enemy. 
 He hated that frail form that he could touch with the 
 slightest movement, as if it contained the rancor of all 
 the adversaries he had met in life. 
 
 Old! Contemptible! Inferior to those young bloods 
 that swarmed around the Alberca woman; he, a man 
 known all over Europe, and in whose presence all the 
 young ladies that painted fans and water-colors of birds 
 and flowers, grew pale with emotion, looking at him with 
 worshiping eyes ! 
 
 "I will soon show you, you poor woman," he thought, 
 while a cruel laugh shook silently in the darkness. 
 "You'll soon see whether glory means anything and 
 people find me as old as you believe." 
 
 With boyish joy, he recalled the twilight scene, the 
 kiss on the countess's hand, her gentle abandon, that 
 mingling of resistance and pleasure which opened the 
 way for him to go farther. He enjoyed these memories 
 with a relish of vengeance. 
 
 Afterwards, his body, as he moved, touched Joseph- 
 ina, who seemed to be asleep, and he felt a sort of re- 
 pugnance as if he had rubbed against a hostile creature. 
 
 She was his enemy; she had distorted and ruined his 
 life as an artist, she had saddened his life as a man. Now 
 he believed that he might have produced the most re- 
 markable works, if he had not known that little woman 
 who crushed him with her weight. Her silent censure, 
 her prying eyes, that narrow, petty morality of a well- 
 educated girl, blocked his course and made him turn out 
 of his way. Her fits of temper, her nervous attacks, 
 made him lose his bearings, belittling him, robbing him 
 of his strength for work. Must he always live like 
 this? The thought of the long years before him filled 
 him with horror, the long road that life offered him, 
 
134 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 monotonous, dusty, rough, without a shadow or a rest- 
 ing place, a painful journey lacking enthusiasm and ar- 
 dor, pulling at the chain of duty, at the end of which 
 dragged the enemy, always fretful, always unjust, with 
 the selfish cruelty of disease, spying on him with search- 
 ing eyes in the hours when his mind was off its guard, 
 while he slept, violating his secrecy, forcing his immo- 
 bility, robbing him of his most intimate ideas, only to 
 parade them before his eyes later with the insolence of 
 a successful thief. And that was what his life was to 
 be ! God ! No, it was better to die. 
 
 Then in the black recesses of his brain there rose, 
 like a blue spark of infernal gleam, a thought, a desire, 
 that made a chill of terror and surprise run over his 
 body. 
 
 "If she would only die!" 
 
 Why not? Always ill, always sad, she seemed to 
 darken his mind with the wings that beat ominously. He 
 had a right to liberty, to break the chain, because he was 
 the stronger. He had spent his life in the struggle for 
 glory, and glory was a delusion, if it brought only cold 
 respect from his fellows, if it could not be exchanged 
 for something more positive. Many years of intense 
 existence were left ; he could still exult in a host of pleas- 
 ures, he could still live, like some artists whom he ad- 
 mired, intoxicated with worldly joys, working in mad 
 freedom. 
 
 "Oh, if she would only die!" 
 
 He recalled books he had read, in which other imagi- 
 nary people had desired another's death that they might 
 be able to satisfy more fully their appetites and passions. 
 
 Suddenly he felt as though he were awakening from 
 a bad dream, as though he were throwing oft" an over- 
 whelming nightmare. Poor Josephina! His thought 
 filled him with horror, he felt the infernal desire burn- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 135 
 
 ing his conscience, like a hot iron that throws off a 
 shower of sparks when touched. It was not tenderness 
 that made him turn again towards his companion; not 
 that; his old animosity remained. But he thought of 
 her years of sacrifice, of the privations she had suffered, 
 following him in the struggle with misery, without a 
 complaint, without a protest, in the pains of mother- 
 hood, in the nursing of her daughter, that Milita who 
 seemed to have stolen all the strength of her body and 
 perhaps was the cause of her decline. How terrible to 
 wish for her death ! He hoped that she would live. He 
 would bear everything with the patience of duty. She 
 die? Never, he would rather die himself. 
 
 But in vain did he struggle to forget the thought. The 
 atrocious, monstrous desire, once awakened, resi&ted, 
 refused to recede, to hide, to die in the windings of his 
 brain whence it had arisen. In vain did he repent his 
 villainy, or feel ashamed of his cruel idea, striving to 
 crush it forever. It seemed as though a second person- 
 ality had arisen within him, rebellious to his commands, 
 opposed to his conscience, hard and indifferent to his 
 sympathetic scruples, and this personality, this power, 
 continued to sing in his ear with a merry accent, as if 
 it promised him all the pleasures of life. 
 
 "If she would only die! Eh, master? If she would 
 only die!" 
 
PART II 
 
 I 
 
 AT the coming of spring Lopez de Sosa, "the intrepid 
 sportsman," as Cotoner called him, appeared at Re- 
 novales' house every afternoon. 
 
 Outside the entrance gate stood his eighty-horsepower 
 automobile, his latest acquisition, of which he was in- 
 tensely 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 reso- 
 lute 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 sub- 
 urbs 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, 
 
 1*7 
 
138 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 stu- 
 dent. Besides he was out of place in things that did not 
 belong to his time ; he was getting old and these fright- 
 ful 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 in- 
 difference 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 schoolboy 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 139 
 
 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 after- 
 noon with him, had departed for his native land with his 
 copy of La.? Meninas, but not before lifting Renovales' 
 hands several times to his heart, with extravagant terms 
 of affection and calling him "noble master." The por- 
 trait 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 toot- 
 ing of the horn had died away, the master and his friend 
 would talk of Lopez de Sosa. A good fellow, somewhat 
 foolish, but well-meaning; this was the judgment of 
 Renovales and his old friend. He was proud of hi 
 mustache that gave him a certain likeness to the Gex 
 man 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 vig- 
 orous hugeness, the prominent veins, and the strong fin- 
 gers, all this with the naive satisfaction of a ditch-dig- 
 ger. 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 con- 
 test for a coveted cup. He knew by heart the names 
 
140 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 of all the European champions who had won the im- 
 mortal laurel, in running, jumping, killing pigeons, box- 
 ing or fencing. 
 
 Renovales had seen him come into the studio one af- 
 ternoon, 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 person- 
 age with the woman's name ? And Raf aelito smiled with 
 pity. 
 
 "The best make, a Mercedes, better than a Panhard; 
 everyone knows that. Made in Germany; sixty thou- 
 sand francs. There isn't another one in Madrid." 
 
 "Well, congratulations." 
 
 And the artist shrugged his shoulders and went on 
 painting. 
 
 Lopez 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 Hip- 
 podrome, 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. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 141 
 
 He was proud of his virtuous life; free from fool- 
 ishness 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 Lopez 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 mar- 
 ried. 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 thou- 
 sands of francs and, complaining, like a serious busi- 
 ness man, of the rise in the Exchange, of the exorbi- 
 tant customs charges, of the stupidity of the Govern- 
 ment that so shackled the development of the country. 
 The price of every automobile was greatly increased on 
 crossing the frontier. And after that, politicians ex- 
 pected progress and regeneration! 
 
 He had been educated by the Jesuits at the Univer- 
 sity 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 hy- 
 pocrisy. 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 ail 
 the volumes that came from Paris with a woman's pic- 
 ture on the cover and in which, under pretext of de- 
 scribing Greek, Roman, or Egyptian customs, the au- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 thor placed a large number of youths and maidens with- 
 out 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 Pefia, 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 it- 
 self be crushed under the wheels, to stir up trouble with 
 a decent person, or when some workingman, pretend- 
 ing 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 ma- 
 chines 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, ques- 
 tionel Lopez 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 re- 
 cently. 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 au- 
 tomobilists 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 143 
 
 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 with- 
 out ever being worn, of different colors to suit the cir- 
 cumstances 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 occa- 
 sions, which he wore when some friend looked him up 
 at the Pefia, 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 ingen- 
 uously to the two artists, 
 
 "How much less can a decent person spend if he wants 
 to be presentable?" 
 
 Lopez 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, pay- 
 ing him without haggling, in order that he might ap- 
 pear at the Exhibition, quite as good a way as any other 
 of introducing his insignificance among the famous men 
 
144 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 famil- 
 iarity, as if he were a comrade who could not live with- 
 out him. This raised him greatly in the estimation of 
 his acquaintances. Besides, he had felt a real admira- 
 tion for the master ever since one afternoon when tired 
 out with the account of his prowess as a fencer, Re- 
 novales 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. Be- 
 sides, 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 w T ould be his daughter's. 
 
 Lopez de Sosa began to pay court to Milita, calling 
 on his great resources, appearing every day in a dif- 
 ferent 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 waist-coats; 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 145 
 
 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 inti- 
 macy, as in the days when they played together; and at 
 the same time she praised Lopez de Sosa's stylishness, 
 laughed with him, and Soldevilla even suspected that 
 they wrote letters to each other as if they were engaged. 
 
 Reno vales 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 man- 
 ly 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 fiance." 
 
 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 nerv- 
 ous attacks; her father working in his studio, and her 
 only companion the unsympathetic "Miss." He owed 
 his thanks to Lopez 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 fel- 
 lowships 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, prais- 
 ing everything that the master thought condemna- 
 ble behind his back. But even so, the idea of his mar- 
 rying his daughter pleased him; a painter as a son-in- 
 law; his grandchildren painters, the blood of Renovales 
 
146 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 appre- 
 ciate 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 Lopez 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 merety in hardening his mus- 
 cles, sweating and delighting in the shifting chances of 
 a game. Activity fled from the brain to the extremi- 
 ties of the body. They were strong, but their minds lay 
 fallow, wrapped in a haze of childish credulity. Mod- 
 ern men seemed to stop growing at the age of fourteen ; 
 they never went beyond, content with the joys of move- 
 ment and strength. Many of these big fellows were ig- 
 norant 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 147 
 
 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 ter- 
 ror. 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 go- 
 ing 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 im- 
 portant thing in such matters is that they should be 
 congenial to each other. He's a good boy; I could al- 
 most 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 ma- 
 chines that are eating up the greater part of his for- 
 tune." 
 
 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 Alcala, walking slowly among the 
 
148 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 groups of strollers, some of whom turned round behind 
 them to point out the master. "That taller one is Re- 
 novales, the painter." In a few minutes, Mariano has- 
 tened his step with nervous impatience, he stopped talk- 
 ing and Cotoner followed him with an ill-humored ex- 
 pression, 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 begin- 
 ning 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 en- 
 thusiastically 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 Ma- 
 drid. 
 
 "It makes no difference," said Concha obstinately. 
 
150 WOMAN TRIUMJr .-.. NT 
 
 "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 shin- 
 ing 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 com- 
 plexion 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, 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 151 
 
 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 be- 
 come a candidate for it. The Countess of Alberca 
 had him under her high protection, talking about him 
 enthusiastically to all the important gentlemen who ex- 
 ercised any influence in University circles. She would 
 break out into the most extravagant praise of the doc- 
 tor 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, child- 
 ishness." 
 
 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 ani- 
 mal organism, of which the fair countess spoke enthu- 
 siastically. The painter observed this change in her 
 
152 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 gentle- 
 men 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, profes- 
 sors, 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 pedan- 
 tic slowness about protoplasms, and the reproduction 
 of the cells, the cannibalisms of the phagocytes, catarine, 
 anthropoid and pithecoid apes, discoplacentary mam- 
 mals and the Pithecanthropes, treating the mysteries 
 of life with friendly confidence, repeating strange scien- 
 tific 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 uni- 
 versal reputation. 
 
 Their books made her tired, she could not make any- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 153 
 
 thing 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 recom- 
 mended this wonderful work to her lady friends, who in 
 matters of reading never went beyond the novels in pop- 
 ular magazines. 
 
 "He is a scholar/' said the countess one afternoon 
 while talking alone with Renovales. ''He's just be- 
 ginning 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 Monte- 
 verde 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 noth- 
 ing but Beethoven and Wagner, as if they were callers, 
 and long before that a pretty little duke, who gave pri- 
 vate amateur bull-fights at which he slaughtered the in- 
 nocent 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 gen- 
 tlemen of her coterie pulled him to pieces, declaring that 
 
154 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 he was an idiot and that his book was a Harlequin's coat, 
 a series of excerpts from other men, poorly basted to- 
 gether, 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 com- 
 pany 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 mus- 
 tached doll and turn her eyes on him, a man. 
 
 The painter observed the transformation of his na- 
 ture. He was a different man, and he made every effort 
 to keep his family from noticing this change. He recog- 
 nized 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 155 
 
 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, sur- 
 rounded 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 conver- 
 
156 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 sation until the master, with a sudden renewal of con- 
 fidence, came forward offering his love, only to be re- 
 ceived 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 haunt- 
 ing 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 sen- 
 sation 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 await- 
 ing 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 after- 
 noon, 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 dis- 
 tance behind an arch of dry branches. 
 
 Renovales walked up and down, alone in the little 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT. 157 
 
 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 mur- 
 mur, 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 flag- 
 pole 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 mur- 
 mur 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 Guadar- 
 rama, 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 
 
158 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 gardens, the grove of Viveros, bordering the stream. 
 Carriages were moving in the roads below, their var- 
 nished 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 atter 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 coupe come down the 
 avenue, and he left the belvedere to go to meet it. She 
 was coming! But the coupe 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 disap- 
 peared 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 159 
 
 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 
 Carlo 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, rest- 
 ing 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 pen- 
 cil on the book that rested on his knee. The painter 
 sketched the two dogs in different postures, giving him- 
 self up to the work with such interest that he quite for- 
 got 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 
 
160 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 healthy, dirty flesh that is peculiar to barracks and con- 
 vents. And still the countess did not come ! 
 
 The painter went again to rest his elbows on the balus- 
 trade 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 confu- 
 sion 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 sil- 
 houette 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT. 161 
 
 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 be- 
 cause 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 Con- 
 gress like an old canary. Sum total, the Fleece is im- 
 possible, he is very sorry, but at Court they are unwill- 
 ing." 
 
 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. 
 
 i "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 heal 
 
162 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 rag- 
 ing mad. We ought to have what France had in '93. If 
 I were alone, without all these trifles of name and posi- 
 tion, I would do to-day something that would stir peo- 
 ple. I'd throw a bomb, no, not a bomb ; I'd get a revol- 
 ver 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 astonish- 
 ment. "To whom ! To whom do you suppose, you sim- 
 pleton ! 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/ " 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 163 
 
 And after these exclamations his laugh of mock as- 
 tonishment 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 
 
164 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 colon- 
 nade, 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 back- 
 ground. 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. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 165 
 
 "The country bores me, master. It makes me so sad. 
 If you leave Nature alone to itself it is very common- 
 place." 
 
 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, Reno- 
 vales 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 mis- 
 chievousness 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 hesi- 
 tated 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 gro- 
 
166 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 tesquely, 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 sis- 
 ter, 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 worth- 
 less Monteverde." 
 
 The countess smiled, as if the rudeness of these words 
 flattered her. 
 
 "Well, yes, Mariano. We like each other; I believe I 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT* 167 
 
 love him as I never loved any man. I have never told 
 anyone; you are the first one to hear it from me, be- 
 cause 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, Mari- 
 ano ! 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 in- 
 spiration ; 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. 
 
168 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "What I need, what I am hungry for, you, your beauty, 
 real love !" 
 
 "Master, contain yourself," she said with affected mod* 
 esty. "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 com- 
 promising 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 im- 
 petuously. "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 friend- 
 ship that you do not understand now. I shall give you 
 something that the rest do not know, intimacy, confi- 
 dence." 
 
 And as she said this, she put one hand on the painter's 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 169 
 
 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 Lopez de Sosa, who was driv- 
 ing, 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 every- 
 thing, 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 be- 
 
170 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 side 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 experi- 
 ence with men the danger of remaining alone with Reno- 
 vales. His pale, excited face warned her that he was 
 likely to make some reckless, impetuous advance. 
 
 In the square of Cano 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 pro- 
 test. 
 
 "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, grow- 
 ing 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 171 
 
 to submit to being put off for that simpleton of a doc- 
 tor? 
 
 The countess smiled with pity. Her eyes, too, revealed 
 a sort of compassion. The fool! The child! How ab- 
 surd 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 car- 
 riage 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 men- 
 tally, 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 help- 
 lessly submissive to that woman who had belonged to so 
 
172 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 be- 
 ing. 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, tak- 
 ing up his cross. 
 
 His mind was made up. He would flee from the 
 woman. He would not see her again. 
 
Ill 
 
 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 en- 
 velope 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 mis- 
 taken ; 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. Per- 
 haps 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 after- 
 noon. 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 
 
 173 
 
174 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 coun- 
 tess'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 agree- 
 ment ; but Concha managed to calm him instantly by ask- 
 ing 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 naivete that 
 forces the guilty to confess. Little by little she let the 
 master into the secret of her passion, telling him unblush- 
 ingly 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 175 
 
 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 scan- 
 dalously among the other envelopes of the master's cor- 
 respondence. 
 
 "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 let- 
 ters." 
 
 Cotoner, in his blind devotion to his idol whom he con- 
 sidered 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 maitre, I could not sleep last 
 night, thinking of you," and she ended with "Your ad- 
 mirer and good friend, Coquillerosse," a noin de guerre 
 she had adopted for her correspondence with the artist. 
 
 She wrote in a disordered style, at unusual hours, just 
 
176 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 sleep- 
 less 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 ac- 
 quaintances 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 cjelight Monteverde. And she explained it 
 earnestly to the master, who nodded his approval with- 
 out 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 Associa- 
 tion, 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 near- 
 by 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. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 177 
 
 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 soiree the night before, knowing her friend- 
 ship 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 friend^ 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 con- 
 stantly 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 condescending- 
 ly. 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 Jose- 
 phina 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 
 
178 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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, submis- 
 sive 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 in- 
 feriority ! 
 
 "Oh, Renovales. Never fall in love. It is hell. You 
 do not know the happiness you enjoy in not understand- 
 ing 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 differ- 
 ence 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 un- 
 happy. 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 si- 
 lence 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. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 179 
 
 "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 accom- 
 modating 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 sacri- 
 fice! 
 
 Suddenly she sat up, frowning angrily with the cold- 
 ness of an offended queen. She knew him at last, she 
 had made a mistake in counting on him. And as Reno- 
 vales, 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 stu- 
 pidity 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. 
 
180 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "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 awaken- 
 ing 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. Op- 
 timism 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 obe- 
 dience 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 181 
 
 amid caresses and laughter combed his hair and ad- 
 justed 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 joy- 
 ful comments on the part of Milita. Papa was getting 
 young. 
 
 Under irreverent trimmings, every week his hair be- 
 came 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 Reno vales without recognizing him. But 
 he managed, while keeping within this desire, to ap- 
 proach 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 gal- 
 lery 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 thunder- 
 ing 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 en- 
 viously. "What a good time the master is having !" And 
 they fancied the great ladies disputing over him, Believing 
 
182 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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." 
 
 Cotoner, who sometimes stayed at the house in the 
 evenings, to keep the ladies company, smiled sadly as he 
 saw him leave, shaking his head. "It's bad. Mariano 
 married too soon. Now that he is almost an old man, 
 he's doing what he didn't do in his youth in his fever 
 for work and glory." Many people were laughing at him 
 already, divining his passion for the Alberca woman, that 
 love without practical results, that made him live with 
 her and Monteverde, acting as a good-natured mediator, 
 a tolerant kindly father. When the famous master took 
 off his mask of fierceness, he was a poor fellow about 
 whom people talked with pity: they compared him with 
 Hercules, dressed as a woman and spinning at the feet 
 of his fair seducer. 
 
 He had contracted a close friendship with Monteverde 
 as a result of meeting him so often at the countess's. He 
 no longer seemed foolish and unattractive. Renovales 
 found in him something of the woman he loved and 
 therefore his company was pleasing. He experienced 
 that calm attraction, free from jealousy, that the hus- 
 band of a mistress inspires in some men. They sat to- 
 gether at the theater, went to walk, conversing amiably, 
 and the doctor frequently visited the artist's studio in 
 the afternoon. This intimacy quite disconcerted people, 
 for they could no longer tell with certainty which one 
 was the Alberca woman's master and which the aspirant, 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 183 
 
 even going so far as to believe that by a mutual agree- 
 ment they all three lived in an ideal world. 
 
 Monteverde admired the master and the latter, from 
 his years and the superiority of his fame, assumed a 
 paternal authority over him. He chided him when the 
 countess complained of him. 
 
 "Women !" the doctor would say with a bored expres- 
 sion. "You don't know what they are, master. They are 
 only a hindrance to obstruct a man's career. You have 
 been successful because you haven't let them dominate 
 you because you are strong." 
 
 And the poor strong man looked at Monteverde nar- 
 rowly suspecting that he was making sport of him. He 
 felt tempted to knock him down at the thought that the 
 doctor scorned what he craved so keenly. 
 
 Concha was more communicative with the master. She 
 confessed to him what she had never dared to tell the 
 doctor. 
 
 "I tell you everything, Mariano. I cannot live without 
 seeing you. Do you know what I think ? The doctor is 
 a sort of husband to me and you are the lover of my 
 heart. Don't get excited ; don't move or I'll call. I have 
 spoken from my heart. I like you too much to think 
 of the coarse things you want." 
 
 Sometimes Renovales found her excited, nervous, 
 speaking hoarsely, working her delicate fingers as if she 
 wanted to scratch the air. They were terrible days that 
 stirred up the whole house. Marie ran from room to 
 room with her silent step, pursued by the ringing of the 
 bells; the count slipped out of doors, like a frightened 
 school-boy. Concha was bored, felt tired of everything, 
 hated her life. When the painter appeared she would 
 almost throw herself in his arms. 
 
 "Take me out of here, Mariano; I'm tired of it, I'm 
 dying. This life is killing me. My husband ! He doesn't 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 count. My friends ! Fools that flay me as soon as I leave 
 them. The doctor! as untrustworthy as a weathercock. 
 All those men in my coterie, idiots. Master, have pity 
 on me. Take me far away from here. You must know 
 some other world; artists know everything." 
 
 If she only was not such a familiar figure and if 
 people only did not know the master in Madrid! In 
 her nervous excitement she formed the wildest projects. 
 She wanted to go out at night arm in arm with Reno- 
 vales. She in a shawl and a kerchief over her head 
 and he in a cape and a slouch hat. She would be his 
 grisette; she would imitate the carriage and stride of a 
 woman of the streets and they would go to the lowest 
 districts like two night-hawks, and they would drink, 
 would get into a brawl; he would defend her and they 
 would go and spend the night in the police station. 
 
 The painter looked shocked. What nonsense! But 
 she insisted on her wish. 
 
 "Laugh, master, open that great mouth of yours, you 
 ugly thing. What is strange about what I said? You, 
 with all your artist's hair and soft hats, are humdrum, 
 a peaceful soul that is incapable of doing anything orig- 
 inal in order to amuse yourself." 
 
