Woman Triumphant (La Maja Desnuda)

by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez

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.

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 Vatican. "Next to God, there is nothing like art." And after 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 Christian fidelity, ties with which they approached together, 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 Concha'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 "Wedding 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 disappeared as soon as the ceremony was over, made his way with his attendants to the dressing-room, passing unnoticed 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 ceremony. 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.

"Josephina, Josephina! Remember that this is Milita's wedding!"