almed him. His conscience was clean, and Josephina might
believe what she would. It would only be one more injustice and he was
resigned to endure his slavery without complaint.

In order to forget his trouble, he began to talk about painting. The
recollection of his conversation with Tekli enlivened him, for Tekli had
been traveling all over Europe and was well acquainted with what the
most famous masters were thinking and painting.

"I'm getting old, Cotoner. Did you think I didn't know it? No, don't
protest. I know that I am not old; forty-three years. I mean that I have
lost my gait and cannot get started. It's a long time since I have done
anything new; I always strike the same note. You know that some people,
envious of my reputation are always throwing that defect in my face,
like a vile insult."

And the painter, with the selfishness of great artists who always think
that they are neglected and the world begrudges them their glory,
complained at the slavery that was imposed upon him by his good fortune.
Making money! What a calamity for art! If the world were governed by
his common sense, artists with talent would be supported by the State,
which would generously provide for all their needs and whims. There
would be no need of bothering about making a living. "Paint what you
want to, and as you please." Then great things would be done and art
would advance with giant strides, not constrained to debase itself by
flattering public vulgarity and the ignorance of the rich. But now, to
be a celebrated painter it was necessary to make money and this could
not be done except by portraits, opening a shop, painting the first one
that appeared, without the right of choice. Accursed painting! In
writing, poverty was a merit. It stood for truth and honesty. But the
painter must be rich, his talent was judged by his profits. The fame of
his pictures was connected with the idea of thousands of dollars. When
people talked about his work they always said, "He's making such and
such a sum of money," and to keep up this wealth, the indispensable
companion of his glory, he had to paint by the job, cringing before the
vulgar throng that pays.

Renovales walked excitedly around the portrait. Sometimes this laborer's
work was tolerable, when he was painting beautiful women and men whose
faces had the light of intelligence. But the vulgar politicians, the
rich men that looked like porters, the stout dames with dead faces that
he h