 When she thought of the couple they had seen one 
 afternoon at Moncloa, she grew melancholy and senti- 
 mental. She, too, thought it would be fun to play the 
 grisette, to walk arm in arm with the master as if she 
 were a poor dressmaker and he a clerk, to end the 
 trip in a picnic park, and he would give her a ride in 
 the green swing, while she screamed with pleasure, as 
 she went up and down with her skirts whirling around 
 her feet. That was not foolishness. Just the simplest, 
 most rustic pleasure ! 
 
 What a pity that they were both so well known. But 
 what they would do, at least, was to disguise themselves 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 185 
 
 some morning and go house-hunting in some low quarter, 
 like the Rastro, as if they were a newly married couple. 
 No one would recognize them in that part of Madrid. 
 Agreed, master? 
 
 And the master approved of everything. But the next 
 day, Concha received him with confusion, biting her lips, 
 until at last she broke out into hearty laughter at the 
 recollection of the follies she had proposed. 
 
 "How you must laugh at me ! Some days I am per- 
 fectly crazy." 
 
 Renovales did not conceal his assent. Yes, she was a 
 trifle crazy. But with all her absurdities that made him 
 alternate between hope and despair, she was more at- 
 tractive, with her merry nonsense, and her transitory fits 
 of anger, than the woman at home, implacable, silent, 
 shunning him with ceaseless repugnance, but following 
 him everywhere with her weeping, uncanny eyes, that 
 became as cutting as steel, as soon as, out of sympathy 
 or remorse, he gave the least evidence of familiarity. 
 
 Oh, what a heavy, intolerable comedy! Before his 
 daughter and his friends they had to talk to each other, 
 and he, looking away, so that their eyes might not 
 meet, scolded her gently, for not following the advice of 
 the doctors. At first they had said it was neurasthenia, 
 now it was diabetes, that was increasing the invalid's 
 weakness. The master lamented the passive resistance 
 she opposed to all their curative methods. She would 
 follow them for a few days and then give them up with 
 calm obstinacy. Her health was better than they thought : 
 doctors could not cure her trouble. 
 
 At night, when they entered the bed-chamber, a deathly 
 silence fell on them; a leaden wall seemed to rise be- 
 tween their bodies. Here they no longer had to dis- 
 semble; they looked at each other face to face with 
 silent hostility. Their life at night was sheer torment, 
 
186 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 but neither of them dared to change their mode of liv- 
 ing. Their bodies could not leave the common bed; 
 they found in it the places they had occupied for years. 
 The habit of their wills subjected them to this room and 
 its furnishings, with all its memories of the happy days 
 of their youth. 
 
 Renovales would fall into the deep sleep of a healthy 
 man, tired out with work. His last thoughts were of 
 the countess. He saw her in that vague mist that 
 shrouds the portal of unconsciousness ; he went to sleep, 
 thinking of what he would say to her the next day. And 
 his dreams were in keeping with his desires, for he saw 
 her standing on a pedestal, in all the majesty of her 
 nakedness, surpassing the marble of the most famous 
 statues with the life of her flesh. When he awakened 
 suddenly and stretched out his arms, he touched the body 
 of his companion, small, stiff, burning with the fire of 
 fever or icy with deathly cold. He divined that she was 
 not asleep. She spent the nights without closing her 
 eyes, but she did not move, as if all her strength was 
 concentrated on something that she watched in the dark- 
 ness with a hypnotic stare. She was like a corpse. There 
 was the obstacle, the leaden weight, the phantom that 
 checked the other woman when sometimes in a moment 
 of hesitation, she leaned toward him, on the point of 
 falling. And the terrible longing, the hideous thought 
 came forth again in all its ugliness, announcing that it 
 was not dead, that it had only hidden in the den of his 
 brain, to rise more cruelly, more insolently. 
 
 "Why not?" argued the rejected spirit, scattering in 
 his fancy the golden dust of dreams. 
 
 Love, fame, joy, a new artistic life, the rejuvenation 
 of Doctor Faustus ; he might expect everything, if kindly 
 death would but come to help him, breaking the chain 
 that bound him to sadness and sickness. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 187 
 
 But straightway a protest would arise within him. 
 Though he lived like an infidel, he still had a religious 
 soul that in the trying moments of his life led him to call 
 on all the superhuman and miraculous powers as if they 
 were under an inevitable obligation to come to his 
 aid. "Lord, take this horrible thought from me. Take 
 away this temptation. Don't let her die. Let her live, 
 even if I perish." 
 
 And the following day, filled with remorse, he would 
 go to some doctors, friends of his, to consult with them 
 minutely. He would stir up the house, organizing the 
 cure according to a vast plan, distributing the medicines 
 by hours. Then he would calmly return to his work, 
 to his artistic prejudices, to his passionate longing, for- 
 getting his determinations, thinking his wife's life was 
 already saved. 
 
 One afternoon after luncheon, she came into the studio 
 and as the master looked at her, a sense of anxiety crept 
 over him. It was a long time since Josephina had en- 
 tered the room while he was working. 
 
 She would not sit down ; standing beside the easel she 
 spoke slowly and meekly to her husband, without looking 
 at him. Renovales was frightened at this simplicity. 
 
 "Mariano, I have come to talk to you about our daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 She wanted her to be married : it must come some day 
 and the sooner, the better. She would die before long 
 and she wanted to leave the world with the assurance that 
 her daughter was well settled. 
 
 Renovales felt forced to protest loudly with all the 
 vehemence of a man who is not very sure of what he 
 is saying. Shucks! Die! Why should she die? Her 
 health was better now than it had ever been. The only 
 thing she needed was to heed what the doctors told her. 
 
189 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "I shall die before long," she repeated coldly; "I shall 
 die and you will be left in peace. You know it." 
 
 The painter tried to protest with a greater show of 
 righteous indignation but his eyes met his wife's cold 
 look. Then he contented himself with shrugging his 
 shoulders in a resigned way. He did not want to argue ; 
 he must keep calm. He had to paint ; he must go out that 
 afternoon as usual on important business. 
 
 "Very well, go ahead. Milita is going to be married. 
 And to whom ?" 
 
 Led by his desire to maintain his authority, to take the 
 lead, and because of his long-standing affection for his 
 pupil, he hastened to speak of him. Was Soldevilla the 
 suitor? A good boy with a future ahead of him. He 
 worshiped Milita; his dejection when she treated him 
 ill was pitiful. He would make an excellent husband. 
 
 Josephina cut short her husband's chatter in a cold, 
 contemptuous tone. 
 
 "I don't want any painters for my daughter ; you know 
 it. Her mother has had enough of them." 
 
 Milita was going to marry Lopez de Sosa. The matter 
 was already settled as far as she was concerned. The 
 boy had spoken to her and, assured of her approval, 
 would ask the father. 
 
 "But does she love him ? Do you think, Josephina, that 
 these things can be arranged to suit you?" 
 
 "Yes, she loves him; she is suited and wants to be 
 married. Besides she is your daughter; she would ac- 
 cept the other man just as readily. What she wants is 
 freedom, to get away from her mother, not to live in 
 the unhappy atmosphere of my ill health. She doesn't 
 say so, she doesn't even know that she thinks it, but I 
 see through her." 
 
 And as if, while she spoke of her daughter, she could 
 not maintain the coldness she had toward her husband, 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 189 
 
 she raised her hand to her eyes, to wipe away the silent 
 tears. 
 
 Renovales had recourse to rudeness in order to get 
 out of the difficulty. It was all nonsense ; an invention of 
 her diseased mind. She ought to think of getting well 
 and nothing else. What was she crying for! Did she 
 want to marry her daughter to that automobile enthusi- 
 ast? Well, get him. She did not want to? Well, let 
 the girl stay at home. 
 
 She was the one who had charge ; no one was hindering 
 her. Have the marriage as soon as possible ? He was a 
 mere cipher, and there was no reason for asking his ad- 
 vice. But steady, shucks! He had to work; he had to 
 go out. And when he saw Josephina leaving the studio 
 to weep somewhere else, he gave a snort of satisfaction, 
 glad to have escaped from this difficult scene so success- 
 fully. 
 
 Lopez de Sosa was all right. An excellent boy! Or 
 anyone else. He did not have time to give to such mat- 
 ters. Other things occupied his attention. 
 
 He accepted his future son-in-law, and for several 
 evenings he stayed at home to lend a sort of patriarchal 
 air to the family parties. Milita and her betrothed talked 
 at one end of the drawing-room. Cotoner, in the full 
 bliss of digestion, strove with his jests to bring a faint 
 smile to the face of the master's wife, but she stayed in 
 the corner, shivering with cold. Renovales, in a smok- 
 ing jacket, read the papers, soothed by the charming at- 
 mosphere of his quiet home. If the countess could only 
 see him ! 
 
 One night the Alberca woman's name was mentioned 
 in the drawing-room. Milita was running over from 
 memory the list of friends of the family, prominent 
 ladies who would not fail to honor her approaching 
 marriage with some magnificent present. 
 
190 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "Concha won't come," said the girl. "It's a long time 
 since she has been here." 
 
 There was a painful silence, as if the countess's name 
 chilled the atmosphere. Cotoner hummed a tune, pre- 
 tending to be thinking of something else ; Lopez de Sosa 
 began to look for a piece of music on the piano, talking 
 about it to change the subject. He too seemed to be 
 aware of the matter. 
 
 "She doesn't come because she doesn't have to come," 
 said Josephina from her corner. "Your father man- 
 ages to see her every day, so that she won't forget us." 
 
 Renovales raised his eyes in protest, as if he were 
 awakening from a calm sleep. Josephina's gaze was 
 fixed on him, not angry, but mocking and cruel. It re- 
 flected the same scorn with which she had wounded him 
 on that unhappy night. She no longer said anything, 
 but the master read in those eyes: 
 
 "It is useless, my good man. You are mad over her, 
 you pursue her, but she belongs to other men. I know 
 her of old. I know all about it. Oh, how people laugh 
 at you! How I laugh! How I scorn you!" 
 
IV 
 
 THE beginning of summer saw the wedding of the 
 daughter of Renovales to Lopez de Sosa. The papers 
 published whole columns on the event, in which, accord- 
 ing to some of the reporters, "the glory and splendor of 
 art were united with the prestige of aristocracy and 
 fortune." No one remembered now the nickname 
 "Pickled Herring." 
 
 The master Renovales did things well. He had only 
 one daughter and he was eager to marry her with royal 
 pomp ; eager that Madrid and all Spain should know of 
 the affair, that a ray of the glory her father had won 
 might fall on Milita. 
 
 The list of gifts was long. All the friends of the 
 master, society ladies, political leaders, famous artists, 
 and even royal personages, appeared in it with their 
 corresponding presents. There was enough to fill a 
 store. Both of the studios for visitors were converted 
 into .show rooms with countless tables loaded with ar- 
 ticles, a regular fair of clothes and jewelry, that was 
 visited by all of Milita's girl friends, even the most dis- 
 tant and forgotten, who came to congratulate her, pale 
 with envy. 
 
 The Countess of Alberca, too, sent a huge, showy gift, 
 as if she did not want to remain unnoticed among the 
 friends of the house. Doctor Monteverde was repre- 
 sented by a modest remembrance, though he had no other 
 connection with the family than his friendship with the 
 master. 
 
 The wedding was celebrated at the house, where one 
 
 191 
 
192 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 of the studios was converted into a chapel. Cotoner had 
 a hand in everything that concerned the ceremony, de- 
 lighted to be able to show his influence with the people 
 of the Church. 
 
 Renovales took charge of the arrangements of the al- 
 tar, eager to display the touch of an artist even in the 
 least details. On a background of ancient tapestries he 
 placed an old triptych, a medieval cross ; all the articles 
 of worship which filled his studio as decorations, 
 cleaned now from dust and cobwebs, recovered for a 
 few moments their religious importance. 
 
 A variegated flood of flowers filled the master's house. 
 Renovales insisted on having them everywhere; he had 
 sent to Valencia and Murcia for them in reckless quan- 
 tities; they hung on the door-frames, and along the 
 cornices; they lay in huge clusters on the tables and in 
 the corners. They even swung in pagan garlands from 
 one column of the fagade to another, arousing the cu- 
 riosity of the passers-by, who crowded outside of the 
 iron fence, women in shawls, boys with great baskets 
 on their heads who stood in open-mouthed wonder be- 
 fore the strange sight, waiting to see what was going on 
 in that unusual house, following the coming and going 
 of the servants who carried in music stands and two 
 base viols, hidden in varnished cases. 
 
 Early in the morning Renovales was hurrying about 
 with two ribbons across his shirt front and a constella- 
 tion of golden, flashing stars covering one whole side of 
 his coat. Cotoner, too, had put on the insignia of his 
 various Papal Orders. The master looked at himself in 
 all the mirrors with considerable satisfaction, admiring 
 equally his friend. They must look handsome; a cel- 
 ebration like this they would never see again. He plied 
 his companion with incessant questions, to make sure 
 that nothing had been overlooked in the preparations. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 195 
 
 The master Pedraza, a great friend of Renovales, was 
 to conduct the orchestra. They had gathered all the best 
 players in Madrid, for the most part from the Opera. 
 The choir was a good one, but the only notable artists 
 they had been able to secure were people who made the 
 capital their residence. The season was not the best; 
 the theaters were closed. 
 
 Cotoner continued to explain the measures he had 
 taken. Promptly at ten the Nuncio, Monsignore Orlandi, 
 a great friend of his would arrive ; a handsome chap, 
 still young, whom he had met in Rome when he was at- 
 tached to the Vatican. A word on Cotoner's part was 
 all that was necessary to persuade him to do them the 
 honor of marrying the children. Friends are useful at 
 times ! And the painter of the popes, proud of his sud- 
 den rise to importance, went from room to room, ar- 
 ranging everything, followed by the master who approved 
 of his orders. 
 
 In the studio, the orchestra and the table for the 
 luncheon were set. The other rooms were for the guests. 
 ; Was anything forgotten? The two artists looked at the 
 altar with its dark tapestries, and its candelabra, crosses 
 and reliquaries, of dull, old gold that seemed to absorb 
 the light rather than reflect it. Nothing was lacking. 
 Ancient fabrics and garlands of flowers covered the 
 walls, hiding the master's studies in color, unfinished 
 pictures, profane works that could not be tolerated in 
 the discreet, harmonious atmosphere of that chapel-like 
 room. The floor was partly covered with costly rugs, 
 Persian and Moorish. In front of the altar were two 
 praying desks and behind them, for the more important 
 guests, all the luxurious chairs of the studio : white arm- 
 chairs of the 1 8th Century, embroidered with pastoral 
 scenes, Greek settles, benches of carved oak and Vene- 
 
194 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 tian chairs with high backs, the bizarre confusion of an 
 antique shop. 
 
 Suddenly Cotoner started back as if he were shocked. 
 How careless ! A fine thing it would have been if he had 
 not noticed it ! At the end of the studio, opposite the altar 
 that screened a large part of the window, and directly 
 in its light, stood a huge, white, naked woman. It was 
 the "Venus de Medici," a superb piece of marble that 
 Renovales had brought from Italy. Its pagan beauty in 
 its dazzling whiteness seemed to challenge the deathly 
 yellow of the religious objects that filled the other end 
 of the studio. Accustomed to see it, the two artists 
 had passed in front of it several times without noticing 
 its nakedness that seemed more insolent and triumphant 
 now that the studio was converted into an oratory. 
 
 Cotoner began to laugh. 
 
 "What a scandal if we hadn't seen it! What would 
 the ladies have said! My friend Orlandi would have 
 thought that you did it on purpose, for he considers you 
 rather lax morally. Come, my boy, let's get something 
 to cover up this lady." 
 
 After much searching in the disorder of the studio, 
 they found a piece of Indian cotton, scrawled with ele- 
 phants and lotus flowers ; they stretched it over the god- 
 dess's head, so that it covered her down to her feet and 
 there it stood, like a mystery, a riddle for the guests. 
 
 They were beginning tq arrive. Outside of the house, 
 at the fence sounded the stamping of the horses, the slam 
 of doors as they closed. In the distance rumbled other 
 carriages, drawing nearer every minute. The swish of 
 silk on the floor sounded in the hall, and the servants ran 
 back and forth, receiving wraps and putting numbers on 
 them, as at the theater, to stow them away in the parlor 
 that had been converted into a coat-room. Cotoner di- 
 rected the servants, smooth shaven or wearing side- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 195 
 
 whiskers, and clad in faded dress-suits. Renovales 
 meanwhile was wreathed in smiles, bowing graciously, 
 greeting the ladies who came in their black or white man- 
 tillas, grasping the hands of the men, some of whom wore 
 brilliant uniforms. 
 
 The master felt elated at this procession which cere- 
 moniously passed through his drawing-rooms and 
 studios. In his ears, the swish of skirts, the movement 
 of fans, the greetings, the praise of his good taste sounded 
 like caressing music. Everyone came with the same 
 satisfaction in seeing and being seen, which people reveal 
 on a first night at the theater or at some brilliant recep- 
 tion. Good music, presence of the Nuncio, preparations 
 for the luncheon which they seemed to sniff already, and 
 besides, the certainty of seeing their names in print the 
 next day, perhaps of having their picture in some il- 
 lustrated magazine. Emilia Renovales' wedding was an 
 event. 
 
 Among the crowd of people that continued to pour in 
 were seen several young men, hastily holding up their 
 cameras. They were going to have snap-shots! Those 
 who retained some bitterness against the artist, remem- 
 bering how dearly they had paid him for a portrait, now 
 pardoned him generously and excused his robbery. 
 There was an artist that lived like a gentleman! And 
 Renovales went from one side to another, shaking hands, 
 bowing, talking incoherently, not knowing in which di- 
 rection to turn. For a moment, while he stood in the 
 hall, he saw a bit of sunlit garden, covered with flowers 
 and beyond a fence a black mass : the admiring, smiling 
 throng. He breathed the odor of roses and subtle per- 
 fumes, and felt the rapture of optimism flood his breast. 
 Life was a great thing. The poor rabble, crowded to- 
 gether outside, made him recall with pride the black- 
 smith's son. Heavens, how he had risen! He felt 
 
196 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 grateful to those wealthy, idle people who supported his 
 well-being ; he made every effort so that they might lack 
 nothing, and overwhelmed Cotoner with his suggestions. 
 The latter turned on the master with the arrogance of 
 one who is in authority. His place was inside, with the 
 guests. He need not mind him, for he knew his duties. 
 And turning his back on Mariano, he issued orders to 
 the servants and showed the way to the new arrivals, 
 recognizing their station at a glance. "This way, gen- 
 tlemen." 
 
 It was a group of musicians and he led them through 
 a servants' hallway so that they might get to their stands 
 without having to mingle with the guests. Then he 
 turned to scold a crowd of bakerboys, who were late in 
 bringing the last shipments of the luncheon and advanced 
 through the assemblage, raising the great, wicker bas- 
 kets over the heads of the ladies. 
 
 Cotoner left his place when he saw rising from the 
 stairway a plush hat with gold tassels over a pale face, 
 then a silk cassock with purple sash and buttons, flanked 
 by two others, black and modest. 
 
 "Oh, consignor el Monsignore Orlandi! Va benef 
 Va bene?" 
 
 He kissed his hand with a profound reverence, and af- 
 ter inquiring anxiously for his health, as if he had not 
 seen him the day before, started off, opening a passage 
 way in the crowded drawing-rooms. 
 
 "The Nuncio ! The Nuncio of His Holiness !" 
 
 The men, with the decorum of decent persons, who 
 know how to show respect for dignitaries, stopped laugh- 
 ing and talking to the ladies, and bent forward, as he 
 passed, to take that delicate, pale hand, which looked like 
 the hand of a lady of the olden days, and kiss the huge 
 stone of its ring. The ladies, with moist eyes, looked for 
 a moment at Monsignor Orlandi, a distinguished prel- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 197 
 
 ate, a diplomat of the Church, a noble of the Old Roman 
 nobility, tall, thin, pale as chalk, with black hair and 
 imperious eyes in which there was an intense flash of 
 flame. 
 
 He moved with the haughty grace of a bull-fighter. 
 The lips of the women rested eagerly on his hand, while 
 he gazed with enigmatical eyes at the line of graceful 
 necks bowed before him. Cotoner continued ahead, 
 opening a passage, proud of his part, elated at the re- 
 spect which his illustrious friend inspired. What a won- 
 derful thing religion was ! 
 
 He accompanied him to the sacristy, which once was 
 the dressing-room for the models. He remained outside, 
 discreetly, but every other minute some one of the Nun- 
 cio's attendants came out in search of him, sprightly 
 young fellows with a feminine carriage and a faint sug- 
 gestion of 'perfume about them, who looked on the art- 
 ist with respect, believing he was an important person- 
 age. They called to Signor Cotoner, asking him to help 
 them find something Monsignor had sent the day before, 
 and the Bohemian, in order to avoid further requests, 
 finally went into the dressing-room, to assist in the sacred 
 toilette of his illustrious friend. 
 
 In the drawing-rooms the company suddenly eddied, 
 the conversation ceased, and a throng of people, after 
 crowding in front of one of the doors, opened to leave 
 a passage. 
 
 The bride, leaning on the arm of a distinguished gen- 
 tleman, who was the best man, entered, clad in white, 
 ivory white her dress, snow white her veil, pearl white 
 her flowers. The only bright color she showed was the 
 healthy pink of her cheeks and the red of her lips. She 
 smiled to her friends, not bashfully nor timidly, but with 
 an air of satisfaction at the festivity and the fact that 
 she was its principal object. After her came the groom, 
 
198 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 giving his arm to his new mother, the painter's wife, 
 smaller than ever in her party-gown that was too large 
 for her, dazed by this noisy event that broke the painful 
 calm of her existence. 
 
 And the father ? Renovales was missing in the formal 
 entrance; he was very busy attending to the guests; a 
 gracious smile, half hidden behind a fan, detained him 
 at one end of the drawing-room. He had felt some one 
 touch his shoulder and, turning around, he saw the sol- 
 emn Count of Alberca with his wife on his arm. The 
 count had congratulated him on the appearance of the 
 studios; all very artistic. The countess had congratu- 
 lated him too, in a jesting tone, on the importance of this 
 event in his life. The moment of retiring, of saying 
 good-by to youth had come. 
 
 "They are shelving you, dear master. Pretty soon they 
 will be calling you grandfather." 
 
 She laughed with pleasure at the flush of pain these 
 pitying words caused him. But before Mariano could 
 answer the countess, he felt himself dragged away by 
 Cotoner. What was he doing there? The bride and 
 groom were at the altar ; Monsignor was beginning the 
 service; the father's chair was still vacant. And Reno- 
 vales passed a tiresome half-hour following the cere- 
 monies of the prelate with an absent-minded glance. Far 
 away in the last of th : studios, the stringed instruments 
 struck a loud chord rnd a melody of earthly mysticism 
 poured forth from room to room in the atmosphere laden 
 with the perfume of crumpled roses. 
 
