Woman Triumphant (La Maja Desnuda)

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 López 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 accept 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, 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 enthusiast? Well, get him. She did not want to? Well, let the girl stay at home.

She was the one who had charge; no one was hindering her. Have the marriage as soon as possible? He was a mere cipher, and there was no reason for asking his advice. 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 successfully.

López de Sosa was all right. An excellent boy! Or anyone else. He did not have time to give to such matters. 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 smoking jacket, read the papers, soothed by the charming atmosphere 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.

"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, pretending to be thinking of something else; López 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 manages 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 reflected 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 López de Sosa. The papers published whole columns on the event, in which, according 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 articles, a regular fair of clothes and jewelry, that was visited by all of Milita's girl friends, even the most distant 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 represented 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 of the studios was converted into a chapel. Cotoner had a hand in everything that concerned the ceremony, delighted to be able to show his influence with the people of the Church.

Renovales took charge of the arrangements of the altar, 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 quantities; 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 façade to another, arousing the curiosity 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 before 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 constellation 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 celebration 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. 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 attached 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 sudden rise to importance, went from room to room, arranging 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 armchairs of the 18th Century, embroidered with pastoral scenes, Greek settles, benches of carved oak and Venetian 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 elephants and lotus flowers; they stretched it over the goddess'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 to 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 directed the servants, smooth shaven or wearing side-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 mantillas, grasping the hands of the men, some of whom wore brilliant uniforms.

The master felt elated at this procession which ceremoniously 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 reception. 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 illustrated 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, remembering 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 direction 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 perfumes, and felt the rapture of optimism flood his breast. Life was a great thing. The poor rabble, crowded together outside, made him recall with pride the blacksmith's son. Heavens, how he had risen! He felt 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, gentlemen."

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 baskets 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, monsignore! Monsignore Orlandi! Va bene? Va bene?"

He kissed his hand with a profound reverence, and after 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 laughing 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 prelate, 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 respect which his illustrious friend inspired. What a wonderful 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 Nuncio's attendants came out in search of him,—sprightly young fellows with a feminine carriage and a faint suggestion of perfume about them, who looked on the artist with respect, believing he was an important personage. 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 gentleman, 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, 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 solemn 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 congratulated 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 Renovales passed a tiresome half-hour following the ceremonies of the prelate with an absent-minded glance. Far away in the last of the studios, the stringed instruments struck a loud chord and 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 Italian 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 distinguished gathering, by the dramatic gravity with which the Roman prelate conducted the ceremonies of his profession. 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 marrying 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 gentlemen that filled the doorway.

There was one moment when the painter paid attention to the ceremony. How long it was! The music had ceased; Monsignor, with his back to 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 mellowness, 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.