could close
it, shutting out the world; he could open it and summon in a noisy,
scandalous stream, all that he fancied--hosts of naked beauties, to
paint in a wild bacchanalian rout, strange, black-eyed Oriental girls to
dance in morbid abandon on the rugs of the studio, all the disordered
illusions of his desire--the monstrous feasts of fancy which he had
dreamed of in his days of servitude. He was not sure where he could find
all this, he was not very eager to look for it. But the consciousness
that he could realize it without any obstacle was enough.

This consciousness of his absolute freedom, instead of urging him into
action, kept him in a state of calm, satisfied that he could do
everything, without the least desire to try anything. Formerly he used
to rage, complaining of his fetters. What things he would do if he were
free! What scandals he would cause with his daring! Oh, if he only were
not married to a slave of convention who tried to apply rules to his art
with the same formality which she had for her calls and her household
expenses!

And now that the slave of convention was gone, the artist remained in
sleepy comfort, looking like a timid lover, at the canvases he had begun
a year before, at his neglected palette, saying with false energy, "This
is the last day. To-morrow I will begin."

And the next day, noon came, and with it luncheon, before Renovales had
taken up a brush. He read foreign papers, magazines on art, looking up,
with professional interest, what the famous painters of Europe were
exhibiting or working on. He received a call from some of his humble
companions, and in their presence he lamented the insolence of the
younger generation, their disrespectful attacks, with the surliness of a
famous artist who is getting old and thinks that talent has died out
with him and that no one can take his place. Then the drowsiness of
digestion seized him, as it did Cotoner, and he submitted to the bliss
of short naps, the happiness of doing nothing. His daughter--all the
family he had--would receive more than she expected at his death. He had
worked enough. Painting, like all the arts, was a pretty deceit, for the
advancement of which men strove as if they were mad, until they hated it
like death. What folly! It was better to keep calm, enjoying your own
life, intoxicated with the simple animal joys, living for life's sake.
What good were a few more pictures in those huge palaces filled with
canvases