 Then a sweet voice, supported by others more harsh, 
 began a prayer that had the voluptuous rhythm of an Ital- 
 ian serenade. A passing wave of sentimentality seemed 
 to stir the guests. Cotoner, who stood near the altar, in 
 case Monsignor should need something, felt moved to 
 tenderness by the music, by the sight of that distin- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 199 
 
 guished gathering, by the dramatic gravity with which 
 the Roman prelate conducted the ceremonies of his pro- 
 fession. Seeing Milita so fair, kneeling, with her eyes 
 lowered under her snowy veil, the poor Bohemian blinked 
 to keep back the tears. He felt just as if he were mar- 
 rying his own daughter. He who had not had one! 
 
 Renovales sat up, seeking the countess's eyes above the 
 white and black mantillas. Sometimes he found them 
 resting on him with a mocking expression, at other times 
 he saw them seeking Monteverde in the crowd of gen- 
 tlemen that filled the doorway. 
 
 There was one moment when the painter paid atten- 
 tion to the ceremony. How long it was ! The music had 
 ceased; Monsignor, with his back to the altar, advanced 
 several steps toward the newly married couple, holding 
 out his hands, as if he were going to speak to them. 
 There was a profound hush and the voice of the Italian 
 began to sound in the silence with a sing-song mellow- 
 ness, hesitating over some words, supplying them with 
 others of his own language. He explained to the man 
 and wife their duties and expatiated, with oratorical fire, 
 in his praises of their families. He spoke little of him ; 
 he was a representative of the upper classes, from which 
 rise the leaders of men ; he knew his duties. She was the 
 descendant of a great painter whose fame was universal, 
 of an artist. 
 
 As he mentioned art, the Roman prelate was fired with 
 enthusiasm, as if he were speaking of his own stock, with 
 the deep interest of a man whose life had been spent 
 among the splendid half -pagan decorations of the Vati- 
 can. "Next to God, there is nothing like art." And af- 
 ter this statement, with which he attributed to the bride a 
 nobility superior to that of many of the people who were 
 watching her, he eulogized the virtues of her parents. In 
 admirable terms, he commended their pure love and 
 
200 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 Christian fidelity, ties with which they approached to- 
 gether, Renovales and his wife, the portal of old age and 
 which surely would accompany them till death. The 
 painter bowed his head, afraid that he would meet Con- 
 cha's mocking glance. He could hear Josephina's stifled 
 sobs, with her face hidden in the lace of her mantilla. 
 Cotoner felt called upon to second the prelate's praises 
 with discreet words of approval. 
 
 Then the orchestra noisily began Mendelssohn's "Wed- 
 ding March" ; the chairs ground on the floor as they were 
 pushed back; the ladies rushed toward the bride and a 
 buzz of congratulations, shouted over the heads of the 
 company, and of noisy efforts to be the first to reach her, 
 drowned out the vibration of the strings and the heavy 
 blast of the brasses. Monsignor, whose importance dis- 
 appeared as soon as the ceremony was over, made his 
 way with his attendants to the dressing-room, passing un- 
 noticed through the throng. The bride smiled with a 
 resigned air amid the circle of feminine arms that 
 squeezed her and friendly lips that showered kisses on 
 her. She expressed surprise at the simplicity of the cer- 
 emony. Was that all there was to it? Was she really 
 married ? 
 
 Cotoner saw Josephina making her way across the 
 room, looking impatiently among the shoulders of the 
 guests, her face tinged with a hectic flush. His instinct 
 of a master of ceremonies warned him that danger was 
 at hand. 
 
 "Take my arm, Josephina. Let's go outside for a 
 breath of fresh air. This is unbearable." 
 
 She took his arm but instead of following him, she 
 dragged him among the people who crowded around her 
 daughter until at last, seeing the Countess of Alberca, 
 she stopped. Her prudent friend trembled. Just what 
 he thought she was looking for the other woman. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 201 
 
 "Josephina, Josephina! Remember that this is Mil- 
 ita's wedding!" 
 
 But his advice was useless. Concha, seeing her old 
 friend, ran toward her. "Dear ! So long since I've seen 
 you ! A kiss another." And she kissed her effusively. 
 The little woman made one attempt to resist ; but then 
 she submitted, dejectedly, smiling sadly, overcome by 
 habit and training. She returned her kisses coldly with 
 an indifferent expression. She did not hate Concha. If 
 her husband did not go to her, he would go to some one 
 else; the real, the dangerous enemy was within him. 
 
 The bride and groom, arm in arm, smiling and 
 somewhat fatigued by the violent congratulations, 
 passed through the groups of people and disappeared, 
 followed by the last chords of the triumphal march. 
 
 The music ceased, and the company crowded around 
 the tables covered with bottles, cold meats and confec- 
 tions, behind which the servants hurried in confusion, 
 not knowing how to serve so many a black glove or white 
 hand that seized the gold-bordered plates and the little 
 pearl knives crossed on the dishes. It was a smiling, well- 
 bred riot, but they pushed and trod on the ladies' trains 
 and used their elbows, as if, now the ceremony was over, 
 they were all gnawed with hunger. 
 
 Plate in hand, stifled and breathless after the assault, 
 they scattered through the studios, eating even on the 
 very altar. There were not servants enough for so great 
 a gathering; the young men, seizing bottles of cham- 
 pagne, ran in all directions, filling the ladies' glasses. 
 Amid great merriment the tables were pillaged. The ser- 
 vants covered them hastily and with no less speed the 
 pyramids of sandwiches, fruits, and sweets came down 
 and the bottles disappeared. The corks popped two and 
 three at a time, in ceaseless crossfire. 
 
 Renovales ran about like a servant, loaded with plates 
 
202 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 and glasses, going back and forth from the crowded ta 
 bles to the corners where some of his friends were seated. 
 The Alberca woman assumed the airs of a mistress; she 
 made him go and come with constant requests. 
 
 On one of these trips he ran into his beloved pupil, 
 Soldevilla. He had not seen him for a long time. He 
 looked rather gloomy, but he found some consolation in 
 looking at his waistcoat, a novelty that had made a "hit" 
 among the younger set; of black velvet with embroid- 
 ered flowers and gold buttons. 
 
 The master felt that he ought to console him, poor 
 boy! For the first time he gave him to understand that 
 he was "in the secret." 
 
 ''I wanted something else for my daughter, but it was 
 impossible. Work, Soldevilla ! Courage ! We must not 
 have any mistress except painting." 
 
 And content to have delivered this kindly consolation, 
 he returned to the countess. 
 
 At noon, the reception ended. Lopez de Sosa and his 
 wife reappeared in traveling costume ; he in a fox-skin 
 overcoat, in spite of the heat, a leather cap and high leg- 
 gings ; she in a long mackintosh that reached to her feet 
 and a turban of thick veils that hid her face, like a fu- 
 gitive from a harem. 
 
 At the door, the groom's latest acquisition was waiting 
 for them an eighty horse-power car that he had bought 
 for his wedding trip. They intended to spend the night 
 some hundred miles away in a corner of old Castile, at 
 an estate inherited from his father which he had never 
 visited. 
 
 A modern wedding, as Cotoner said, a honeymoon at 
 full speed, without any witness except the discreet back 
 of the chauffeur. The next day they expected to start 
 for a tour of Europe. They would go as far as Berlin ; 
 perhaps farther. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 203 
 
 Lopez de Sosa shook hands with his friends vigor- 
 ously, like a proud explorer, and went out to look over his 
 car, before leaving. Milita submitted to her friends' ca- 
 resses, carrying away her mother's tears on her veil. 
 
 "Good-by, good-by, my daughter !" 
 
 And the wedding was over. 
 
 Renovales and his wife were left alone. The absence 
 of their daughter seemed to increase the solitude, widen- 
 ing the distance between them. They looked at each 
 other hostilely, reserved and gloomy, without a sound 
 to break the silence and serve as a bridge to enable them 
 to exchange a few words. Their life was going to be 
 like that of convicts, who hate each other and walk side 
 by side, bound with the same chain, in tormenting union, 
 forced to share the same necessities of life. 
 
 As a remedy for this isolation that filled them with 
 misgivings they both thought of having the newly mar- 
 ried couple come to live with them. The house was 
 large, there was room for them all. But Milita objected, 
 gently but firmly, and her husband seconded her. He 
 must live near his coach house, his garage. Besides, 
 where could he, without shocking his father-in-law, put 
 his collection of treasures, his museum of bull's heads and 
 bloody suits of famous toreadors, which was the envy of 
 his friends and an object of great curiosity for many for- 
 eigners. 
 
 When the painter and his wife were alone again, it 
 seemed as though they had aged many years in a month ; 
 they found their house more huge, more deserted, with 
 the echoing silence of abandoned monuments. Renovales 
 wanted Cotoner to move to the house, but the Bohemian 
 declined with a sort of fear. He would eat with them; 
 he would spend a great part of the day at their house; 
 they were all the family he had ; but he wanted to keep his 
 freedom ; he could not give up his numerous friends. 
 
204 , WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 Well along in the summer, the master induced his wife 
 to take her usual vacation. They would go to a little 
 known Andalusian watering-place, a fishing village where 
 the artist had painted many of his pictures. He was tired 
 of Madrid. The Countess of Alberca was at Biarritz 
 with her husband. Doctor Monteverde had gone there 
 too, dragged along by her. 
 
 They made the trip, but it did not last more than a 
 month. The master hardly finished two canvases. Jo- 
 sephina felt ill. When they reached the watering-place, 
 her health improved greatly. She appeared more cheer- 
 ful; for hours at a time she would sit in the sand, get- 
 ting tanned in the sun, craving the warmth with the eag- 
 erness of an invalid, watching the sea with her expres- 
 sionless eyes, near her husband who painted, surrounded 
 by a semicircle of wretched people. She sang, smiled 
 sometimes to the master, as if she forgave him every- 
 thing and wanted to forget, but suddenly a shadow of 
 sadness had fallen on her; her body seemed paralyzed 
 once more by weakness. She conceived an aversion to 
 the bright beach, and the life of the open air, with that 
 repugnance for light and noise which sometimes seizes 
 invalids and makes them hide in the seclusion of their 
 beds. She sighed for her gloomy house in Madrid. 
 There she was better, she felt stronger, surrounded with 
 memories; she thought she was safer from the black 
 danger that hovered about her. Besides, she longed to 
 see her daughter. Renovales must telegraph to his son- 
 in-law. They had toured Europe long enough; it was 
 time for them to come back; she must see Milita. 
 
 They returned to Madrid at the end of September, and 
 a little later the newly married couple joined them, de- 
 lighted with their trip and still more delighted to be at 
 home again. Lopez de Sosa had been greatly vexed by 
 meeting people wealthier than he, who humiliated him 
 

 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 205 
 
 with their luxury. His wife wanted to live among 
 friends who would admire her prosperity. She was 
 grieved at the lack of curiosity in those countries where 
 no one paid any attention to her. 
 
 With the presence of her daughter, Josephina seemed 
 to recover her spirits. The latter frequently came in the 
 afternoon, dressed in her showy gowns, which were the 
 more striking at that season when most of the society 
 folk were away from Madrid, and took her mother to 
 ride in the motor in the suburbs of the capital, sweeping 
 along the dusty roads. Sometimes, too, Josephina sum- 
 moning her courage, overcame her bodily weakness and 
 went to her daughter's house, a second-story apartment 
 in the Calle de Olozaga, admiring the modern comforts 
 that surrounded her. 
 
 The master seemed to be bored. He had no portraits 
 to paint ; it was impossible for him to do anything in Ma- 
 drid while he was still saturated with the radiant sun and 
 the brilliant colors of the Mediterranean shore. Besides, 
 he missed the company of Cotoner, who had gone to a 
 historic little town in Castile, where with a comic pride 
 he received the honors due to genius, living in the palace 
 of the prelate and ruining several pictures in the Cathe- 
 dral by an infamous restoration. 
 
 His loneliness made Renovales remember the Alberca 
 woman with all the greater longing. She, on her part, 
 with a constant succession of letters reminded the painter 
 of her every day. She had written to him while he was 
 at the little village on the coast and now she wrote to him 
 in Madrid, asking him what he was doing, taking an in- 
 terest in the most insignificant details of his daily life 
 and telling him about her own with an exuberance that 
 filled pages and pages, till every envelope contained a ver- 
 itable history. 
 
 The painter followed her life minute by minute, as 
 
206 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 if he were with her. She talked to him about Darwin, 
 concealing Monteverde under this name; she complained 
 of his coldness, of his indifference, of the air of com- 
 miseration with which he submitted to her love. "Oh, 
 master, I am very unhappy!" At other times her letter 
 was triumphant, optimistic; she seemed radiant, and the 
 painter read her satisfaction between the lines: he di- 
 vined her intoxication after those daring meetings in 
 her own house, defying the count's blindness. And she 
 told him everything, with shameless, maddening fa- 
 miliarity, as if he were a woman, as if he could not be 
 moved in the least by her confidences. 
 
 In her last letter, Concha seemed mad with joy. The 
 count was at San Sebastian, to take leave of the king and 
 queen, an important diplomatic mission. Although he 
 was not "in line," they had chosen him as a representa- 
 tive of the most distinguished Spanish nobility to take 
 the Fleece to a petty prince of a little German state. The 
 poor gentleman, since he could not win the golden dis- 
 tinction, had to be contented with taking it to other men 
 with great pomp. Renovales saw the countess's hand in 
 all this. Her letters were radiant with joy. She was 
 going to be left alone with Darwin, for the noble gentle- 
 man would be absent for a long time. Married life with 
 the doctor, free from risk and disturbance ! 
 
 Renovales read these letters merely out of curiosity; 
 they no longer awakened in Tiirn an intense or lasting 
 interest. He had grown accustomed to his situation as 
 a confidant; his desire was cooled by the frankness of 
 that woman who put herself in his power, telling him all 
 her secrets. Her body was the only thing he did not 
 know; her inner life he possessed as did none of her 
 lovers and he began to feel tired of this possession. 
 When he finished reading these letters, he would always 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT *07 
 
 think the same thing. "She is mad. What do I care 
 about her secrets?" 
 
 A week passed without any news from Biarritz. The 
 papers spoke of the trip of the eminent Count of Al- 
 berca. He was already in Germany with all his retinue, 
 getting ready to put the noble lambskin around the 
 princely shoulders. Renovales smiled knowingly, with- 
 out emotion, without envy, as he thought of the countess's 
 silence. She had a great deal to take up her time, no 
 doubt, since she was left alone. 
 
 Suddenly one afternoon he heard from her in the most 
 unexpected manner. He was going out of his house, 
 just at sunset, to take a walk on the heights of the 
 Hippodrome along the Canalillo to view Madrid from 
 the hill, when at the gate a messenger boy in a red coat 
 handed him a letter. The painter started with surprise 
 on recognizing Concha's handwriting. Four hasty, ex- 
 cited lines. She had just arrived that afternoon on the 
 French express with her maid, Marie. She was alone at 
 home. "Come, hurry. Serious news. I am dying." And 
 the master hurried, though the announcement of her 
 death did not make much impression on him. It was 
 probably some trifle. He was used to the countess's 
 exaggeration. 
 
 The spacious house of the Albercas was dark, dusty 
 and echoing like all deserted buildings. The only servant 
 who remained was the concierge. His children were 
 playing beside the steps as if they did not know that the 
 lady of the house had returned. Upstairs the furniture 
 was wrapped in gray covers, the chandeliers were veiled 
 with cheese-cloth, the house and glass of the mirrors were 
 dull and lifeless under the coating of dust. Marie opened 
 the door for him and led the way through the dark, 
 musty rooms, the windows closed, and the curtains down, 
 without any light except what came through the cracks. 
 
208 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 In the reception hall he ran into several trunks, still 
 unpacked, dropped and forgotten in the haste of ar- 
 rival. 
 
 At the end of this pilgrimage, almost feeling his way 
 through the deserted house, he saw a spot of light, the 
 door of the countess's bedroom, the only room that was 
 alive, lighted up by the glow of the setting sun. Concha 
 was there beside the window, buried in a chair, her brow 
 contracted, her glance lost in the distance, her face 
 tinged with the orange of the dying light. 
 
 Seeing the painter she sprang to her feet, stretched 
 out her arms and ran toward hirr^ as if she were fleeing 
 from pursuit. 
 
 "Mariano! Master! He has gone! He has left me 
 forever!" 
 
 Her voice was a wail ; she threw her arms around him, 
 burying her face in his shoulder, wetting his beard with 
 the tears that began to fall from her eyes drop by drop. 
 
 Renovales, under the impulse of his surprise, repelled 
 her gently and he made her go back to her chair. 
 
 "Who has gone away? Who is it? Darwin?" 
 
 Yes; he. It was all over. The countess could hardly 
 talk; a painful sob interrupted her words. She was 
 enraged to see herself deserted and her pride trampled 
 on ; her whole body trembled. He had fled at the height 
 of their happiness, when she thought that she was surest 
 of him, when they enjoyed a liberty they had never 
 known. He was tired of her; he still loved her, as he 
 said in a letter, but he wanted to be free to continue 
 his studies. He was grateful to her for her kindness, 
 surfeited with so much love, and he fled to go into se- 
 clusion abroad and become a great man, not thinking 
 any more about women. This was the purpose of the 
 brief lines he had sent her on his disappearance. A lie, 
 an absolute lie! She saw something else. The wretch 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 209 
 
 had run away with a cocotte who was the cynosure of 
 all eyes on the beach at Biarritz. An ugly thing, who 
 had some vulgar charm about her, for all the men raved 
 over her. That young "sport" was tired of respectable 
 people. He probably was offended because she had not 
 secured him the professorship, because he had not been 
 made a deputy. Heavens! How was she to blame for 
 her failure ? Had she not done everything she could ? 
 
 "Oh, Mariano. I know I am going to die. This 
 is not love; I no longer care for him. I detest him! 
 It is rage, indignation. I would like to get hold of the 
 little whipper-snapper, to choke him. Think of all the 
 foolish things I have done for him. Heavens! Where 
 were my eyes !" 
 
 As soon as she discovered that she had been deserted, 
 her only thought was to find her good friend, her coun- 
 selor, her "brother," to go to Madrid, to see Renovales 
 and tell him everything, everything! impelled by the 
 necessity of confessing to him even secrets whose mem- 
 ory made her blush. 
 
 She had no one in the world who loved her disinterest- 
 edly, no one except the master, and with the panicky 
 haste of a traveler who is lost at night, in the midst of a 
 desert, she had run to him, seeking warmth and protec- 
 tion. 
 
 This longing for protection came back to her in the 
 master's presence. She went to him again, clinging to 
 him, sobbing in hysteric fear, as if she were surrounded 
 by dangers. 
 
 "Master, you are all I have; you are my life! You 
 won't ever leave me, will you? You will always be my 
 brother?" 
 
 Renovales, bewildered at the unexpectedness of this 
 scene, at the submission of that woman who had always 
 repelled him and now suddenly clung to him, unable to 
 
210 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 stand unless her arms were clasped about his neck, tried 
 to free himself from her arms. 
 
 After the first surprise, the old coldness came over 
 him. He was irritated at this proud despair that was 
 another's work. 
 
 The woman he had longed for, the woman of his 
 dreams came to him, seemed to give herself to him with 
 hysteric sobs, eager to overwhelm him, perhaps without 
 realizing what she was doing in the thoughtlessness of 
 her abnormal state; but he pushed her back, with sud- 
 den terror, hesitating and timid in the face of the deed, 
 pained that the realization of his dreams came, not volun- 
 tarily but under the influence of disappointment and de- 
 sertion. 
 
 Concha pressed close to him, eager to feel the protec- 
 tion of his powerful body. 
 
 "Master ! My friend ! You won't leave me ! You are 
 so good!" 
 
 And closing her eyes that no longer wept, she kissed 
 his strong neck, and looked up with her eyes still moist, 
 seeking his face in the shadow. They could hardly see 
 each other ; the room was dim with mysterious twilight, 
 all its objects indistinct as in a dream, the dangerous 
 hour that had attracted them for the first time in the 
 seclusion of the studio. 
 
 Suddenly she drew away in terror, fleeing from him, 
 taking refuge in the gloom, pursued by his eager hands. 
 
 "No, not that. We'll be sorry for it! Friends! 
 Nothing more than friends and always !" 
 
 Her voice, as she said this, was sincere, but weak, faint, 
 the voice of a victim who resists and has not the strength 
 to defend himself. 
 
 When the painter awakened it was night. The light 
 from the street lamps shone through the window with a 
 distant, reddish glow. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 811 
 
 He shivered with a sensation of cold, as if he were 
 emerging from under an enticing wave where he had 
 lain, he could not remember how long. He felt weak, 
 humiliated, with the anxiety of a child who has done 
 something wrong. 
 
 Concha was sobbing. What folly ! It had been against 
 her will ; she knew they would be sorry for it. But she 
 was the first to recover her calmness. Her outline rose 
 on the bright background of the window. She called 
 the painter who stood in the shadow, ashamed. 
 
 "After all, there was no escape," she said firmly. "It 
 was a dangerous game and it could not end in any other 
 way. Now I know that I cared for you ; that you are the 
 only man for whom I can care." 
 
 Renovales was beside her. Their two forms made a 
 single outline on the bright background of the window, 
 in a supreme embrace as though they desired to take 
 refuge in each other. 
 
 Her hands gently parted the heavy locks that hid the 
 master's forehead. She gazed at him rapturously. Then 
 she kissed his lips with an endless caress, whispering: 
 
 "Mariano, dear. I love you, I worship you. I will 
 be your slave. Don't ever leave me. I will seek you on 
 my knees. You don't know how I will care for you. 
 You shall not escape me. You wanted it, you ugly 
 darling, you big giant, my love." 
 
 
ONE afternoon at the end of October, Renovales 
 noticed that his friend Cotoner was rather worried. 
 
 The master was jesting with him, making him tell 
 about his labors as restorer of paintings in the old church. 
 He had come back fatter and merrier, with a greasy, 
 priestly luster. According to Renovales he had brought 
 back all the health of the clerics. The bishop's table 
 with its succulent abundance was a sweet memory for 
 Cotoner. He extolled it and described it, praising those 
 good gentlemen who, like himself, lived free from pas- 
 sion with no other voluptuousness in life than a refined 
 appetite. The master laughed at the thought of the 
 simplicity of those priests who in the afternoon, after 
 the choir, formed a group around Cotoner's scaffold, 
 following the movements of his hands with wondering 
 eyes ; at the respect of the attendants and other servants 
 of the episcopal palace, hanging on Don Jose's words, as- 
 tonished to find such modesty in an artist who was a 
 friend of cardinals and had studied in Rome. 
 
 When the master saw him so serious and silent that 
 afternoon after luncheon he wanted to know what was 
 worrying him. Had they complained of his restoration? 
 Was his money gone? Cotoner shook his head. It was 
 not his affairs ; he was worrying over Josephina's condi- 
 tion. Had he not noticed her? 
 
 Renovales shrugged his shoulders. It was the usual 
 trouble: neurasthenia, diabetes, all those chronic ailments 
 of which she did not want to be cured, refusing to obey 
 the physicians. She was thinner, but her nerves seemed 
 
 212 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 213 
 
 calmer; she cried less; she maintained a sad silence, 
 simply wanting to be alone and stay in a corner, staring 
 into space. 
 
