They looked at each other askance, humbled and broken by this
domestic trouble. But the solitude in which they lived, the necessity of
remaining together made the reconciliation imperative. She was the first
to speak, as if she were terrified by the sadness and dejection of that
huge giant who wandered about as peevish as a sick man. She threw her
arms around him, kissed his forehead, made a thousand gracious efforts
to bring a faint smile to his face. "Who loved him? His Josephina. His
_Maja_ but not his _Maja Desnuda;_ that was over forever. He must never
think of those horrible things. A decent painter does not think of them.
What would all her friends say? There were many pretty things to paint
in the world. They must live in each other's love, without his
displeasing her with his hateful whims. His affection for the nude was a
shameful remnant of his Bohemian days."
And Renovales, won over by his wife's petting, made peace,--tried to
forget his work and smiled with the resignation of a slave who loves
his chain because it assures him peace and life.
They returned to Rome at the beginning of the fall. Renovales began his
work for the contractor, but after a few months the latter seemed
dissatisfied. Not that Signor Mariano was losing power, not at all, but
his agents complained of a certain monotony in the subjects of his
works. The dealer advised him to travel; he might stay awhile in Umbria,
painting peasants in ascetic landscapes, or old churches; he might--and
this was the best thing to do--move to Venice.
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