they exchanged wild endearments and caresses, and overcome by tiredness, they would talk languidly until they ran out of breath. Their mouths fell silent, but their spirits continued to flutter about in space.
Meanwhile, nothing worthy of note was happening in Tristana’s relations with her master, who had adopted an expectant, observational stance, and while being particularly attentive to her, he abstained from any displays of affection. He would see her come home late on certain nights and observe her closely; but he did not reprimand her, sensing that, at the slightest hint of conflict, his slave would reveal her intention to declare her emancipation. On some evenings, they would talk about various topics, but Don Lope, with cold tactical skill, would avoid any mention of the “romance”; and she revealed such spirit, and her mother-of-pearl Japanese face was so transformed by her dark eyes bright with intelligence, that Don Lope, restraining his desire to cover her in kisses, would be filled with melancholy and say to himself, “She’s really blossoming. She must be in love.”
Quite often, he would find her in the dining room at unusual hours, sitting beneath the circle of light from the hanging lamp, copying a figure from an engraving or one of the objects in the room.
“Very good,” he said to her on the third or fourth occasion on which he found her thus engaged. “You’re making progress, my dear, you really are. I can see the difference between now and the night before last.”
And shutting himself up in his room with his melancholy, the poor, declining gallant would thump his fist on the table and exclaim, “Another fact. The man is a painter.”
But he did not want to make any direct investigations, finding such activities offensive to his sense of decorum and inappropriate to his never profaned knightliness. One afternoon, however, while he was standing on the platform of the tram talking to one of the conductors, who was a friend of his, he asked, “Is there an artist’s studio around here, Pepe?”
At precisely that moment, they were passing the cross street formed by some new buildings intended for the poor, among which was a fine, large building of bare brick, topped off by a kind of glass house, like the studio of a photographer or artist.
“Up there,” said the conductor, “we have Señor Díaz, a portrait painter in oils.”
“Ah, yes, I know him,” said Don Lope. “The one who—”
“The one who comes and goes each morning and each evening. He doesn’t sleep here. A handsome fellow!”
“Yes, he’s dark, isn’t he, and rather slight?”
“No, he’s tall.”
“Ah, yes, tall, but a bit round-shouldered.”
“No, he cuts a very elegant figure.”
“And he has long hair.”
“No, he wears his hair short.”
“He’s obviously had it cut recently. He looks like one of those Italians who play the harp.”
“Well, I don’t know about him playing a harp, but he certainly works hard with his brushes. He asked a colleague of ours to act as a model for one of the apostles and he got him to the life.”
“I thought he did landscapes.”
“Oh, that too, and horses. He paints flowers that look as if they were real and ripe fruit and dead quail. Well, a little of everything really. And the pictures of naked women he has in his studio really make you sit up.”
“Naked girls, you say?”
“Or half undressed, with a bit of cloth that both covers and uncovers. Go up and see for yourself, Don Lope. He’s a good chap Don Horacio, and he’ll give you a warm welcome.”
“I’ve seen it all before, Pepe. Those painted ladies do nothing for me. I’ve always preferred the flesh-and-blood variety myself. Anyway, goodbye for now.”
14
IT SHOULD be said that Horacio, that highly spiritual artist, overwhelmed by his intoxicatingly amorous encounters with Tristana, found himself diverted from his noble profession. He painted little and almost always without a model: He
Meanwhile, nothing worthy of note was happening in Tristana’s relations with her master, who had adopted an expectant, observational stance, and while being particularly attentive to her, he abstained from any displays of affection. He would see her come home late on certain nights and observe her closely; but he did not reprimand her, sensing that, at the slightest hint of conflict, his slave would reveal her intention to declare her emancipation. On some evenings, they would talk about various topics, but Don Lope, with cold tactical skill, would avoid any mention of the “romance”; and she revealed such spirit, and her mother-of-pearl Japanese face was so transformed by her dark eyes bright with intelligence, that Don Lope, restraining his desire to cover her in kisses, would be filled with melancholy and say to himself, “She’s really blossoming. She must be in love.”
Quite often, he would find her in the dining room at unusual hours, sitting beneath the circle of light from the hanging lamp, copying a figure from an engraving or one of the objects in the room.
“Very good,” he said to her on the third or fourth occasion on which he found her thus engaged. “You’re making progress, my dear, you really are. I can see the difference between now and the night before last.”
And shutting himself up in his room with his melancholy, the poor, declining gallant would thump his fist on the table and exclaim, “Another fact. The man is a painter.”
But he did not want to make any direct investigations, finding such activities offensive to his sense of decorum and inappropriate to his never profaned knightliness. One afternoon, however, while he was standing on the platform of the tram talking to one of the conductors, who was a friend of his, he asked, “Is there an artist’s studio around here, Pepe?”
At precisely that moment, they were passing the cross street formed by some new buildings intended for the poor, among which was a fine, large building of bare brick, topped off by a kind of glass house, like the studio of a photographer or artist.
“Up there,” said the conductor, “we have Señor Díaz, a portrait painter in oils.”
“Ah, yes, I know him,” said Don Lope. “The one who—”
“The one who comes and goes each morning and each evening. He doesn’t sleep here. A handsome fellow!”
“Yes, he’s dark, isn’t he, and rather slight?”
“No, he’s tall.”
“Ah, yes, tall, but a bit round-shouldered.”
“No, he cuts a very elegant figure.”
“And he has long hair.”
“No, he wears his hair short.”
“He’s obviously had it cut recently. He looks like one of those Italians who play the harp.”
“Well, I don’t know about him playing a harp, but he certainly works hard with his brushes. He asked a colleague of ours to act as a model for one of the apostles and he got him to the life.”
“I thought he did landscapes.”
“Oh, that too, and horses. He paints flowers that look as if they were real and ripe fruit and dead quail. Well, a little of everything really. And the pictures of naked women he has in his studio really make you sit up.”
“Naked girls, you say?”
“Or half undressed, with a bit of cloth that both covers and uncovers. Go up and see for yourself, Don Lope. He’s a good chap Don Horacio, and he’ll give you a warm welcome.”
“I’ve seen it all before, Pepe. Those painted ladies do nothing for me. I’ve always preferred the flesh-and-blood variety myself. Anyway, goodbye for now.”
14
IT SHOULD be said that Horacio, that highly spiritual artist, overwhelmed by his intoxicatingly amorous encounters with Tristana, found himself diverted from his noble profession. He painted little and almost always without a model: He
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