 Cotoner shook his head again. Renovales' optimism 
 was not to be wondered at. 
 
 "You are leading a strange life, Mariano. Since I 
 came back from my trip, you are a different man; I 
 wouldn't know you. Once, you could not live without 
 painting and now you spend weeks at a time without 
 taking up a brush. You smoke, sing, walk up and down 
 the studio and all at once rush off, out of the house and 
 go well. I know where, and perhaps your wife sus- 
 pects it. You seem to be having a good time, master. 
 The deuce take the rest! But, man alive, come down 
 from the clouds. See what is around you; have some 
 charity." 
 
 And good Cotoner complained bitterly of the life the 
 master was leading disturbed by sudden impatience and 
 hasty departures, from which he returned absent-minded, 
 with a faint smile on his lips and a vague look in his 
 eyes, as if he still relished the feast of memories he 
 carried in his mind. 
 
 The old painter seemed alarmed at Josephina's increas- 
 ing delicacy, acute consumption that still found matter 
 to destroy in her organism wasted by years of illness. 
 The poor little woman coughed constantly and this cough, 
 that was not dry but prolonged and violent, alarmed 
 Cotoner. 
 
 "The doctors ought to see her again." 
 
 "The doctors!" exclaimed Renovales, "What's the use? 
 A whole medical faculty has been here and to no avail. 
 She doesn't mind them; she refuses everything, perhaps 
 to annoy me, to oppose me. There's no danger; you 
 don't know her. Weak and small as she is, she will 
 outlive you and me." 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 His voice shook with wrath, as if he could not stand 
 the atmosphere of that house where the only distrac- 
 tions he found were the pleasant memories that took him 
 away from it. 
 
 Cotoner's insistence finally forced him to call a doctor 
 who was a friend of his. 
 
 Josephina was provoked, divining the cause of their 
 anxiety. She felt strong. It was nothing but a cold; the 
 coming of winter. And in her glances at the artist there 
 was reproach and insult for his attention which she re- 
 garded as hypocrisy. 
 
 When the doctor and the painter returned to the studio 
 after the examination of the patient and stood face to 
 face, the former hesitated as if he was afraid to formu- 
 late his ideas. He could not say anything with certainty ; 
 it was easy to make a mistake in regard to that weak sys- 
 tem that maintained itself only by its extraordinary 
 reserve power. Then he had recourse to the usual evasive 
 measure of his profession. He advised him to take her 
 away from Madrid, a change of air, a change of life. 
 
 Reno vales objected. Where could she go, now that 
 winter was beginning, when at the height of summer she 
 had wanted to come home? The doctor shrugged his 
 shoulders and wrote out a prescription, revealing in his 
 expression the desire to write something, not to go away 
 without leaving a piece of paper as a trace. He ex- 
 plained various symptoms to the husband in order that 
 he might observe them in the patient and he went away 
 shrugging his shoulders again with a gesture that re- 
 vealed indecision and dejection. 
 
 Pshaw ! Who knows ? Perhaps ! The system some- 
 times has unexpected reactions, wonderful reserve power 
 to resist disease. 
 
 This enigmatic consolation alarmed Renovales. He 
 spied on his wife, studying her cough, watching her 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT SI 5 
 
 closely when she did not see him. They no longer spent 
 the night together. Since Milita's marriage, the father 
 occupied her room. They had broken the slavery of the 
 common bed that tormented their rest. Renovales made 
 up for this departure by going into Josephina's chamber 
 every morning. 
 
 "Did you have a good night? Do you want some- 
 thing?" 
 
 His wife's eyes greeted him with hostility. 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 And she accompanied this brief statement by turning 
 over in the bed, disdainfully, with her back to the master. 
 
 The painter received these evidences of hostility with 
 quiet resignation. It was his duty; perhaps she might 
 die ! But this possibility of death did not stir him ; it left 
 him cold and he was angry at himself, as if two distinct 
 personalities existed within him. He reproached himself 
 for his cruelty, his icy indifference before the invalid who 
 now produced in him only a passing remorse. 
 
 One afternoon at the Alberca woman's house, after one 
 of their daring meetings with which they defied the 
 holy calm of the noble, who had now returned from his 
 trip, the painter spoke timidly of his wife. 
 
 "I shall have to come less; don't be surprised. Jo- 
 sephina is very ill." 
 
 "Very?" asked Concha. 
 
 And in the flash of her glance, Renovales thought he 
 saw something familiar, a blue gleam that had danced 
 before him in the darkness of the night with infernal 
 glow, troubling his conscience. 
 
 "No, maybe it isn't anything. I don't believe there is 
 any danger." 
 
 He felt forced to lie. It consoled him to discount her 
 illness. He felt that, by this voluntary deceit, he was 
 relieving himself of the anxiety that goaded him. It was 
 
216 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 the lie of the man who justifies himself by pretending not 
 to know the depth of the harm he has caused. 
 
 "It isn't anything," he said to his daughter, who, greatly 
 alarmed at her mother's appearance, came to spend every 
 night with her. "Just a cold. It will disappear as soon 
 as good weather comes." 
 
 He had a fire in every fireplace in the house; the 
 rooms were as hot as a furnace. He declared loudly, 
 without any show of excitement, that his wife was merely 
 suffering from a slight cold, and as he spoke with such 
 assurance, a strange voice seemed to cry within him: 
 "You lie, she is dying ; she is dying and you know it." 
 
 The symptoms of which the doctor had spoken began 
 to appear with ominous regularity in fatal succession. 
 At first he noticed only a constant high fever that seemed 
 to grow worse with severe chills at the end of the after- 
 noon. Then he observed sweats that were terrifying in 
 their frequency sweats at night that left the print of 
 her body on the sheets. And that poor body, which grew 
 more fragile, more like a skeleton, as if the fire of the 
 fever were devouring the last particle of fat and muscle, 
 was left without any other covering and protection than 
 the skin, and that too seemed to be melting away. She 
 coughed frequently ; at all hours of the day and night her 
 painful hacking disturbed the silence of the house. She 
 complained of a continual pain in the lower part of her 
 chest. Her daughter made her eat by dint of coaxing, 
 lifting the spoon to her mouth, as if she were a child. 
 But coughing and nausea made nutrition impossible. Her 
 tongue was dry; she complained of an infernal thirst 
 that was devouring her. 
 
 Thus passed a month. Renovales, in his optimistic 
 mood, strove to believe that her illness would not last 
 long. 
 
 "She is not dying, Pepe," he would say in a convinced 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 217 
 
 tone, as if he were disposed to quarrel with anyone who 
 opposed this statement. "She is not dying, doctor. You 
 don't think she is, do you?" 
 
 The doctor would answer with his everlasting shrug. 
 "Perhaps, it's possible." And as the patient refused 
 to submit to an internal examination, he was forced to 
 inquire of the daughter and husband about the symptoms. 
 
 In spite of her extreme emaciation, some parts of her 
 body seemed to be undergoing an abnormal swelling. 
 Renovales questioned the doctor frankly. What did he 
 think of these symptoms? And the doctor bowed his 
 head. He did not know. They must wait : Nature has 
 surprises. But afterward, with sudden decision, he pre- 
 tended that he wanted to write a prescription, in order 
 that he might talk with the husband alone in his working 
 studio. 
 
 "To tell you the truth, Renovales, this pitiful comedy is 
 getting tiresome. It may be all right for the others but 
 you are a man. It is acute consumption; perhaps a 
 matter of days, perhaps a matter of a few months; but 
 she is dying and I know no remedy. If you want to, 
 get some one else." 
 
 "She is dying!" Renovales was dazed with surprise 
 as if the possibility of this outcome had never occurred 
 to him. "She is dying !" And when the doctor had gone 
 away, with a firmer step than usual, as if he had freed 
 himself of a weight, the painter repeated the words to 
 himself, without their producing any other effect than 
 leaving him abstracted in senseless stupidity. She is 
 dying ! But was it really possible that that little woman 
 could die, who had so weighed on his life and whose 
 weakness filled him with fear? 
 
 Suddenly he found himself walking up and down the 
 studio, repeating aloud, 
 
 "She is dying! She is dying!" 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 He said it to himself in order that he might make 
 himself feel sorry, and break out into sobs of grief, but 
 he remained mute. 
 
 Josephina was going to die and he was calm. He 
 wanted to weep; it seemed to him a duty. He blinked, 
 swelling out his chest, holding his breath, trying to take 
 in the whole meaning of his sorrow; but his eyes re- 
 mained dry; his lungs breathed the air with pleasure; 
 his thoughts, hard and refractory, did not shudder with 
 any painful image. It was an exterior grief that found 
 expression only in words, gestures and excited walking, 
 his interior continued its old stolidness, as if the cer- 
 tainty of that death had congealed it in peaceful indif- 
 ference. 
 
 The shame of his villainy tormented him. The same 
 instinct that forces ascetics to submit themselves to 
 mortal punishments for their imaginary sins dragged 
 him with the power of remorse to the sick chamber. He 
 would not leave the room; he would face her scornful 
 silence; he would stay with her till the end, forgetting 
 sleep and hunger. He felt that he must purify himself 
 by some noble, generous sacrifice from this blindness of 
 soul that now was terrifying. 
 
 Milita no longer spent the nights caring for hdr 
 mother and would go home, somewhat to the discom- 
 fiture of her husband, who had been rather pleased at 
 this unexpected return to a bachelor's life. 
 
 Renovales did not sleep. After midnight when Co- 
 toner went away he walked in silence through the bril- 
 liantly lighted rooms; he prowled around the chamber 
 entered it to see Josephina in bed, sweating, shaken from 
 time to time by a fit of coughing or in a deathlike leth- 
 argy, so thin and small that the bedclothes hardly showed 
 the childlike outline of her body. Then the master 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 passed the rest of the night in an armchair, smoking, 
 his eyes staring but his brain drowsy with sleep. 
 
 His thoughts were far away. There was no use in 
 feeling ashamed of his cruelty; he seemed bewitched by 
 a mysterious power that was superior to his remorse. 
 He forgot the sick woman; he wondered what Concha 
 was doing at that time ; he saw her in fancy ; he remem- 
 bered her words, her caresses ; he thought of their nights 
 of abandon. And when, with a violent effort, he threw 
 off these dreams, in expiation he would go to the door 
 of the sick chamber and listen to her labored breathing, 
 putting on a gloomy face, but unable to weep or feel 
 the sadness he longed to feel. 
 
 After two months of illness, Josephina could no longer 
 stay in bed. Her daughter would lift her out of it 
 without any effort as if she were a feather, and she 
 would sit in a chair, small, insignificant, unrecognizable, 
 her face so emaciated that its only features seemed to be 
 the deep hollows of her eyes and her nose, sharp as the 
 edge of a knife. 
 
 Cotoner could hardly keep back the tears when he saw 
 her. 
 
 "There isn't anything left of her!" he would say as he 
 went away. "No one would know her!" 
 
 Her harrowing cough scattered a deathly poison about 
 her. White foam came to her lips where it seemed to 
 harden in the corners. Her eyes grew larger, they took 
 on a strange glow as if they saw through persons and 
 things. Oh, those eyes ! What a shudder of terror they 
 awakened in Renovales ! 
 
 One afternoon they fell on him, with the intense, 
 searching glance that had always terrified him. They 
 were eyes that pierced his forehead, that laid bare his 
 thoughts. 
 
 They were alone ; Milita had gone home ; Cotoner was 
 
220 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 sleeping in a chair in the studio. The sick woman seemed 
 more animated, eager to talk, looking on her husband with 
 a sort of pity as he sat beside her, almost at her feet. 
 
 She was going to die ; she was certain of death. And 
 a last revolt of life that recoils from the end, the horror 
 of the unknown, made the tears rise to her eyes. 
 
 Renovales protested violently, trying to conceal his de- 
 ceit by his shouts. Die? She must not think of that! 
 She would live; she still had before her many years of 
 happy existence. 
 
 She smiled as if she pitied him. She could not be de- 
 ceived ; her eyes penetrated farther than his ; she divined 
 the impalpable, the invisible that hovered about her. She 
 spoke weakly but with that inexplicable solemnity that 
 is characteristic of a voice that emits its last sounds, of 
 a soul that unbosoms itself for the last time. 
 
 "I shall die, Mariano, sooner than you think, later 
 than I desire. I shall die and you will be free." 
 
 H[e ! He desire her death ! His surprise and remorse 
 made him jump to his feet, wave his arms in angry pro- 
 test, writhe, as if a pair of invisible hands had just iaid 
 him bare with a rude wrench. 
 
 "Josephina, don't rave. Calm yourself. For God's 
 sake don't talk such nonsense !" 
 
 She smiled with a painful, horrible expression, but 
 immediately her poor face became beautiful with the 
 serenity of one who is departing this life without hal- 
 lucinations or delirium, in perfect mental poise. She 
 spoke to him with the immense sympathy, the super- 
 human compassion of one who contemplates the wretched 
 stream of life, departing from its current, already touch- 
 ing with her feet the shores of eternal shadow, of eternal 
 peace. 
 
 "I should not want to go away without telling you. I 
 die knowing everything. Do not move; do not protest. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 221 
 
 You know the power I have over you. More than once 
 I have seen you watching me in terror, so easily do I read 
 your thoughts. For years I have been convinced that 
 all was over between us. We have lived like good crea- 
 tures of God eating together, sleeping together, helping 
 each other in our needs. But I peered within you; I 
 looked at your heart. Nothing! Not a memory, not a 
 spark of love. I have been your woman, the good com- 
 panion who cares for the house, and relieves a man of 
 the petty cares of life. You have worked hard to sur- 
 round me with comforts, in order that I might be con- 
 tented and not disturb you. But Love? Never. Many 
 people live as we have many of them; almost all. I 
 could not; I thought that life was something different 
 and I am not sorry to go away. Don't go into a rage; 
 don't shout. You aren't to blame, poor Mariano It 
 was a mistake for us to marry." 
 
 She excused him gently with a kindness that seemed 
 not of this world, generously passing over the cruelty 
 and selfishness of a life she was about to leave. Men 
 like him were exceptional; they ought to live alone, by 
 themselves, like those great trees that absorb all the life 
 from the ground and do not allow a single plant to grow 
 in the space which their roots reach. She was not strong 
 enough to stand isolation ; in order to live she must have 
 the shadow of tenderness, the certainty of being loved. 
 She ought to have married a man like other men; a 
 simple being like herself, whose only longings were mod- 
 est and commonplace. The painter had dragged her into 
 his extraordinary path out of the easy, well-beaten roads 
 that the rest follow and she was falling by the wayside, 
 old in the prime of her youth, broken because she had 
 gone with him in this journey which was beyond her 
 strength. 
 
 Renovales was walking about with ceaseless protests. 
 
222 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "Why, what nonsense you are talking! You are rav- 
 ing! I have always loved you, Josephina. I love you 
 now/' 
 
 Her eyes suddenly became hard. A flash of anger 
 crossed their pupils. 
 
 "Stop; don't lie. I know of a pile of letters that you 
 have in your studio, hidden behind the books in your 
 library. . I have read them one by one. I have been fol- 
 lowing them as they came; I discovered your hiding 
 place when you had only three of them. You know that 
 I see through you; that I have a power over you, that 
 you can hide nothing from me. I know your love af- 
 fairs." 
 
 Renovales felt his ears buzzing, the floor slipping from 
 under his feet. What astounding witchcraft! Even the 
 letters so carefully hidden had been discovered by that 
 woman's divining instinct! 
 
 "It's a lie!" he cried vehemently to conceal his agita- 
 tion. "It isn't love ! If you have read them, you know 
 what it is as well as I; just friendship; the letters of a 
 friend who is somewhat crazy." 
 
 The sick woman smiled sadly. At first it was friend- 
 ship even less than that, the perverse amusement of a 
 flighty woman who liked to play with a celebrated man, 
 exciting in him the enthusiasm of youth. She knew her 
 childhood companion; she was sure it would not go any 
 farther; and so she pitied the poor man in the midst of 
 his mad love. But afterward something extraordinary 
 had certainly happened ; something that she could not 
 explain and which had upset all of her calculations. Now 
 her husband and Concha were lovers. 
 
 "Do not deny it ; it is useless. It is this certainty that 
 is killing me. I realized it when I saw you distracted, 
 with a happy smile as if you were relishing your thoughts. 
 I realized it in the merry songs you sang when you awoke 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 333 
 
 in the morning, in the perfume with which you were im- 
 pregnated and which followed you everywhere. I did 
 not need to find any more letters. The odor around 
 you, that perfume of infidelity, of sin, which always ac- 
 companied you, was enough. You, poor man, came home 
 thinking that everything was left outside the door, and 
 that odor follows you, denounces you ; I think I can still 
 perceive it." 
 
 And her nostrils dilated, as she breathed with a pained 
 expression, closing her eyes as though she wished to 
 escape the images which that perfume called up in her. 
 Her husband persisted in his denials, now that he was 
 convinced that she had no other proof of his infidelity. 
 A lie ! An hallucination ! 
 
 "No, Mariano," murmured the sick woman. "She is 
 within you ; she fills your head ; from here I can see her. 
 Once a thousand mad fancies occupied her place, il- 
 lusions of your taste, naked women, a wantonness that 
 was your religion. Now it is she who fills it. It is your 
 desire incarnated. Go on and be happy. I am going 
 away there is no place for me in the world." 
 
 She was silent for a moment and the tears came to her 
 eyes again at the memory of the first years of their life 
 together. 
 
 "No one has cared for you as I have, Mariano," she 
 said with tender regret. "I look on you now as a 
 stranger, without affection and without hate. And still, 
 there was never a woman who loved her husband so 
 passionately." 
 
 "I worship you. Josephina, I love you just as I did 
 when we first met each other. Do you remember ?" 
 
 But in spite of the emotion he pretended to show, 
 his voice had a false ring. 
 
 "Don't try to bluff, Mariano ; it is useless ; everything 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 is over. You do not care for me nor have I either any 
 of the old feeling." 
 
 In her face there was an expression of wonder, of 
 surprise ; she seemed terror-stricken at her own calmness 
 that made her forgive thus indifferently the man who had 
 caused her so much suffering. In her fancy, she saw a 
 wide garden, flowers that seemed immortal and they were 
 withering and falling with the advent of winter. Then 
 her thoughts went beyond, over the chill of death. The 
 snow was melting; the sun was shining once more; the 
 new spring was coming with its court of love and the 
 dry branches were growing green once more with an- 
 other life. 
 
 "Who knows!" murmured the sick woman with her 
 eyes closed. "Perhaps, after I am dead, you will remem- 
 ber me. Perhaps you will care for me then, and be grate- 
 ful to one who loved you so. We want a thing when 
 it is lost." 
 
 The invalid was silent, exhausted by such an effort; 
 she relapsed into that lethargy which for her took the 
 place of rest. Renovales, after this conversation, felt 
 his vile inferiority beside his wife. She knew everything 
 and forgave him. She had followed the course of his 
 love, letter by letter, look by look, seeing in his smiles 
 the memory of his faithlessness. And she was silent ! 
 She was dying without a protest ! And he did not fall 
 at her feet to beg her forgiveness! And he remained 
 unmoved, without a tear, without a sigh ! 
 
 He was afraid to stay alone with her. Milita came 
 back to stay at the house to care for her mother. The 
 master took refuge in his studio; he wanted to forget 
 in work the body that was dying under the same roof. 
 
 But in vain he poured colors on his palette and took 
 up brushes and prepared canvases. He did nothing but 
 daub ; he could make no progress, as if he had forgotten 
 

 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 225 
 
 his art. He kept turning his head anxiously, thinking 
 that Josephina was going to enter suddenly, to continue 
 that interview in which she had laid bare the greatness 
 of her soul and the baseness of his own. He felt forced 
 to return to her apartments, to go on tiptoe to the door 
 of the chamber, in order to be sure that she was there. 
 
 Her emaciation was frightful ; it had no limits. When 
 it seemed that it must stop, it still surprised them with 
 new shrinking, as if after the disappearance of her flesh, 
 her poor skeleton was melting away. 
 
 Sometimes she was tormented with delirium, and her 
 daughter, holding back her tears, approved of the ex- 
 travagant trips she planned, of her proposals to go far 
 away to live with Milita in a garden, where they would 
 find no men ; where there were no painters no painters. 
 
 She lived about two weeks. Renovales, with cruel 
 selfishness, was anxious to rest, complaining of this ab- 
 normal existence. If she must die, why did she not end 
 it as soon as possible, and restore the whole house to 
 tranquillity ! 
 
 The end came one afternoon when the master, lying 
 on a couch in his studio, was re-reading the tender com- 
 plaints of a scented little letter. So long since she had 
 seen him ! How was the patient getting on ? She knew 
 that his duty was there ; people would talk if he came to 
 see her. But this separation was hard! 
 
 He did not have a chance to finish it. Milita came 
 into the studio, in her eyes that expression of horror 
 and fright, which the presence of death, the touch of his 
 passage, always inspires, even if his arrival has been ex- 
 pected. 
 
 Her voice came breathlessly, broken. Mamma was 
 talking with her; she was amusing her with the hope of 
 a trip in the near future, and all at once a hoarse sound, 
 
226 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 her head bent forward before it fell onto her shoulder 
 a moment nothing just like a little bird. 
 
 Renovales ran to the bedroom, bumping into his 
 friend Cotoner who came out of the dining-room, run- 
 ning too. They saw her in an armchair, shrunken, 
 wilted, in the deathly abandon that converts the body into 
 a limp mass. All was over. 
 
 Milita had to catch her father, to hold him up. She 
 had to be the one who kept her calmness and energy at 
 the critical moment. Renovales let his daughter lead 
 him; he rested his face on her shoulder, with sublime, 
 dramatic grief, with beautiful, artistic despair, still hold- 
 ing absent-mindedly in his hand the letter of the countess. 
 
 "Courage, Mariano," said poor Cotoner, his voice 
 choked with tears. "We must be men. Milita, take your 
 father to the studio. Don't let him see her." 
 
 The master let his daughter guide him, sighing deeply, 
 trying in vain to weep. The tears would not come. He 
 could not concentrate his attention; a voice within him 
 was distracting him, the voice of temptation. 
 
 She was dead and he was free. He would go on his 
 way, light-hearted, master of himself, relieved of trouble- 
 some hindrances. Before him lay life with all its joys, 
 love without a fear or a scruple; glory with its sweet 
 returns. 
 
 Life was going to begin again. 
 
PART III 
 
 UNTIL the beginning of the following winter Reno- 
 vales did not return to Madrid. The death of his wife 
 had left him stunned, as if he doubted its reality, as if he 
 felt strange at finding himself alone and master of his 
 actions. Cotoner, seeing that he had no ambition for 
 work and would lie on the couch in the studio with a 
 blank expression on his face, as if he were in a waking 
 dream, interpreted his condition as a deep, silent grief. 
 Besides, it irritated him that as soon as Josephina was 
 dead, the countess began to come to the house frequent- 
 ly to see the master and her dear Milita. 
 
 "You ought to go away," the old artist advised. 
 "You are free ; you will be just as well off anywhere as 
 here. What you need is a long journey; that will take 
 your mind off your trouble." 
 
