a woman and
who made the troop of his intimate pupils stammer with embarrassment.
The only evidences of his Bohemian 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 protests 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 canvases was that of a sweaty
laborer or the chubby child. He was an honored master, who cultivated
his stupendous 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 triumphant, 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 impressions, 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 Mariano's birth, made him
jump out of bed as soon as day broke and go down to the shop to warm
h