Woman Triumphant (La Maja Desnuda)

by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez

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.