 And Renovales started on his journey with the eager- 
 ness of a school-boy, free for the first time from the 
 vigilance of a family. Alone, rich, master of his ac- 
 tions, he believed that he was the happiest being on earth. 
 His daughter had her husband, a family of her own; he 
 "saw himself in welcome seclusion, without cares or du- 
 ties, without any other ties than the constant letters of 
 Concha, which met him on his travels. Oh, happy free- 
 dom! 
 
 He lived in Holland, studying its museums, which he 
 had never seen : then, with the caprice of a wandering 
 
 227 
 
228 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 bird, he went down to Italy where he enjoyed several 
 months of easy life, without any work, visiting studios, 
 receiving the honors due a famous master, in the same 
 places where once he had struggled, poor and unknown. 
 Then he moved to Paris, finally attracted by the count- 
 ess, who was spending the summer at Biarritz with her 
 husband. 
 
 Concha's epistolary style grew more urgent. She had 
 numerous objections to a prolongation of the period of 
 their separation. He must come back; he had traveled 
 enough. She could not stand it without seeing him ; she 
 loved him ; she could not live without him. Besides, as a 
 last resource, she spoke to him of her husband, the count, 
 who, in his eternal blindness, joined in his wife's requests 
 asking her to invite the artist to spend a while at their 
 house in Biarritz. The poor painter must be very sad in 
 his bereavement and the kindly nobleman insisted on con- 
 soling him in his loneliness. In his house, they would di- 
 vert him; they would be a new family for him. 
 
 The painter lived for a great part of the summer and 
 all the autumn in the welcome atmosphere of that home 
 which seemed created for him. The servants respected 
 him, seeing in him the true master. The countess, delir- 
 ious after his long absence, was so reckless that the art- 
 ist had to restrain her, urging her to be prudent. The no- 
 ble Count of Alberca was unceasing in his sympathy. 
 Poor friend ! Deprived of his companion ! And by his 
 expression he shared the horror he felt at the possibility 
 of being left a widower, without that wife who made him 
 so happy. 
 
 At the beginning of winter Renovales returned to his 
 house. He did not experience the slightest emotion on 
 entering the three great studios, on passing through those 
 rooms, which seemed more icy, larger, more hollow, now 
 that they were stirred by no other steps than his own. 
 

 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 229 
 
 He could not believe that a year had passed. All was the 
 same as if he had been absent for only a few days. 
 Cotoner had taken good care of the house, setting to 
 work the concierge and his wife and the old servant who 
 had charge of cleaning the studios, the only servants 
 that Renovales had kept. There was no dust, none of 
 the close atmosphere of a house that has long been closed. 
 Everything appeared bright and clean, as if life had not 
 been interrupted in that house. The sun and air had been 
 pouring in the windows, driving out that atmosphere of 
 sickness which Renovales had left when he went away 
 and in which he fancied he could feel the trace of the 
 invisible garb of death. 
 
 It was a new house, like the one he had known before 
 in form, but as fresh as a recently constructed building. 
 
 Outside of his studio nothing reminded him of his 
 dead wife. He avoided going into her chamber; he did 
 not even ask who had the key. He slept in the room that 
 had formerly been his daughter's in a small, iron bed, 
 delighted to lead a modest, sober life in that princely 
 mansion. 
 
 He took breakfast in the dining room at one end of 
 the table, on a napkin, oppressed by the size and luxury 
 of the -room which now seemed vast and useless. He 
 looked at the chair beside the fireplace, where the dead 
 woman had often sat. That chair with its open arms 
 seemed to be waiting for her trembling, bird-like little 
 body. But the painter did not feel any emotion. He 
 could not even remember Josephina's face exactly. She 
 had changed so much ! The last, that skeleton-like mask, 
 was the one he recalled the best, but he thrust it aside, 
 with the selfishness of a strong, happy man, who does 
 not want to sadden his life with unpleasant memories. 
 
 He did not see her picture anywhere in the house. She 
 seemed to have evaporated forever without leaving the 
 
230 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 least trace of her body on the walls that had so often 
 supported her tottering steps, on the stairways that hard- 
 ly felt the weight of her feet. Nothing; she was quite 
 forgotten. Within Reno vales, the only trace of the long 
 years of their union that remained was an unpleasant 
 feeling, an annoying memory that made him relish all 
 the more his new existence. 
 
 His first days in the solitude of the house brought new, 
 intense joys. After luncheon he would lie down on the 
 couch in the studio, watching the blue spirals of cigar 
 smoke. Complete liberty! Alone in the world! Life 
 wholly to himself, without any care or fear. He could 
 go and come without a pair of eyes spying on his ac- 
 tions, without being reproached with bitter words. That 
 little door of the studio, which he used to watch in ter- 
 ror, no longer opened, to let in his enemy. He could 
 close it, shutting out the world; he could open it and 
 summon in a noisy, scandalous stream, all that he fan- 
 cied hosts of naked beauties, to paint in a wild bac- 
 chanalian rout, strange, black-eyed Oriental girls to dance 
 in morbid abandon on the rugs of the studio, all the dis- 
 ordered illusions of his desire the monstrous feasts of 
 fancy which he had dreamed of in his days of servitude. 
 He was not sure where'he could find all this, he was not 
 very eager to look for it. But the consciousness that he 
 could realize it without any obstacle was enough. 
 
 This consciousness of his absolute freedom, instead 
 of urging him into action, kept him in a state of calm, 
 satisfied that he could do everything, without the least de- 
 sire to try anything. Formerly he used to rage, com- 
 plaining of his fetters. What things he would do if he 
 were free ! What scandals he would cause with his dar- 
 ing I Oh, if he only were not married to a slave of con- 
 vention who tried to apply rules to his art with the same 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 231 
 
 formality which she had for her calls and her household 
 expenses ! 
 
 And now that the slave of convention was gone, the 
 artist remained in sleepy comfort, looking like a timid 
 lover, at the canvases he had begun a year before, at his 
 neglected palette, saying with false energy, "This is the 
 last day. To-morrow I will begin." 
 
 And the next day, noon came, and with it luncheon, 
 before Renovales had taken up a brush. He read for- 
 eign papers, magazines on art, looking up, with profes- 
 sional interest, what the famous painters of Europe were 
 exhibiting or working on. He received a call from some 
 of his humble companions, and in their presence he la- 
 mented the insolence of the younger generation, their 
 disrespectful attacks, with the surliness of a famous art- 
 ist who is getting old and thinks that talent has died out 
 with him and that no one can take his place. Then the 
 drowsiness of digestion seized him, as it did Cotoner, 
 and he submitted to the bliss of short naps, the happiness 
 of doing nothing. His daughter all the family he had 
 would receive more than she expected at his death. He 
 had worked enough. Painting, like all the arts, was a 
 pretty deceit, for the advancement of which men strove 
 as if they were mad, until they hated it like death. What 
 folly! It was better to keep calm, enjoying your own 
 life, intoxicated with the simple animal joys, living for 
 life's sake. What good were a few more pictures in 
 those huge palaces filled with canvases, disfigured by 
 the centuries, in which hardly a single stroke was left 
 as the author had made it ? What good did it do the hu- 
 man race, which changes its dwelling place every dozen 
 centuries and has seen the proud works of man, built 
 of marble or granite, fall in ruins, if a certain Reno- 
 vales produced a few beautiful toys of cloth and colors, 
 which a cigar stub could destroy, or a puff of wind, a 
 
232 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 drop of water leaking through the wall, might ruin in a 
 few years? 
 
 But this pessimistic attitude disappeared when some 
 one called him "Illustrious Master," or when he saw his 
 name in a paper, and a pupil or admirer manifested an 
 interest in his work. 
 
 At present he was resting. He had not yet recovered 
 from the shock. Poor Josephina ! But he was going to 
 work a great deal; he felt a new strength for works 
 greater than any that he had thus far produced. And 
 after these exclamations, he would be seized with a mad 
 desire for work and would enumerate the pictures he had 
 in mind, dwelling upon their originality. They were bold 
 problems in color, new technical methods that had 
 occurred to him. But these plans never passed the lim- 
 its of speech, they never reached the brush. The springs 
 of his will, once vibrant and vigorous, seemed broken or 
 rusted. He did not suffer, he did not desire. Death 
 had taken away his fever for work, his artistic restless- 
 ness, leaving him in the limbo of comfort and tranquillity. 
 
 In the afternoon, when he succeeded in throwing off 
 his comfortable torpor, he went to see his daughter, if 
 she was in Madrid, for she very frequently went with 
 her husband on his automobile trips. Then he ended 
 the afternoon at the Albercas', where he often stayed till 
 midnight. 
 
 He dined there almost every day. The count, accus- 
 tomed to his society, seemed as eager to see him as his 
 wife. He spoke enthusiastically of the portrait which 
 Renovales was painting of him to go with Concha's. He 
 would make more progress when he secured some in- 
 signia of foreign orders that were still lacking in his 
 catalogue of honors. And the artist felt a twinge of re- 
 morse as he listened to the good gentleman's simplicity, 
 while his wife, with mad recklessness, caressed him with 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 233 
 
 her eyes, leaned toward him as if she were on the point 
 of falling into his arms. 
 
 Then, as soon as the husband went away, she would 
 throw her arms about him, hungry for him, defying the 
 curiosity of the servants. Love that was threatened with 
 dangers seemed sweeter to her. And the artist took 
 pride in letting her worship him. He, who at first was 
 the one who implored and pursued, assumed now an air 
 of passive superiority, accepting Concha's homage. 
 
 Lacking enthusiasm for work, in order to keep up his 
 reputation Renovales took refuge in the official honors 
 which are granted to respected masters. He put off till 
 the next day the new work, the great work that was to 
 call forth new cries of admiration over his name. He 
 would paint his famous picture of Phryne on a beach, 
 when summer came, and he could retire to the solitary 
 shore, taking with him the perfect beauty to serve as his 
 model. Perhaps he could persuade the countess. Who 
 knows ! She smiled with satisfaction every time she 
 heard from his lips the praise of her beauty. But mean- 
 while the master demanded that people should remember 
 his name for his earlier works, that they should ad- 
 mire him for what he had already produced. 
 
 He was irritated at the papers, which extolled the 
 younger generation, remembered him only to mention 
 him in passing, like a consecrated glory, like a man who 
 was dead and had his pictures in the Museo del Prado. 
 He was gnawed with dumb anger, like an actor who is 
 tortured with envy, seeing the stage occupied by others. 
 
 He wanted to work; he was going to work immedi- 
 ately. But as time passed, he felt an increasing lazi- 
 ness, which incapacitated him for work, a numbness in 
 his hands, which he concealed even from his most inti- 
 mate friends, ashamed when he recalled his lightness of 
 touch in the old days. 
 
234 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "This will not last," he said to himself with the confi- 
 dence of a man who does not doubt his ability. 
 
 In one of his fanciful moods, he compared himself 
 with a dog, restless, fierce and aggressive when he is 
 tormented with hunger, but gentle and peaceable when 
 he is surrounded with comforts. He needed his pe- 
 riods of greed and restlessness, when he desired 
 everything, when he could not find peace for his work, 
 and in the midst of his marital troubles attacked the 
 canvas as if it were an enemy, hurling colors on it 
 furiously, in slaps of light. Even after he was rich and 
 famous, he had had something to long for. "If I only 
 were free! If I were master of my time! If I lived 
 alone, without a family, without cares; as a true artist 
 should live !" And now his wishes were fulfilled, he had 
 nothing to hope for, but he was a victim of laziness that 
 amounted to exhaustion, absolutely without desire, as if 
 only wrath and restlessness were for him the internal 
 goad of inspiration. 
 
 The longing for fame tormented him; as the days 
 went by and his name was not mentioned, he believed 
 that he had come to an obscure death. He fancied that 
 the youths turned their backs on him, to look in the op- 
 posite direction, storing him away among the respected 
 dead, admiring other masters. His artistic pride made 
 him seek opportunities for notoriety, with the guileless- 
 ness of a tyro. He, who scoffed so at the official hon- 
 ors and the "sheepfold" of the academies, suddenly re- 
 membered that several years before, after one of his suc- 
 cesses, they had elected him a member of the Academy 
 of Fine Arts. 
 
 Cotoner was astonished to see the importance he be- 
 gan to attach to this unsolicited distinction, at which he 
 had always laughed. 
 
 "That was a boy's joking," said the master gravely. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 235 
 
 ''Life cannot always be taken as a laughing matter. We 
 must be serious, Pepe; we are getting on in years, and 
 we must not always make fun of things that are essen- 
 tially respectable." 
 
 Besides, he charged himself with rudeness. Those 
 worthy personages, whom he had often compared with 
 all kinds of animals, no doubt thought it strange that the 
 years went by without his caring to occupy his seat. He 
 must go to the academic reception. And Cotoner, at his 
 bidding, attended to all the details, from taking the news 
 to those worthies, in order that they might set the date 
 for the function, to arranging the speech of the new 
 Academician. For Renovales learned with some mis- 
 giving that he must read a speech. He, accustomed to 
 handling the brush and poorly trained in his childhood, 
 took up the pen with timidity, and even in his letters to 
 the Alberca woman preferred to represent his passion- 
 ate phrases with amusing pictures, to embodying them in 
 words. 
 
 The old Bohemian got him out of this difficulty. He 
 knew his Madrid well. The secrets of the world which 
 are detailed in the newspapers had no mysteries for him. 
 Renovales should have as magnificent a speech as any 
 one. 
 
 And one afternoon he brought to the studio a certain 
 Isidro Maltrana,* a diminutive, ugly young fellow with 
 a huge head, and an air of self-satisfaction and boldness 
 that disgusted Renovales from the very first. He was 
 well dressed but the lapels of his coat were dirty with 
 ashes, and its collar was strewn with dandruff. The 
 painter observed that he smelt of wine. At first he pom- 
 pously styled him master, but after a few words he 
 called him by name with disconcerting familiarity. He 
 
 * The life of this character is the theme of La Horda, by the 
 same author. 
 
2S6 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 moved about the studio as if it were his own, as if he 
 had spent his whole life in it, indifferent to its beautiful 
 decorations. 
 
 It would not be any trouble for him to undertake the 
 preparation of a speech. That was his specialty. Aca- 
 demic receptions and works for members of Congress 
 were his best field. He understood that the master 
 needed him a painter! 
 
 And Renovales, who was beginning to find this 
 Maltrana fellow attractive in spite of his insolence, drew 
 himself up to his full height in the majesty of his fame. 
 If it was a question of doing a picture for admission, he 
 was the man. But a speech ! 
 
 "Agreed: you shall have the speech," said Maltrana. 
 "It's an easy matter, I know the recipe. We shall speak 
 of the holy traditions of the past, we shall despise cer- 
 tain daring innovations on the part of the inexperienced 
 youth, which were perfectly proper twenty years ago, 
 when you were beginning, but which now are out of 
 place. Do you care for a thrust at modernism?" 
 
 Renovales smiled, enchanted at the frankness with 
 which this young fellow spoke of his task, and he moved 
 one hand to suggest a balance. "Man alive ! Like this. 
 A just mean is what we want." 
 
 "Of course, Renovales; flatter the old men and not 
 quarrel with the young. You are a real master. You will 
 be pleased with my work." 
 
 With the calmness of a shopkeeper, before the artist 
 had a chance to speak of the charge, he broached the 
 matter. It would be two thousand reales; he had already 
 told Cotoner. The low tariff ; the one he set for people 
 he liked. 
 
 "A man must live, Renovales. I have a son." 
 
 And his: voice grew serious as he said this; his face, 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 237 
 
 <igly and cynical, became noble for a moment, reflecting 
 the cares of paternal love. 
 
 "A son, dear master, for whom I do anything that 
 turns up. If it is necessary I will steal. He is the only 
 thing I have in the world. His mother died in misery 
 in the hospital. I dreamt of being something, but you 
 can't think of nonsense when you have a baby. Be- 
 tween the hope of being famous and the certainty of 
 eating eating is the first." 
 
 But his tenderness was not of long duration. He re- 
 covered the cold, mercenary expression of a man who 
 goes through life in an armor of cynicism, disillusioned 
 by misfortune, setting a price on all his acts. They 
 agreed on the sum ; he should receive it when he handed 
 over the speech. 
 
 "And if you print it, as I hope," he said as he went 
 away, "I will read the proof without any extra charge. 
 Of course that is a special favor to you, because I am 
 one of your admirers." 
 
 Renovales spent several weeks in the preparations for 
 his reception, as if it were the most important event in 
 his life. The countess also took a great interest in the 
 matter. She would see to it that it was a distinguished 
 function, something like the receptions of the French 
 Academy, described in the papers or in novels. All of 
 her friends would be present. The great painter would 
 read his speech, the cynosure of a hundred interested 
 eyes, amid the fluttering of fans and the buzz of con- 
 versation. An immense success which would enrage 
 many artists who were eager to get a foothold in high 
 society. 
 
 A few days before the function, Cotoner handed him 
 a bundle of papers. It was a copy of the speech, in a 
 fair hand ; it was already paid for. And Renovales, with 
 the instinct of an actor anxious to make a good show, 
 
238 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 spent an afternoon, striding from studio to studio, with 
 the manuscript in one hand and making energetic ges- 
 tures with the other, while he read the paragraphs aloud. 
 That impudent Maltrana was gifted! It was a work 
 that filled the simple artist with enthusiasm, in his igno- 
 rance of everything except printing, a series of glorious 
 trumpet blasts, in which were scattered names, many 
 names; appreciations in tremulous rhetoric, historical 
 summaries, so well rounded, so complete that it seemed 
 as though mankind had been living since the beginning 
 of the world with no other thought than Renovales' 
 speech, and judging its acts in order that he might give 
 them a definite interpretation. 
 
 The artist felt a thrill of elevation as he repeated in 
 eloquent succession Greek names, many of which were 
 mere sounds to him, for he was not certain whether they 
 were great sculptors or tragic poets. Again, he expe- 
 rienced a sensation of self-satisfaction when he encoun- 
 tered the names of Dante and Shakespeare. He knew 
 that they had not painted, but they ought to appear in 
 every speech which was worthy of respect. And when 
 he came to the paragraphs on modern art, he seemed 
 to touch terra firma, and smiled with a superior air. 
 Maltrana did not know much about that subject; super- 
 ficial appreciation of a layman ; but he wrote well, very 
 well; he could not have done better himself. And he 
 studied his speech, till he could repeat whole paragraphs 
 by heart, paying particular attention to the pronuncia- 
 tion of the difficult names, taking lessons from his most 
 cultured friends. 
 
 "It is for appearance's sake," he said naively. "It is 
 because I don't want people to poke fun at me, even if 
 I am only a painter." 
 
 The day of the reception he had luncheon long before 
 noon. He scarcely touched the food; this ceremony, 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 239 
 
 which he had never seen, made him rather worried. To 
 his anxiety was added the irritation he always felt when 
 he had to attend to the care of his person. 
 
 His long years of married life had accustomed him to 
 neglect all the trivial, everyday needs of life. If he had 
 to appear in different clothes than usual, the hands of 
 his wife and daughter deftly arranged them for him. 
 Even at the times of greatest ill-feeling, when he and 
 Josephina hardly spoke to each other, he noticed around 
 him the scrupulous order of that excellent housekeeper 
 who removed all obstacles from his way, relieving him 
 of the ordinary cares of life. 
 
 Cotoner was away ; the servant had gone to the count- 
 ess's to take her some invitations which she had asked 
 for, at the last minute, for some friends. Renovales de- 
 cided to dress alone. His son-in-law and daughter were 
 going to come for him at two. Lopez de Sosa had in- 
 sisted on taking him to the Academy in his car, seek- 
 ing, no doubt, by this a little ray of the splendor of of- 
 ficial glory that was to be showered on his father-in- 
 law. 
 
 Renovales dressed himself, after struggling with the 
 many difficulties that arose from his lack of habit. He 
 was as awkward as a child without his mother's help. 
 When at last he looked at himself in the mirror, with 
 his dress coat on and his cravat neatly tied, he heaved a 
 sigh of relief. At last! Now the insignia the ribbon. 
 Where could he find those honorary trinkets? Since 
 Milita's wedding he had not had them on, the poor de- 
 parted had put them away. Where could he find them? 
 And hastily, fearing the time would go by and his 
 children would surprise him before he finished the 
 decoration of his person, out of breath, swearing with 
 impatience, wandering around in hopeless confusion, 
 unable to remember anything definitely, he entered 
 
240 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 the room his wife had used as a wardrobe. Perhaps she 
 had put away his insignia there. He opened the doors 
 of the great clothes-closets with a nervous pull. Clothes ! 
 Nothing but clothes. 
 
 The odor of balsam, which made him think of the si- 
 lent calm of the woods, was mingled with a subtle, mys- 
 terious perfume, a perfume of years gone by, of dead 
 beauties, of forgotten memories, like the fragrance of 
 dried flowers. This odor came from the mass of clothes 
 that hung there, white, black, pink and blue dresses, 
 with their colors dull and indistinct, the lace crumpled 
 and yellow, retaining in their folds something of the liv- 
 ing fragrance of the form they once had covered. The 
 whole past of the dead woman was there. With super- 
 stitious care, she had stored away the gowns of the dif- 
 ferent periods of her life, as if she had been afraid to 
 get rid of them, to tear out a part of her life. 
 
 As the painter looked at some of these gowns, he felt 
 the same emotion as if they were old friends who had 
 suddenly appeared like an unexpected surprise. A pink 
 skirt recalled the happy days in Rome ; a blue suit brought 
 to his memory the Piazza di san Marco, and he thought 
 he heard the fluttering of the doves and the distant rum- 
 ble of the noisy Ride of the Valkyries. The dark, cheap 
 suits that belonged to the cruel days of struggle hung at 
 the back of the closet, like the garb of suffering and sac- 
 rifice. A straw hat, bright as a summer wood, covered 
 with red flowers and with cherries, seemed to smile to 
 him from a shelf. Oh, he knew that too ! Many a time 
 its sharp edge of straw had stuck into his forehead, when 
 at sunset on the roads of the Roman Compagna he used 
 to bend down, with his arm around his little wife's waist, 
 to kiss her lips that trembled softly, while from the dis- 
 tance in the blue mist came the tinkle of the bells of the 
 flocks and the mournful songs of the drivers. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 241 
 
 That youthful perfume, grown old in its confinement, 
 which poured from the closets in waves, with the rush 
 of an old wine that escapes from the dusty bottle in 
 spurts, spoke to him of the past, calling up the joys that 
 were dead. His senses trembled, a subtle intoxication 
 crept over him. He fancied he had fallen into a sea of 
 perfume that buffeted him with its waves, playing with 
 him as if he were an inert body. It was the scent of 
 youth that came back to him; the incense of the happy 
 days, fainter, more subtle with the regret of dead years. 
 It was the perfume of her beauty which one night in 
 Rome had made him sigh admiringly. 
 
 "I worship you, Josephina. You are as fair as Goya's 
 little Maja. You are the Maja Desnuda." 
 
 Holding his breath like a swimmer, he delved into the 
 depths of the closets, reaching out his hands greedily, 
 yet eager to get out of there, to return, as .soon as he 
 could, to the surface, to the pure air. He came upon 
 card-board boxes, bundles of belts and old lace, without 
 rinding what he was seeking. And every time that his 
 trembling arms shook the old clothes, the swinging of 
 the skirts seemed to throw in his face a wave of that 
 dead, indefinable perfume which he breathed more with 
 his fancy than with his senses. 
 
 He wanted to get out as soon as possible. The insig- 
 nia were not in the wardrobe. Perhaps he would find 
 them in the chamber. And for the first time since the 
 death of his wife, he ventured to turn the door key. The 
 perfume of the past seemed to go with him ; it had pen- 
 etrated through all the pores of his body. He fancied 
 he felt the pressure of a pair of distant, enormous arms, 
 that came from the infinite. He was no longer afraid 
 to enter the chamber. 
 
 He groped his way, looking for one of the windows. 
 When the shutters creaked and the sunlight rushed in, 
 
242 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 the painter's eyes, after a moment of blinking, saw, like 
 a sweet, faint smile, the glow of the Venetian furniture. 
 
 What a beautiful artistic chamber! After a year of 
 absence, the painter admired the great clothes-press with 
 its three mirrors, deep and blue as only the mirror-mak- 
 ers of Murano could make them and the ebony of the 
 furniture inlaid with tiny bits of pearl and bright jewels, 
 a specimen of the artistic genius of ancient Venice in 
 contact with Oriental peoples. This furniture had been 
 for Renovales one of the great undertakings of his youth ; 
 the whim of a lover, eager to bestow princely honors on 
 his companion after years of strict economy. 
 
 They had always had their luxurious bedroom wher- 
 ever they were, even at the time of their poverty. In 
 those hard days when he painted in the attic and Jo- 
 sephina did the cooking, they had no chairs, they ate from 
 the same plate ; Milita played with rag-dolls ; but in their 
 miserable, whitewashed alcove were piled up with sacred 
 respect all that furniture of the fair-haired wife of some 
 Doge, like a hope for the future, a promise of better 
 times. She, poor woman, with her simple faith, cleaned 
 it, worshiped it, waiting for the hour of magic transfor- 
 mation to move them to a palace. 
 
 The painter glanced about the chamber calmly. He 
 found nothing unusual there, nothing that moved him. 
 Cotoner had prudently hidden the chair in which Jo- 
 sephina died. 
 
 The princely bed, with its monumental head and foot 
 of carved ebony and brilliant mosaic, looked vulgar with 
 the mattresses piled in a heap. Renovales laughed at 
 the terror which had so often made him stop in front of 
 the locked door. Death had left no trace. Nothing 
 there reminded him of Josephina. In the atmosphere 
 floated that smell of closeness, that odor of dust and 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 243 
 
 dampness which one finds in all rooms that have long 
 been closed. 
 
 The time was passing, the insignia must be found, and 
 Renovales, already accustomed to the room, opened the 
 clothespress, expecting to find them in it. 
 
 There, too, the wood seemed to scatter, as he opened 
 the door, a perfume like that of the other room. It 
 was fainter, more vague, more distant. 
 
 Renovales thought it was an illusion of his senses. 
 But no ; from the depths of the clothes-press came an in- 
 visible vapor wrapping him in its caressing breath. There 
 were no clothes there. His eyes recognized immediately 
 in the bottom of a compartment the boxes he was look- 
 ing for ; but he did not reach out his hands for them ; he 
 stood motionless, lost in the contemplation of a thou- 
 sand trivial objects that reminded him of Josephina. 
 
 She was there, too ; she came forth to meet him, more 
 personal, more real than from among the heap of old 
 clothes. Her gloves seemed to preserve the warmth and 
 the outline of those hands which once had run caressingly 
 through the artist's hair, her collars reminded him of her 
 warm ivory neck where he used to place his kisses. 
 
 His hands turned over everything with painful curi- 
 osity. An old fan, carefully put away, seemed to move 
 him in spite of its sorry appearance. Among its broken 
 folds he could see a trace of old colors a head he had 
 painted when his wife was only a friend a gift for 
 Senorita de Torrealta who wanted to have something 
 done by the young artist. At the bottom of a case shone 
 two huge pearls, surrounded by diamonds; a present 
 from Milan, the first jewel of real worth which he had 
 bought for his wife, as they were walking through the 
 Piazza del Duomo ; a whole remittance from his manager 
 in Rome invested in this costly trinket which made the 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 little woman flush with pleasure while her eyes rested 
 on him with intense gratitude. 
 
 His eager fingers, as they turned over boxes, belts, 
 handkerchiefs and gloves, came upon souvenirs with 
 which her person was forever connected. That poor 
 woman had lived for him, only for him, as if her own 
 existence were nothing, as if it had no meaning unless 
 it were joined with his. He found carefully put away 
 among belts and band-boxes photographs of the places 
 where she had spent her youth; the buildings of Rome; 
 the mountains of the old Papal States, the canals of 
 Venice relics of the past which no doubt were of great 
 value to her because they called up the image of her 
 husband. And among these papers he saw dry, crushed 
 flowers, proud roses, or modest wild flowers, withered 
 leaves, nameless souvenirs whose importance Renovales 
 realized, suspecting that they recalled some happy mo- 
 ment completely forgotten by him. 
 
 The artist's portraits, at different ages, rose from all 
 the corners, entangled among belts or buried under the 
 piles of handkerchiefs. Then several bundles of let- 
 ters appeared, the ink reddened with time, written in a 
 hand that made the artist uneasy. He recognized it; it 
 was dimly associated in his memory with some person 
 whose name had escaped him. Fool! It was his own 
 handwriting, the laborious heavy hand of his youth 
 which was dexterous only with the brush. There in those 
 yellow folds was the whole story of his life, his intellec- 
 tual efforts to say "pretty things" like men who write. 
 Not one was missing; the letters of their early engage- 
 ment when, after they had seen and talked to each other, 
 they still felt that they must put on paper what their lips 
 did not venture to say; others with Italian stamps, ex- 
 uberant with extravagant expressions of love, short notes 
 he sent her when he was going to spend a few days with 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 245 
 
 some other artists at Naples, or to visit some dead city 
 in the Marcha; then the letters from Paris to the old 
 Venetian palace, inquiring anxiously for the little girl, 
 asking about the nursing, trembling with fear at the pos- 
 sibility of the inevitable diseases of childhood. 
 
 Not one was lacking; all were there, put away like 
 fetishes, perfumed with love, tied up with ribbons like 
 the balsam and swathings of a mummified life. Her 
 letters had had a different fate, her written love had been 
 scattered, lost in the void. They had been left forgotten 
 in old suits, burned in the fireplaces, or had fallen into 
 strange hands, where they provoked laughter at their 
 tender simplicity. The only letters he kept were a few 
 of the other woman's and, as he thought of this, he was 
 seized with remorse, with infinite shame at his evil doings. 
 
 He read the first lines of some of them, with a strange 
 feeling, as if they were written by another man, wonder- 
 ing at their passionate tone. And it was he who had 
 written that! How he loved Josephina then! It did 
 not seem possible that this affection could have ended 
 so coldly. He was surprised at the indifference of the 
 last years; he no longer remembered the troubles of 
 their life together; he saw his wife now as she was in 
 her youth, with her calm face, her quiet smile and ad- 
 miration in her eyes. 
 
 He continued to read, passing eagerly from letter to 
 letter. He wondered at his own youth, virtuous in spite 
 of his passionate nature, at the chastity of his devotion 
 to his wife, the only, the unquestionable one. He ex- 
 perienced the joy, tinged with melancholy, which a de- 
 crepit old man feels at the contemplation of his youthful 
 portrait. And he had been like that ! From the bottom 
 of his soul, a stern voice seemed to rise in a reproachful 
 tone, "Yes, like that, when you were good, when you 
 were honorable." 
 
246 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT' 
 
 He became so absorbed in his reading that he did not 
 notice the lapse of time. Suddenly he heard steps in the 
 distant hall- way, the rustle of skirts, his daughter's 
 voice. Outside the house a horn was tooting ; his haughty 
 son-in-law telling him to hurry; trembling with fear at 
 the prospect of being discovered, he took the insignia and 
 the ribbons out of their cases and hastily closed the 
 door of the clothes-press. 
 
 The reception of the Academy was almost a failure 
 for Renovales. The countess found him very interesting, 
 with his face pale with excitement, his breast starred 
 with jewels and his shirt front cut with several bright 
 lines of colors. But as soon as he stood up amid general 
 curiosity, with his manuscript in his hand, and began to 
 read the first paragraphs, a murmur arose which kept in- 
 creasing and finally drowned out his voice. He read 
 thickly, with the haste of a schoolboy who wants to have 
 it over, without noticing what he was saying, in a mo- 
 notonous sing-song. The sonorous rehearsals in the 
 studio, the careful preparation of dramatic gestures was 
 forgotten. His mind seemed to be somewhere else, far 
 away from that ceremony; his eyes saw nothing but the 
 letters. The fashionable assemblage went out, glad 
 they had gathered and seen each other again. Many lips 
 laughed at the speech behind their gauze "fans, delighted 
 to be able to scratch indirectly his friend the Alberca 
 woman. 
 
 "Awful, my dear ! Insufferably boring !" 
 
II 
 
 As soon as he awoke the next day, Renovales felt 
 that he must have open air, light, space, and he went 
 out of the house, not stopping in his walk, up the Castel- 
 lana, until he reached the clearing near the Exhibition 
 Hall. 
 
 The night before he had dined at the Albercas' almost 
 a formal banquet in honor of his entrance into the Acad- 
 emy, at which many of the distinguished gentlemen 
 who formed the countess's coterie were present. She 
 seemed radiant with joy, as if she were celebrating a 
 triumph of her own. The count treated the famous 
 master with greater respect than ever; he had just ad- 
 vanced another step in glory. His respect for all hon- 
 orary distinctions made him admire that Academic medal, 
 the only distinction he could not add to his load of in- 
 signia. 
 
 Renovales spent a bad night. The countess's cham- 
 pagne did not agree with him. He had gone home with 
 a sort of fear, as if something unusual was awaiting him 
 which his uneasiness could not explain. He took off 
 the dress clothes which had been torturing him for sev- 
 eral hours and went to bed, surprised at the vague fear 
 that followed him even to the threshhold of his room. 
 He saw nothing unusual around him, his room presented 
 the same appearance it always did. He feel asleep, over- 
 come by weariness, by the digestive torpor of that ex- 
 traordinary banquet, and he did not awake at all during 
 the night; but his sleep was cruel, tossed with dreams 
 that perhaps made him groan. 
 
 247 
 
248 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT? 
 
 On awakening, late in the morning, at the steps of his 
 servant in the dressing room, he realized by the tumbled 
 condition of the bed-clothes, by the cold sweat on his 
 forehead and the weariness of his body what a restless 
 night he had passed amid nervous starts. 
 
 His brain, still heavy with sleep, could not unravel the 
 memories of the night. He knew only that he had had 
 unpleasant dreams ; perhaps he had wept. The one thing 
 he could recall was a pale face, rising from among the 
 black veils of unconsciousness, around which all his 
 dreams were centered. It was not Josephina; the face 
 had the expression of a person of another world. 
 
 But as his mental numbness gradually disappeared, 
 while he was washing and dressing, and while the servant 
 was helping him on with his overcoat, he thought, sum- 
 moning his memories with an effort, that it might be she. 
 Yes, it was she. Now he remembered that in his dream 
 he had been conscious of that perfume which had fol- 
 lowed him since the day before, which accompanied him 
 to the Academy, disturbing his reading, and which had 
 gone with him to the banquet, running between his eyes 
 and Concha's like a mist, through which he looked at 
 her, without seeing her. 
 
 The coolness of the morning cleared his mind. The 
 wide prospect from the heights of the Exhibition Hall 
 seemed to blot out instantly the memories of the night. 
 
 A wind from the mountains was blowing on the plateau 
 near the Hippodrome. As he walked against the wind, 
 he felt a buzz in his ears, like the distant roar of the sea. 
 In the background, beyond the slopes with their little 
 red houses and wintry poplars, bare as broomsticks, the 
 mountains of Guadarrama stood out, luminously clear 
 against the blue sky, with their snowy crests and their 
 huge peaks which seemed made of salt. In the opposite 
 direction, sunk in a deep cut, appeared the covering of 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 Madrid; the black roofs, the pointed towers all indis- 
 tinct in a haze that gave the buildings in the background 
 the vague blue of the mountains. 
 
 The plateau, covered with wretched, thin grass, its 
 furrows stiffly frozen, flashed here and there in the sun- 
 light. The bits of tile on the ground, broken pieces of 
 china and tin cans reflected the light as if they were 
 precious metals. 
 
 Renovales looked for a long while at the back of the 
 Exhibition Palace; the yellow walls trimmed with red 
 brick which hardly rose above the edge of the clearing; 
 the flat zinc roofs, shining like dead seas; the central 
 cupola, huge, swollen, cutting the sky with its black 
 curves, like a balloon on the point of rising. From one 
 wing of the Palace came the sound of bugles, prolonging 
 heir warlike notes to the accompaniment of the hoof- 
 loeats amid clouds of dust. Beside one door swords were 
 flashing and the sun was reflected on patent-leather hats. 
 
 The painter smiled. That palace had been erected for 
 them, and now the rural police occupied it. Once every 
 two years Art entered it, claiming the place from the 
 horses of the guardians of peace. Statues were set up 
 jin rooms that smelt of oats and stout shoes. But this 
 .anomaly did not last long; the intruder was driven out, 
 as soon as the place was beginning to have a semblance 
 of 'European culture, and there remained in the Exhibi- 
 tion Palace the true, the national, the privileged police, 
 the sorry jades of holy authority which galloped down to 
 the streets of Madrid when its slothful peace was at 
 rare intervals disturbed. 
 
 As the master looked at the black cupola, he remem- 
 bered the days of exhibitions; he saw the long-haired, 
 anxious youths, now gentle and flattering, now angry 
 and iconoclastic, coming from all the cities of Spain with 
 their pictures under their arms and mighty ambitions in 
 
250 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT' 
 
 their minds. He smiled at the thought of the unpleasant- 
 ness and disgust he had suffered under that roof, when 
 the turbulent throng of artists crowded around him, an- 
 noyed him, admiring him more because of his position 
 as an influential judge than because of his works. It 
 was he who awarded the prizes in the opinion of those 
 young fellows who followed him with looks of fear and 
 hope. On the afternoon when the prizes were awarded, 
 groups rushed out to meet him in the portico at the news 
 of his arrival ; they greeted him with extravagant demon- 
 strations of respect. Some walked in front of him, talk- 
 ing loudly. "Who ? Renovales ? The greatest painter in 
 the world. Next to Velasquez." And at the end of the 
 afternoon, when the two sheets of paper were placed on 
 the columns of the rotunda, with the lists of winners, the 
 master prudently slipped out to avoid the final explosion. 
 The childish soul that every artist has within him burst 
 out frankly at the announcement. False pretences were 
 over ; every man showed his true nature. Some hid be- 
 tween the statues, dejected and ashamed, with their fists 
 in their eyes, weeping at the thought of the return to 
 their distant home, of the long misery they had suffered 
 with no other hope than that which had just vanished. 
 Others stood straight as roosters, their ears red, their 
 lips pale, looking toward the entrance of the palace with 
 flaming eyes, as if they wanted to see from there a cer- 
 tain pretentious house with a Greek fagade and a gold in- 
 scription. "The fossil ! It is a shame that the fortunes 
 of the younger men, who really amount to something, are 
 entrusted to an old fogey who has run out, a 'four-flusher' 
 who will never leave anything worth while behind him!" 
 Oh, from those moments had arisen all the an- 
 noyances of his artistic activity. Every time that he 
 heard of an unjust censure, a brutal denial of his abil- 
 ity, a merciless attack in some obscure paper, he remem- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 251 
 
 bered the rotunda of the Exhibition, that stormy crowd 
 of painters around the bits of paper which contained 
 their sentences. He thought with wonder and sympathy 
 of the blindness of those youths who cursed life because 
 of a failure, and were capable of giving their health, 
 their vigor, in exchange for the sorry glory of a picture, 
 less lasting even than the frail canvas. Every medal 
 was a rung on the ladder; they measured the importance 
 of these awards, giving them a meaning like that of a 
 soldier's stripes. And he too had been young! He too 
 had embittered the best years of his life in these combats, 
 like amoebae who struggle together in a drop of water, 
 fancying they may conquer a huge world! What in- 
 terest had eternal beauty in these regimental ambitions, 
 in this ladder-climbing fever of those who strove to be 
 her interpreters? 
 
 The master went home. The walk had made him for- 
 get his anxiety of the night before. His body, weakened 
 by his easy life, seemed to acknowledge this exercise with 
 a violent reaction. His legs itched slightly, the blood 
 throbbed in his temples, it seemed to spread through his 
 body in a wave of warmth. He exulted in his power and 
 tasted the joy of every organism that is performing its 
 functions in harmonious regularity. 
 
 As he crossed the garden, he was humming a song. 
 He smiled to the concierge's wife who had opened the 
 gate for him and to the ugly watchdog who came up 
 with a caressing whine to lick his trousers. He opened 
 the glass door, passing from the noise outside into deep, 
 convent -like silence. His feet sank in the soft rugs ; the 
 only sounds were the mysterious trembling of the pic- 
 tures which covered the walls up to the ceiling, the 
 creaking of invisible wood-borers in the picture frames, 
 the swing of the hangings in a breath of air. Every- 
 thing that the master had painted; studies or whims, 
 
252 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 finished or unfinished, was placed on the ground floor, 
 together with pictures and drawings by some famous 
 companions or favorite pupils. Milita had amused her-: 
 self for a long time before she was married, in this 
 decoration which reached even to poorly lighted hall- 
 ways. 
 
 As he left his hat and stick on the hat-rack, the eyes of 
 the master fell on a nearby water-color, as if this picture 
 attracted his attention among the others which sur- 
 rounded it. He was surprised that he should now notice 
 it of a sudden, after passing by it so many times with- 
 out seeing it. It was not bad; but it was timid; it 
 showed lack of experience. Whose could it be? Per- 
 haps Soldevilla's. But as he drew near to see it better, 
 he smiled. It was his own ! How differently he painted 
 then! He tried to remember when and where he had 
 painted it. To help his memory, he looked closely at that 
 charming woman's head, with its dreamy eyes, wonder- 
 ing who the model could have been. 
 
 Suddenly a cloud came over his face. The artist 
 seemed confused, ashamed. How stupid! It was his 
 wife, the Josephina of the early days, when he used to 
 gaze at her admiringly, delighting in reproducing her 
 face. 
 
 He threw the blame for his slowness on Milita and 
 determined to have the study taken away from there. 
 His wife's portrait ought not be in the hall, beside the 
 hat-rack. 
 
 After luncheon he gave orders to the servant to take 
 down the picture and move it into one of the drawing- 
 rooms. The servant looked surprised. 
 
 "There are so many portraits of the mistress. You 
 have painted her so many times, sir. The house is full." 
 
 Renovales mimicked the servant's expression. "So 
 many! So many!" He knew how many times he had 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 253 
 
 | painted her ! With a sudden curiosity before going to 
 
 the studio, he entered the parlor where Josephina re- 
 
 | ceived her callers. There, in the place of honor, he 
 
 ! saw a large portrait of his wife, painted in Rome, a 
 
 I dainty woman with a lace mantilla, a black ruffled skirt 
 
 land, in her hand, a tortoise-shell fan a veritable Goya. 
 
 He gazed for a moment at that attractive face, shaded 
 
 by the black lace, its oriental eyes in sharp contrast to 
 
 its aristocratic pallor. How beautiful Josephina was in 
 
 those daysi 
 
 He opened the windows the better to see the portrait 
 and the light fell on the dark red walls making the 
 frames of other smaller pictures flash. 
 
 Then the painter saw that the Goyesque picture was 
 not the only one. Other Josephinas accompanied him 
 in the solitude. He gazed with astonishment at the face 
 of his wife, which seemed to rise from all sides of the 
 parlor. Little studies of women of the people or ladies 
 of the i8th century; water-colors of Moorish women; 
 Greek women with the stiff severity of Alma-Tadema's 
 archaic figures; everything in the parlor, everything he 
 had painted, was Josephina, had her face, or showed 
 traces of her with the vagueness of a memory. 
 
 He passed to the adjoining parlor and there, too, his 
 wife's face, painted by him, came to meet him among 
 other pictures by his friends. 
 
 When had he done all that ? He could not remember ; 
 he was surprised at the enormous quantity of work he 
 had performed unconsciously. He seemed to have spent 
 his whole life painting Josephina. 
 
 Afterwards, in all the hallways, in all the rooms where 
 pictures were hung, his wife met his gaze, under the 
 most varied aspects, frowning or smiling, beautiful or 
 j sad with sickness. They were sketched, simple, unfin- 
 ished charcoal drawings of her head in the corner of a 
 
254 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 canvas, but always that glance followed him, sometimes 
 with an expression of melancholy tenderness, sometimes 
 with intense reproach. Where had his eyes been? He 
 had lived amid all this without seeing it. Every day he 
 had passed by Josephina without noticing her. His wife 
 was resurrected; henceforth, she would sit down at 
 table, she would enter his chamber, he would pass through 
 the house always under the gaze of two eyes which in 
 the past had pierced into his soul. 
 
 The dead woman was not dead ; she hovered about him, 
 revived by his hand. He could not take a step without 
 seeing her face on every side. She greeted him from 
 above the doors, from the ends of the rooms she seemed 
 to call him. 
 
 In his three studios, his surprise was still greater. All 
 his most intimate painting, which he had done as study, 
 from impulse, without any desire for sale, was stored 
 away there, and all was a memory of the dead woman. 
 The pictures which dazzled the callers were hung low, 
 down on the level of the eyes, on easels, or fastened to 
 the wall, amid the sumptuous furniture ; up above, reach- 
 ing to the ceiling were arranged the studies, memories, 
 unframed canvases, like old, forgotten works, and in 
 this collection at the first glance Renovales saw the 
 enigmatic face rising towards him. 
 
 He had lived without lifting his eyes, accustomed as 
 he was to everything about him, and looking around, 
 without seeing, without noticing those women, different 
 in appearance but alike in expression, who watched him 
 from above. And the countess had been there several 
 afternoons, to see him alone in the studio! And the 
 Persian silk draperies, hung on lances before the deep 
 divan, had not hidden them from that sad, fixed gaze 
 which seemed to multiply in the upper stretch of the 
 walls. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 255 
 
 To forget his remorse, he amused himself by counting 
 the canvases which reproduced his wife's dainty little 
 face. They were many the whole life of an artist. He 
 tried to remember when and where he had painted them. 
 In the first days of his love, he felt that he must paint 
 her, with an irresistible impulse to transfer to the canvas 
 everything he delighted to see, everything he loved. Af- 
 terwards, it had been a desire to flatter her, to coax her 
 with a false show of affection, to convince her that she 
 was the only object of his artistic worship, copying her in 
 a vague likeness, giving to her features, marred by illness, 
 a soft veil of idealism. He could not live without work- 
 ing and, like many painters, he used as models the people 
 around him. His daughter had carried to her new home 
 a load of paintings, all the pictures, rough sketches, 
 water-colors and panels which represented her from the 
 time she used to play with the cat, dressing him in baby 
 clothes, until she was a proud young lady, courted by 
 Soldevilla and the man who was now her husband. 
 
 The mother had remained there, rising after death 
 about the artist in oppressive profusion. All the little 
 incidents in life had given Reno vales an occasion to paint 
 new pictures. He recalled his enthusiasm every time he 
 saw her in a new dress. The colors changed her; she 
 was a new woman, so he would declare with a vehemence 
 which his wife took for admiration and which was merely 
 the desire for a model. 
 
 Josephina's whole life had been fixed by her husband's 
 hand. In one canvas she appeared dressed in white, 
 walking through a meadow with the poetic dreaminess 
 of an Ophelia; in another, wearing a large, plumed hat 
 covered with jewels, she showed the self-satisfaction of 
 a manufacturer's wife, secure in her well-being; a black 
 curtain served as a background for her bare neck and 
 shoulders. In another picture she had her sleeves rolled 
 
256 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 up; a white apron covered her from her breast to her 
 feet, on her forehead was a little wrinkle of care and 
 weariness, and in her whole mien the carelessness of 
 one who has no time to attend to the adornment of her 
 person. This last was the portrait of the bitter days, 
 the image of the courageous housekeeper, without ser- 
 vants, working with her delicate hands in a wretched 
 attic, striving that the artist might lack nothing, that 
 the petty annoyances of life might not come to distract 
 him from his supreme efforts for success. 
 
 This portrait filled the artist with the melancholy which 
 the memory of bitter days inspires in the midst of com- 
 fort. His gratitude toward his brave companion brought 
 with it once more remorse. 
 
 "Oh, Josephina! Josephina!" 
 
 When Cotoner arrived, he found the master lying 
 face down on the couch with his head in his hands, as 
 if he were asleep. He tried to interest him by talking 
 about the function of the day before. A great success; 
 the papers spoke of him and his speech, declaring that he 
 was a great writer and could win as marked a success in 
 literature as in art. Had he not read them? 
 
 Renovales answered with a bored expression. He 
 had found them, when he went out in the morning, on 
 a table in the reception-room. He had cast a glance at 
 his picture surrounded by the solid columns of his speech 
 but he had put off reading the praises until later. They 
 did not interest him; he was thinking of something 
 else he was sad. 
 
 And in answer to Cotoner's anxious questions, who 
 thought he must be ill, he said quietly : 
 
 "I am well enough. It's melancholy. I'm tired of 
 doing nothing. I want to work and haven't the strength." 
 
 Suddenly he interrupted his old friend, pointing to 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 257 
 
 all the portraits of Josephina, as if they were new works 
 which he had just produced. 
 
 Cotoner expressed surprise. He knew them all; they 
 had been there for years. What was strange about them ? 
 
 The master told him of his recent surprise. He had 
 lived beside them without seeing them, he had just dis- 
 covered them two hours before. And Cotoner laughed. 
 
 "You are rather unsettled, Mariano. You live with- 
 out noticing what is around you. That is why you don't 
 know of Soldevilla's marriage to a rich girl. The poor 
 boy was disappointed because his master was not present 
 at the wedding/' 
 
 Renovales shrugged his shoulders. What did he care 
 for such follies ? There was a long pause and the master, 
 pensive and sad, suddenly raised his head with a de- 
 termined expression. 
 
 "What do you think of those portraits, Pepe?" he 
 asked anxiously. "Is it she? I couldn't have made a 
 mistake in painting them, I couldn't have seen her differ- 
 ent from what she really was, could I?" 
 
 Cotoner broke out laughing. Really, the master was 
 out of his mind. What questions ! Those portraits were 
 marvels, like all of his work. But Renovales insisted 
 with the impatience of doubt. His opinion ! Were those 
 Josephinas like his wife ! 
 
 "Exactly," said the Bohemian. "Why, man alive, 
 their fidelity to life is the most astonishing thing about 
 your portraits!" 
 
 He declared this confidently, but a shadow of doubt 
 worried him. Yes, it was Josephina, but there was some- 
 thing unusual, idealized about her. Her features looked 
 the same, but they had an inner light that made them 
 more beautiful. It was a defect he had always found in 
 these pictures, but he said nothing. 
 
 "And she," insisted the master, "was she really beau- 
 
258 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 tiful? What did you think of her as a woman? Tell 
 me, Pepe, without hesitating. It's strange, I can't re- 
 member very well what she was like/' 
 
 Cotoner was disconcerted by these questions, and an- 
 swered with some embarrassment. What an odd thing! 
 Josephina was very good an angel; he always remem- 
 bered her with gratitude. He had wept for her as for 
 a mother, though she might almost have been his daugh- 
 ter. She had always been very considerate and thought- 
 ful of the poor Bohemian. 
 
 "Not that," interrupted the master. "I want to know 
 if you thought she was beautiful, if she really was 
 beautiful." 
 
 "Why, man, yes," said Cotoner resolutely. "She was 
 beautiful or, rather, attractive. At the end she seemed 
 a bit changed. Her illness! But all in all, an angel." 
 
 And the master, calmed by these words, stood looking 
 at his own works. 
 
 "Yes, she was very beautiful," he said slowly, without 
 turning his eyes from the canvases. "Now I recognize it ; 
 now I see her better. It's strange, Pepe. It seems as 
 if I have found Josephina to-day after a long journey. 
 I had forgotten her; I was no longer certain what her 
 face was like." 
 
 There was another long pause, and once more the 
 master began to ply his friend with anxious questions. 
 
 "Did she love me ? Do you think she really loved me ? 
 Was it love that made her sometimes act so strangely ?" 
 
 This time Cotoner did not hesitate as he had at the 
 former questions. 
 
 "Love you? Wildly, Mariano. As no man has been 
 loved in this world. All that there was between you was 
 jealousy too much affection. I know it better than 
 anyone else; old friends, like me, who go in and out of 
 the house just like old dogs, are treated with intimacy 
 

 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 259 
 
 and hear things the husband does not know. Believe 
 me, Mariano, no one will ever love you as she did. Her 
 sulky words were only passing clouds. I am sure you no 
 longer remember them. What did not pass, was the 
 other, the love she bore you. I am positive; you know 
 that she told me everything, that I was the only person 
 she could tolerate toward the end." 
 
 Renovales seemed to thank his friend for these words 
 with a glance of joy. 
 
 They went out to walk at the end of the afternoon, 
 going toward the center of Madrid. Renovales talked 
 of their youth, of their days in Rome. He laughed as 
 he reminded Cotoner of his famous stock of Popes, he 
 recalled the funny shows in the studios, the noisy en- 
 tertainments, and then, after he was married, the eve- 
 nings of friendly intercourse in that pretty little dining- 
 room on the Via Margutta ; the arrival of the Bohemian 
 and the other artists of his circle to drink a cup of tea 
 with the young couple; the loud discussions over paint- 
 ing, which made the neighbors protest, while she, his 
 Josephina, still surprised at finding herself the mistress 
 of a household, without her mother, and surrounded by 
 men, smiled timidly to them all, thinking that those fear- 
 ful comrades, with hair like highwaymen but as innocent 
 and peevish as children, were very funny and interesting. 
 
 "Those were the days, Pepe ! Youth, which we never 
 appreciate till it has gone!" 
 
 Walking straight ahead, without knowing where they 
 were going, absorbed in their conversation and their 
 memories, they suddenly found themselves at the Puerta 
 del Sol. Night had fallen; the electric lights were com- 
 ing out ; the shop windows threw patches of light on the 
 sidewalks. 
 
 Cotoner looked at the clock on the Government Build- 
 ing. 
 
260 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "Aren't you going to the Alberca woman's house to- 
 night?" 
 
 Renovales seemed to awaken. Yes, he must go; they 
 expected him. But he was not going. His friend looked 
 at him with a shocked expression, as if he considered 
 it a serious error to scorn a dinner. 
 
 The painter seemed to lack the courage to spend the 
 evening between Concha and her husband. He thought 
 of her with a sort of aversion; he felt as if he might 
 brutally repel her constant caresses and tell everything 
 to the husband in an outburst of frankness. It was a 
 disgrace, treachery that life a trois which the society 
 woman accepted as the happiest of states. 
 
 "It's intolerable," he said to dissipate his friend's sur- 
 prise. "I can't stand her. She's a regular barnacle, and 
 won't let me go for a minute." 
 
 He had never spoken to Cotoner of his affair with the 
 Alberca woman, but he did not have to tell him any- 
 thing, he assumed that he knew. 
 
 "But she's pretty, Mariano," said he. "A wonderful 
 woman ! You know I admire her. You might use her 
 for your Greek picture." 
 
 The master cast at him a glance of pity for his igno- 
 rance. He felt a desire to scoff at her, to injure her, thus 
 justifying his indifference. 
 
 "Nothing but a fagade. A face and a figure." 
 
 And bending over toward his friend he whispered to 
 him seriously as if he were revealing the secret of a 
 terrible crime. 
 
 "She's knock-kneed. A regular swindle." 
 
 A satyr-like smile spread over Cotoner's lips and his 
 ears wriggled. It was the joy of a chaste man ; the satis- 
 faction of knowing the secret defects of a beauty who 
 was out of his reach. 
 
 The master did not want to leave his friend. He 
 

 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 261 
 
 needed him, he looked at him with tender sympathy, 
 seeing in him something of his dead wife. When she 
 was sad, he had been her confidant. When her nerves 
 were on edge, this simple man's words ended the crisis 
 in a flood of tears. With whom could he talk about her 
 better? 
 
 "We will dine together, Pepe; we will go to the Itali- 
 anos a Roman banquet, ravioli, piccata, anything you 
 want and a bottle of Chianti or two, as many as you can 
 drink, and at the end sparkling Asti, better than cham- 
 pagne. Does that suit you, old man ?" 
 
 Arm in arm they walked along, their heads high, a 
 smile on their lips, like two young painters, eager to 
 celebrate a recent sale with a gluttonous relief from their 
 misery. 
 
 Renovales went back into his memories and poured 
 them out in a torrent. He reminded Cotoner of a trat- 
 toria in an alley in Rome, beyond the statue of Pasquino, 
 before you reach the Via Governo Vecchio, a chop house 
 of ecclesiastical quiet, run by the former cook of a cardi- 
 nal. The shelves of the establishment were always cov- 
 ered with the headgear of the profession, priestly tiles. 
 The merriment of the artists shocked the sedate frugality 
 of the habitues, priests of the Papal palace or visitors 
 who were in Rome scheming advancement ; loud-mouthed 
 lawyers in dirty frock-coats from the nearby Palace of 
 Justice, loaded with papers. 
 
 "What maccheroni! Remember, Pepe? How poor 
 Josephina liked it !" 
 
 They used to reach the trattoria at night in a merry 
 company she on his arm and around them the friends 
 whose admiration for the promising young painter at- 
 tracted them to him. Josephina worshiped the mys- 
 teries of the kitchen, the traditional secrets of the solemn 
 table of the princes of the Church, which had come down 
 
262 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 to the street, taking refuge in that little room. On the 
 white table cloth trembled the amber reflection of the 
 wine of Orvieto in decanters, a thick, yellow, golden 
 liquid, of clerical sweetness, a drink of old-time pontiffs, 
 which descended to the stomach like fire and more than 
 once had mounted to heads covered with the tiara. 
 
 On moonlit nights, they used to go from there and 
 walk to the Colosseum to look at the gigantic, monstrous 
 ruin under the flood of blue light. Josephina, shaking 
 with nervous excitement, went down into the dark tun- 
 nels, groping along among the fallen stones, till she was 
 on the open slope, facing the silent circle, which seemed 
 to enclose the corpse of a whole people. Looking around 
 with anxiety, she thought of the terrible beasts which had 
 trod upon that sand. Suddenly came a frightful roar 
 and a black beast leaped forth from the deep vomitory. 
 Josephina clung to her husband, with a shriek of terror, 
 and all laughed. It was Simpson, an American painter, 
 who bent over, walking on all fours, to attack his com- 
 panions with fierce cries. 
 
 "Do you remember, Pepe?" Renovales kept saying, 
 "What days! What joy! What a fine companion the 
 little girl was before her illness saddened her !" 
 
 They dined, talking of their youth, mingling with their 
 memories the image of the dead. Afterwards, they 
 walked the streets till midnight, and Renovales was al- 
 ways going back to those days, recalling his Josephina, 
 as if he had spent his life worshiping her. Cotoner 
 was tired of the conversation and said "Good-by" to 
 the master. What new hobby was this ? Poor Josephina 
 was very interesting, but they had spent the whole eve- 
 ning without talking of anything else, as though mem- 
 ory of her was the only thing in the world. 
 
 Renovales started home impatiently; he took a cab to 
 get there sooner. He felt as anxious as if some one 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 263 
 
 were waiting for him; that showy house, cold and soli- 
 tary before, seemed animated with a spirit he could 
 not define, a beloved soul which filled it, pervading all 
 like perfume. 
 
 As he entered, preceded by the sleepy servant, his first 
 glance was for the watercolor. He smiled; he wanted 
 to bid good-night to that head whose eyes rested on him. 
 
 For all the Josephinas who met his gaze, rising from 
 the shadow of the walls, as he turned on the electric 
 lights in the parlors and hallways, he had the same 
 smile and greeting. He no longer was uneasy in the 
 presence of those faces which he had looked at in the 
 morning with surprise and fear. She saw him ; she read 
 his thoughts ; she forgave him, surely. She had always 
 been so good ! 
 
 He hesitated a moment on his way, wishing to go to 
 the studios and turn on the lights. There he could see 
 her full length, in all her grace; he would talk to her, 
 he would ask her forgiveness in the deep silence of those 
 great rooms. But the master stopped. What was he 
 thinking of ? Was he going to lose his senses ? He drew 
 his hand across his forehead, as if he wanted to wipe 
 these ideas out of his mind. No doubt it was the Asti 
 that led him to such absurdities. To sleep ! 
 
 When he was in the dark, lying in his daughter's little 
 bed, he felt uneasy. He could not sleep, he was uncom- 
 fortable. He was tempted to go out of the room and take 
 refuge in the deserted bed-chamber as if only there could 
 he find rest and sleep. Oh, the Venetian bed, that 
 princely piece of furniture which kept his whole history, 
 where he had whispered words of love ; where they had 
 talked so many times in low tones of his longing for 
 glory and wealth ; where his daughter was born ! 
 
 With the energy which showed in all his whims, the 
 master put on his clothes, and quietly, as if he feared 
 
264 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 to be overheard by his servant who slept nearby, made 
 his way to the chamber. 
 
 He turned the key with the caution of a thief, and; 1 
 advanced on tiptoe, under the soft, pink light which an. 
 old lantern shed from the center of the ceiling. He 
 carefully stretched out the mattresses on the abandoned 
 bed. There were no sheets nor pillows. The room sdj 
 long deserted was cold. What a pleasant night he was 
 going to spend! How well he would sleep there! The 
 gold-embroidered cushions from a sofa would serve as 
 a pillow. He wrapped himself in an overcoat and got 
 into bed, dressed, putting out the light so as not to see 
 reality, to dream, peopling the darkness with the sweet 
 deceits of his fancy. 
 
 On those mattresses, Josephina had slept. He did not 
 see her as in the last days, sick, emaciated, worn with 
 physical suffering. His mind repelled that painful image, 
 bent on beautiful illusions. The Josephina whom he saw, 
 the Josephina within him, was the other, of the first 
 days of their love, and not as she had been in reality but 
 as he had seen her, as he had painted her. 
 
 His memory passed over a great stretch of time, dark 
 and stormy; it leaped from the regret of the present toi 
 the happy days of youth. He no longer recalled the 1 
 years of trying confinement, when they quarreled to- 
 gether, unable to follow the same path. They were unim- 
 portant disturbances in life. He thought only of her smil- 
 ing kindness, her generosity, and submissiveness. How 
 tenderly they had lived together, for a part of their life, in 
 that bed which now knew only the loneliness of his body. 
 
 The artist shivered under his inadequate covering. In 
 this abnormal situation, exterior impressions called up< 
 memories fragments of the past that slowly came tO] 
 his mind. The cold made him think of the rainy nights 
 in Venice, when it poured for hour after hour on the 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 265 
 
 narrow alleys and deserted canals in the deep, solemn 
 silence of a city without horses, without wheels, without 
 any sound of life, except the lapping of the solitary 
 water on the marble stairways. They were in the same 
 calm, under the warm eider-down, amid the same furni- 
 ture which he now half saw in the shadow. 
 
 Through the slits of the lowered blind shone the glow 
 of the lamp which lighted the nearby canal. On the ceil- 
 ing a spot of light flickered with the reflection of the dead 
 water, constantly crossed by lines of shadow. They, 
 closely embraced, watched this play of light and water 
 above them. They knew that outside it was cold and 
 damp ; they exulted in their physical warmth, in the self- 
 ishness of being together, with that delicious sense of 
 comfort, buried in silence as if the world were a thing of 
 the past, as if their chamber were a warm oasis, in the 
 midst of cold and darkness. 
 
 Sometimes they heard a mournful cry in the silence. 
 Aooo! It was the gondolier giving warning before he 
 turned the corner. Across the spot of light which shim- 
 mered on the ceiling slipped a black, Lilliputian gondola, 
 a shadow toy, on the stern of which bent a manikin the 
 size of a fly, wielding the oar. And, thinking of those 
 who passed in the rain, lashed by the icy gusts, they expe- 
 rienced a new pleasure and clung closer to each other 
 under the soft eider-down and their lips met, disturbing 
 the calm of their rest with the noisy insolence of youth 
 and love. 
 
 Renovales no longer felt cold. He turned restlessly 
 on the mattresses; the metallic embroidery of the cush- 
 ions stuck in his face; he stretched out his arms in the 
 darkness, and the silence was broken by a despairing 
 cry, the lament of a child who demands the impossible, 
 who asks for the moon. 
 
 "Josephina f Josephina !" 
 
Ill 
 
 ONE morning the painter sent an urgent summons to 
 Cotoner and the latter arrived in great alarm at the terms 
 of the message. 
 
 "It's nothing serious/' said Renovales. "I want you 
 to tell me where Josephina was buried. I want to see 
 her." 
 
 It was a desire which had been slowly taking form in 
 his mind during several nights; a whim of the long 
 hours of sleeplessness through which he dragged in the 
 darkness. 
 
 More than a week before, he had moved into the 
 large chamber, choosing among the bed linen, with a 
 painstaking care that surprised the servants, the most 
 worn sheets, which called up old memories with their 
 embroidery. He did not find in this linen that perfume 
 of the closets which had disturbed him so deeply; but 
 there was something in them, the illusion, the certainty 
 that she had many a time touched them. 
 
 After soberly and severely telling Cotoner of his wish, 
 Renovales felt that he must offer some excuse. It was 
 disgraceful that he did not know where Josephina was; 
 that he had not yet gone to visit her. His grief at her 
 death had left him helpless and afterward, the long 
 journey. 
 
 "You always know things, Pepe ! You had charge of 
 the funeral arrangements. Tell me where she is; take 
 me to see her/' 
 
 Up to that time he had not thought of her remains. 
 He remembered the day of the funeral, his dramatic 
 
 266 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 267 
 
 I grief which kept him in a corner with his face buried in 
 his hands. His intimate friends, the elect, who pene- 
 trated to his retreat, clad in black, and wearing gloomy 
 faces, caught his hand and pressed it effusively. "Cour- 
 age, Mariano. Be strong, master." And outside the 
 house, a constant trampling of horses' feet; the iron 
 fence black with the curious crowd, a double file of car- 
 riages as far as the eye could see; reporters going from 
 group to group, taking down names. 
 
 All Madrid was there. And they had carried her away 
 to the slow step of a pair of horses with waving plumes, 
 amid the undertaker's men in white wigs and gold batons 
 and he had forgotten her, had felt no interest in seeing 
 the corner of the cemetery where she was buried forever, 
 under the glare of the sun, under the night rains that 
 dripped upon her grave. He cursed himself now for this 
 outrageous neglect. 
 
 ''Tell me where she is, Pepe. Take me. I want to see 
 her." 
 
 He implored with the eagerness of remorse ; he wanted 
 to see her once, as soon as possible, like a sinner who 
 fears death and cries for absolution. 
 
 Cotoner acceded to this immediate trip. She was in 
 the Almudena cemetery, which had been closed for some 
 time. Only those who had long standing titles to a lot 
 went there now. Cotoner had desired to bury Josephina 
 beside her mother in the same inclosure where the stone 
 that covered the "lamented genius of diplomacy" was 
 growing tarnished. He wanted her to rest among her 
 own. 
 
 On the way, Renovales felt a sort of anguish. Like a 
 sleep-walker he saw the streets of the city passing by the 
 carriage window, then they went down a steep hill, ill- 
 kempt gardens, where loafers were sleeping, leaning 
 against the trees, or women were combing their hair in 
 
268 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 the sun; a bridge; wretched suburbs with tumble-down 
 houses; then the open country, hilly roads and at last a 
 grove of cypress trees beyond an adobe wall and the 
 tops of marble buildings, angels stretching out their wings 
 with a trumpet at their lips, great crosses, torch-holders 
 mounted on tripods, and a pure, blue sky which seemed 
 to smile with superhuman indifference at the excite- 
 ment of that ant, named Renovales. 
 
 He was going to see her ; to step on the ground which 
 covered her body; to breathe an atmosphere in which 
 there was still perhaps some of that warmth which was 
 the breath of the dead woman's soul. What would he say 
 to her? 
 
 As he entered the graveyard he looked at the keeper, 
 an ugly, dismal old fellow, as pale and yellow and greasy 
 as a wax candle. That man lived constantly near Jose- 
 phina! He was seized with generous gratitude; he had 
 to restrain himself, thinking of his companion, or he 
 would have given him all the money he had with him. 
 
 Their steps resounded in the silence. They felt the 
 murmuring calm of an abandoned garden about them, 
 where there were more pavilions and statues than trees. 
 They went down ruined colonnades, which echoed their 
 steps strangely; over slabs which sounded hollow under 
 their feet, the void, trembling at the light touch of 
 life. 
 
 The dead who slept there were dead indeed, without 
 the least resurrection of memory, completely deserted, 
 sharing in the universal decay, unnamed, separated from 
 life forever. From the beehive close by, no one came to 
 give new life with tears and offerings to the ephemeral 
 personality they once had, to the name which marked 
 them for a moment. 
 
 Wreaths hung from the crosses, black and unraveled, 
 with a swarm of insects in their fragments. The exuber- 
 

 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 269 
 
 ant vegetation, where no one ever passed, stretched in 
 every direction, loosening the tombstones with its roots, 
 springing the steps of the resounding stairways. The 
 rain, slowly filtering through the ground, had produced 
 hollows. Some of the slabs were cracked open, reveal- 
 ing deep holes. 
 
 They had to walk carefully, fearing that the hollow 
 ground would suddenly open; they had to avoid the de- 
 pressions where a stone with letters of pale gold and no- 
 ble coats-of-arms lay half on its side. 
 
 The painter walked trembling with the sadness of an 
 immense disappointment, questioning the value of his 
 greatest interests. And this was life! Human beauty 
 ended like this ! This was all that the human mind came 
 to and here it must stop in all its pride ! 
 
 "Here it is !" said Cotoner. 
 
 They had entered between two rows of tombs so close 
 together that as they passed they brushed against the 
 old ornaments which crumbled and fell at the touch. 
 
 It was a simple tomb, a sort of coffin of white mar- 
 ble which rose a few inches above the ground, with an 
 elevation at one end, like the bolster of a bed and sur- 
 mounted by a cross. 
 
 Renovales was cold. There was Josephina! He read 
 the inscription several times, as if he could not convince 
 himself. It was she; the letters reproduced her name, 
 with a brief lament of her inconsolable husband, which 
 seemed to him senseless, artificial, disgraceful. 
 
 He had come trembling with anxiety at the thought of 
 the terrible moment when he should behold Josephina's 
 last resting place. To .feel that he was near her, to tread 
 upon the ground in which she rested ! He would not be 
 able to resist this critical moment, he would weep like a 
 child, he would fall on his knees, sobbing in deadly an- 
 guish. 
 
270 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 Well, he was there ; the tomb was before his eyes and 
 still, they were dry; they looked about coldly in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 She was there! He knew it from his friend's state- 
 ment, from the declamatory inscription on the tomb, but 
 nothing warned him of her presence. He remained in- 
 different, looking curiously at the adjoining graves, filled 
 with a monstrous desire to laugh, seeing in death only 
 his sardonic buffoon's mask. 
 
 At one side, a gentleman who rested under the end- 
 less list of his titles and honors, a sort of Count of Al- 
 berca, who had fallen asleep in the solemnity of his 
 greatness, waiting for the angel's trumpet-blast to appear 
 before the Lord with all his parchments and crosses. On 
 the other, a general who rotted under a marble slab, 
 engraved with cannon, guns and banners, as though he 
 hoped to terrify death. In what ludicrous promiscuity 
 Josephina had come to sleep her last sleep, mingled with 
 forms she had not known in life! They were her eter- 
 nal, her final lovers ; they carried her off from his very 
 presence and forever, indifferent to the pressing concerns 
 of the living. Oh, Death ! What a cruel mocker ! The 
 earth! How cold and cynical! 
 
 He was sad and disgusted at human insignificance 
 but he did not weep. He saw only the external and ma- 
 terial the form, always the concern of his thoughts. 
 Standing before the tomb he felt merely his vulgar mean- 
 ness, with a sort of shame. She was his wife ; the wife 
 of a great artist. 
 
 He thought of the most famous sculptors, all friends 
 of his ; he would talk to them, they should erect an im- 
 posing sepulcher with weeping statues, symbolical of 
 fidelity, gentleness and love, a sepulcher worthy of the 
 companion of Renovales. And nothing more; his 
 thought went no farther; his imagination could not pas* 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 271 
 
 beyond the hard marble nor penetrate the hidden mys- 
 tery. The grave was speechless and empty, in the air 
 there was nothing which spoke to the soul of the painter. 
 
 He remained indifferent, unmoved by any emotion, 
 without ceasing for a single moment to see reality. The 
 cemetery was a hideous, gloomy, repulsive place, with 
 an odor of decay. Renovales thought he could perceive 
 a stench of putrefaction scattered in the wind which 
 bent the pointed tops of the cypresses, and swayed the 
 old wreaths and the branches of the rose bushes. 
 
 He looked at Cotoner with a sort of displeasure. He 
 was to blame for his coldness. His presence was a check 
 on him which prevented him from showing his feelings. 
 Though a friend, he was a stranger, an obstacle be- 
 tween him and the dead. He interfered with that silent 
 dialogue of love and forgiveness of which the master 
 had dreamed as he came. He would come back alone. 
 Perhaps the cemetery would be different in solitude. 
 
 And he came back; he came back the next day. The 
 keeper greeted him with a smile, realizing that he was 
 a profitable visitor. 
 
 The cemetery seemed larger, more imposing in the 
 silence of the bright, quiet morning. He had no one to 
 talk with- he heard no human sound but that of his 
 own steps. He went up stairways, crossed galleries, 
 leaving behind him his indifference, thinking anxiously 
 that every step took him farther from the living, that the 
 gate with its greedy keeper was already far away and 
 that he was the only living being, the only one who 
 thought and could feel fear in the mournful city of thou- 
 sands and thousands of beings, wrapped in a mys- 
 tery which made them imposing amid the strange, dull 
 sounds of the land beyond that terrifies with the black- 
 ness of its bottomless abyss. 
 
272 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 When he reached Josephina's grave, he took off his 
 hat 
 
 No one. The trees and the rose bushes trembled in 
 the wind among the cross paths. Some birds were twit- 
 tering above him in an acacia, and the sound of life, dis- 
 turbing the rustling of the solitary vegetation, shed a 
 certain calm over the painter's spirit, blotted out the 
 childish fear he had felt before he reached there, as he 
 crossed the echoing pavements of the colonnades. 
 
 For a long time he remained motionless, absorbed in 
 the contemplation of that marble case obliquely cut by a 
 ray of sunlight, one part golden, the other blue in the 
 shadow. Suddenly he shivered, as if he had awakened 
 at the sound of a voice, his own. He was talking, 
 aloud, driven to cry out his thoughts, to stir this deathly 
 silence with something that meant life. 
 
 "Josephina. It is I. Do you forgive me?" 
 
 It was a childish longing to hear the voice from be- 
 yond that might pour on his soul a balm of forgiveness 
 and forgetting; a desire of humbling himself, of weep- 
 ing, of having her listen to him, smile to him from the 
 depth of the void, at the great revolution which had been 
 carried out in his spirit. He wanted to tell her and he 
 did tell her silently with the speech of his feelings 
 that he loved her, that he had resuscitated her in his 
 thoughts, now that he had lost her forever, with a love 
 which he had never had for her in her earthly life. He 
 felt ashamed before her grave ; ashamed of the difference 
 of their fates. 
 
 He begged her forgiveness for living, for still feeling 
 vigorous and young, for now loving her without reality, 
 in a wild hope, when he had been cold and indifferent at 
 her departure, with his thoughts on another woman, hop- 
 ing for her death with criminal craving. Wretch ! And 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 273 
 
 he was still alive ! And she, so kind, so sweet, buried 
 forever, lost in the depths of eternal, ruthless death! 
 
 He wept ; at last he wept those hot, sincere tears which 
 compel forgiveness. It was the weeping which he had so 
 long desired. Now he felt that they approached each 
 other, that they were almost together, separated only by 
 a strip of marble and a little earth. His fancy saw her 
 poor remains and in their decay he loved them, he wor- 
 shiped them with a calm passion that rose above earthly 
 miseries. Nothing which had once been Josephina's could 
 cause him repugnance or horror. If he could but open 
 that white case ! If he could kiss her, take her ashes with 
 him, that they might go with him on his pilgrimage, like 
 the household gods of the ancients ! He no longer saw 
 the cemetery, he did not hear the birds nor the rustling of 
 the branches ; he seemed to live in a cloud, looking only 
 at that white grave, the marble slab, the last resting 
 place of his beloved. 
 
 She forgave him ; her body rose before him, such as it 
 had been in her youth, as he had painted it. Her deep 
 eyes were fixed on his, eyes that shone with love. He 
 seemed to hear her childish voice laughing, admiring lit- 
 tle trifles, as in the happy days. It was a resurrection, 
 the image of the dead woman was before him, formed 
 no doubt by the invisible atoms of her being which floated 
 over her grave, by something of the essence of her life 
 which still fluttered around the material remains, reluctant 
 to say farewell before they started on the way that leads 
 to the depths of the infinite. 
 
 His tears continued to fall in the silence, in sweet re- 
 lief ; his voice, broken by sobs, stilled the birds with fear. 
 "Josephina! Josephina!" And the echo answered with 
 dull, mocking cries, from the smooth walls of the mau- 
 soleums, from the invisible end of the colonnades. 
 
 The artist could not resist the temptation to step over 
 
274 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 the rusted chains which surrounded the grave. To feel 
 her nearer ! To overcome the short distance which sepa- 
 rated them ! To mock death with a loving kiss of intense 
 gratitude for forgiveness ! 
 
 The huge frame of the master covered the slab of 
 marble, his arms encircled it as if he would pick it up 
 from the ground and carry it away with him. His lips 
 eagerly sought the highest part of the stone. 
 
 He wished to find the spot which covered her face and 
 he began to kiss it, moving his head as if he were going 
 to dash it against the marble. 
 
 A sensation of stone, warmed by the sun, on his lips ; 
 a taste of dust, insipid and repulsive in his mouth. 
 Renovales sat up, rose to his feet as if he had awakened, 
 as if the cemetery, until then invisible, was suddenly 
 restored to reality. The faint odor of decay once more 
 struck him. 
 
 Now he saw the grave, as he had seen it the day before. 
 He no longer wept. The immense disappointment dried 
 his tears, though within him he felt the longing for weep- 
 ing increased. Horrible awakening! Josephina was not 
 there ; only the void was about him. It was useless to seek 
 the past in the field of death. Memories could not be 
 aroused in that cold ground, stirred by worms and de- 
 cay. Oh, where had he come to seek his dreams ! From 
 what a foul dunghill he had tried to raise the roses of his 
 memories ! 
 
 In fancy he saw her beneath that repugnant marble in 
 all the repulsiveness of death, and this vision left him 
 cold, indifferent. What had he to do with such wretched- 
 ness? No; Josephina was not there. She was truly 
 dead, and if he ever was to see her it would not be beside 
 her grave. 
 
 Once more he wept not with external tears but with- 
 in; he mourned the bitterness of solitude, the inability 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 275 
 
 to exchange a single thought with her. He had so many 
 things to tell her which were burning his soul! How 
 he would talk with her, if some mysterious power would 
 bring her back for an instant. He would implore her 
 forgiveness ; he would throw himself at her feet, lament- 
 ing the error of his life, the painful deceit of having re- 
 mained beside her, indifferent, fostering hopes which had 
 no fulfillment, only to groan now in the torment of ir- 
 reparable loss, with a mad, thirsting love which wor- 
 shiped the woman in death after scoring her in life. 
 
 He would swear a thousand times the truth of this 
 posthumous worship, this desire aroused by death. And 
 then he would lay her once more in her eternal bed, and 
 would depart in peace after his wild confession. 
 
 But it was impossible. The silence between them 
 would last forever. He must remain for all eternity 
 with this confession of his thoughts, unable to tell it to 
 her, crushed beneath its weight. She had gone away 
 with rancor and scorn in her soul, forgetting their first 
 love, and she would never know that it had blossomed 
 once more after her death. 
 
 She could not cast one glance back ; she did not exist ; 
 she would never again exist. All that he was doing and 
 thinking, the sleepless nights when he called to her in 
 loving appeal, the long hours when he stood gazing at her 
 pictures, all would be unknown to her. And when he 
 died in his turn, the silence and loneliness would be still 
 greater. The things which he had been unable to tell her 
 would die with him and they would both crumble away 
 in the earth, strangers to each other, prolonging their 
 grievous error in eternity, unable to approach each other, 
 or see each other, without a saving word, condemned to 
 the fearful, unbounded void, over whose limitless firma- 
 ment passed unnoticed the desires and griefs of men. 
 
 The unhappy artist walked up and down enraged at 
 
276 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 his impotence. What cruelty surrounded them? What 
 dark, hard-hearted, implacable mockery was that which 
 drove them toward one another and then separated them 
 forever, forever! forbidding them to exchange a look of 
 forgiveness, a word to rectify their errors and to permit 
 them to return to their eternal sleep with new peace ? 
 
 Lies deceit that hovers about man, like a protecting 
 atmosphere that shields him in his path through the void 
 of life. That grave with its inscription was a lie; she 
 was not there; it contained merely a few remnants, like 
 those of all the others, which no one could recognize, 
 not even he, who had loved her so dearly. 
 
 His despair made him lift his eyes to the pure, shin- 
 ing sky. Ah, the heavens! A lie, too! That heavenly 
 blue with its golden rays and fanciful clouds was an im- 
 perceptible 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 illu- 
 sion of an immortal soul. 
 
 All were lies which death came to unmask, interrupt- 
 ing 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 determina- 
 tion not to return again, he looked around the grave for a 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 277 
 
 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 breath- 
 ing 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 re- 
 turn. 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, 
 
278 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 crumbling in the lonely cemetery, there was a part of the 
 master and he, in turn, felt something strange and mys- 
 terious 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 gloom/ expression which terrified his valet. 
 If Senor Cot oner came, he was to tell him that the mas- 
 ter had gone out. If letters came from the countess, hej 
 could leave them in an old terra-cotta jar in the ante- 
 room, 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 eat- 
 ing, his eyes gazing into space. 
 
 Cotoner, somewhat piqued at this unusual regime 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 de- 
 scribed her alarm and astonishment at the master's be- 
 havior. 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 279 
 
 able to get in; she complained of the servant and that 
 mysterious work. At least he ought to write to her, an- 
 swer her letters, full of tender laments, which she did not 
 suspect were lying unopened and neglected in a pile of yel- 
 low cards. The artist listened to this with a shrug of the 
 I 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 daugh- 
 ter, 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 appear- 
 fence 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 in- 
 quired 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 
 Rails or going shopping. And after that came a com- 
 plaint, always the same, which the father divined at her 
 first words. Lopez 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 ex- 
 cept for his horses and automobiles; she even suspected 
 
280 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 ha'd piled up in long 
 years of labor. She must live in happiness, since she 
 loved her husband ! Her worries made him smile scorn- 
 fully. 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 dif- 
 ferent. It has cost me a good deal, but you shall judge." 
 
 And in his voice there was the joy of difficulties over- 
 come, 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 281 
 
 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, awk- 
 wardness, 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, dis- 
 concerted 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?" 
 
282 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 ani- 
 mal 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 un familiarity. 
 
 "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 bet- 
 ter 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 receiv- 
 ing 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 ser- 
 vant 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 bor- 
 ders, whose sealed ends stuck out, untouched, from the 
 pile of cards. The last straw! Her paleness grew in- 
 tense, 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. 
 
 28* 
 
284 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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. N 
 
 "Sit down/' he said coldly. 
 
 She sat down on a couch and the artist remained stand- 
 ing 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 tne least trem- 
 ble 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 irrita- 
 tion, 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, forgetful- 
 ness of his person. No doubt it was a passing artist's 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 285 
 
 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 im- 
 patiently 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 suf- 
 fering 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 com- 
 panion, his slave ? And her letters, her poor letters, neg- 
 lected, 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 wor- 
 ship 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- repu- 
 tation, 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 
 
286 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 ir- 
 ritated 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 hap- 
 pened, but Renovales, knowing the game, drew back 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 2871 
 
 roughly. That must not begin again ; it could not be re- 
 peated, 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 Con- 
 cha'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 re- 
 spected 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 up- 
 
288 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 roariously, revealing the count's insignificance, the abso- 
 lute 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 jus- 
 tification 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 an- 
 other 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 inter- 
 ests 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 get- 
 ting old with her trouble. 
 
 Suddenly filled with tenderness, she kissed his fore- 
 head generously and purely. Poor boy ! He was work- 
 ing so hard ! The only thing the matter was that he was 
 tired out, distracted with too much painting. He must 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 289 
 
 leave his brushes alone, live, love her, be happy, rest his 
 wrinkled forehead behind which, like a curtain, an in- 
 visible world passed and repassed in perpetual revolu- 
 tion. 
 
 "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, de- 
 lighting in caressing with her lips the furrows and prom- 
 inences of its irregular surface, rough as volcanic 
 ground. 
 
 For a long time her wheedling voice, with an exag- 
 gerated 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 Al- 
 berca 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. 
 
290 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "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 wor- 
 shiped 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 de- 
 stroy 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 mas- 
 ter. 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 de- 
 jection 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 domi- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 291 
 
 nate 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 as- 
 tonishment 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, look- 
 ing 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 aston- 
 ishment 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 
 
292 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 293 
 
 the studio. Renovales 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. 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "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 mem- 
 ory 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 sud- 
 denly saw his daughter's soul through this rent of frank- 
 ness. 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 295 
 
 cat-like purring. Papa, papa, dear, she was very un- 
 happy. 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 swallow- 
 ing 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 5 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 min- 
 ute, 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 move- 
 ment for a refusal. Her face grew sad, tears came to 
 
296 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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, unbutton- 
 ing 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 wal- 
 let is ? I never carry it in this suit." 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 297 
 
 "It's here, you fibber," his daughter cried merrily, per- 
 sisting 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 per- 
 haps this would save her from the danger toward which 
 her longing to live amid the vanities and tinsel of femi- 
 nine 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 leav- 
 ing 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 dis- 
 tance, 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 merri- 
 ment 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 : 
 
298 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 "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 por- 
 traits. 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 Co- 
 toner, 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, feel- 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 299 
 
 ing 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, hid- 
 ing 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, mis- 
 erable 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 jour- 
 ney 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 
 
300 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 like- 
 ness 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 jour- 
 ney. 
 
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 for- 
 mal. 
 
 "He's crazy," she said. "He's finished. There's noth- 
 ing 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 lug- 
 gage he occupied a room in the house and cared for 
 
 301 
 
302 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 Renovales with almost paternal solicitude. The Bohe- 
 mian 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, cloth- 
 ing 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 Alcala, 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 com- 
 ings and goings through the broad street where he circled 
 about like a silent dove as if he were waiting for some- 
 thing. Sometimes, no doubt tired of these evolutions, he 
 went into a cafe 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 appear- 
 ance. The boys knew the great artist's preference : little, 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 303 
 
 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 Reno- 
 vales. 
 
 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 o 
 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 of- 
 fended, started to put on her clothes. "One moment 
 more."' This scene almost always ended with an expres- 
 sion of disgust, of bitter disappointment. Sometimes the 
 poor puppets of flesh thought they saw in his eyes a sor- 
 rowful 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 
 
304 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 cafe, surrounded 
 by his new comrades, all of whom might be his sons. 
 Most of them were painters, novices, some with consider- 
 able 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 dif- 
 ferent paths, now." 
 
 "Aren't you ashamed of yourself !" Cotoner would ex- 
 claim. "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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 305 
 
 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 in- 
 tervals 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 intro- 
 duce 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 !" 
 
 Renovales 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 ungrate- 
 ful 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. 
 
'306 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 And the master went back with new affection to his 
 companions, those merry youths, slandering and disre- 
 spectful 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 prej- 
 udicial to a famous man acquires. 
 
 Milita scowled, trying to restrain the laughter which 
 the strangeness of this change aroused. Her father be- 
 coming a rake ! 
 
 "Papa! Papa!" she exclaimed in a comic tone of re- 
 proach. 
 
 And papa made excuses like a naughty, hypocritical 
 little boy, increasing by his perturbation his daughter's 
 desire to laugh. 
 
 Lopez 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 con- 
 genial, 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 307 
 
 the painter to the orchestra seats with the long-haired 
 young fellows who were his escort. 
 
 Renovales was gratified to see Lopez 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 be- 
 tween that scraggly girl with her starved face and your 
 poor, dead wife. If you see a sorry-looking bean pole you 
 
308 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 de- 
 ceived himself, as long as Cotoner did not find the like- 
 ness. 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 venire, and revealed 
 her anemic emaciation under a mask of rouge. 
 
 "How about this one?" the master would implore, al- 
 most 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 dis- 
 played in letters a meter high in the shop windows of 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 309 
 
 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 listen- 
 ing 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 orches- 
 tra 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, how- 
 ever, hurting their pure surface. She moved like an over- 
 grown schoolgirl, arms akimbo, bashful and blushing and 
 in this position she sang in a thin, high voice, obscene 
 verses which contrasted strangely with her apparent tim- 
 idity. This was her charm and the audience received 
 her atrocious words with roars of delight, contenting 1 
 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 anx- 
 
310 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 iously. 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, ab- 
 sorbed in the contemplation of "Fregolina," kept on pok- 
 ing 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 Reno- 
 vales' 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 min- 
 ute : 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 TRIUMPHANT 311 
 
 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 re- 
 fusal and his doubt that his fame had reached this cor- 
 ner. 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 Senorita "Frego- 
 lina." 
 
 "Yes, to Pepita," said the woman with a knowing air, 
 as if she were one of her friends. 
 
 "And tell her it is from Senor Renovales from Reno- 
 vales, the painter." 
 
312 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 The woman nodded, repeating the name. ''Very well, 
 Renovales," just as she would have said any other name. 
 And withottt 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 imper- 
 sonations. 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 Jose- 
 phina's old finery. Oh, how it reminded him of her! 
 Every night he was struck with some renewed memory. 
 
 Lacking Co-toner'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, con- 
 soling 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 bas- 
 kets 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 Lopez de Sosa speak to the 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 313 
 
 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 blush- 
 ingly, stammering, but Lopez 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 predilec- 
 tion 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 Renovates 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. 
 
314 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 And the servant on one side and the two artists on *he 
 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, cham- 
 pagne, 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 daugh- 
 ter probes him with questions." 
 
 Cotoner went away with a resigned expression and 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 315 
 
 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 un- 
 dress." 
 
 ''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 din- 
 ing-room with his hair carefully combed, his mustache 
 curled, wearing his best suit with a rose in the button- 
 hole. 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 
 
316 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 little later Renovales heard Lopez de Sosa's voice, ap- 
 proaching slowly, explaining to his companion the pic- 
 tures and furniture which attracted her attention. 
 
 They entered. The "Bella Fregolina" looked aston- 
 ished; 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 lux- 
 ury with its rare furniture rilled 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 art- 
 ist. 
 
 Lopez de Sosa excused himself to his father-in-law. 
 She was to blame for their being late. You could never 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 317 
 
 get a woman like that to hurry. She went to bed at day- 
 break ; he had found her in bed. 
 
 Then he said good-by, understanding the embarrass- 
 ment 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, fright- 
 ened 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 tor- 
 mented 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 sim- 
 plicity with which she dispensed with explanations sur- 
 prised him likewise. 
 
SIS WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 with- 
 out 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. Lopez 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 turn- 
 ing 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT Si 9 
 
 his temples throbbing, fancying that the pictures and fur- 
 niture 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 ope^a. 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 van- 
 ish. She, smiling, was delighted at the effect her appear- 
 ance 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, 
 
S20 WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 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 Renovates? He had suddenly forgotten every- 
 thing. 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 en- 
 couraged 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 com- 
 pletely. 
 
 " Josephina ! Josephina !" 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 321 
 
 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 
 
WOMAN TRIUMPHANT 
 
 have fled forever. Useless the search, useless the strug- 
 gle 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 f 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! 
 
J 
 
 .--* 
 
 ><p 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY