If it was not he, it
would be Lopez de Sosa, a crazy fellow, in love with his automobiles,
who pleased Josephina more than the pupil because he had not committed
the sin of showing talent and devoting himself to painting. He would
have grandchildren, his beard would grow white, he would have the
majesty of an Eternal Father and Josephina, cared for by him, restored
to health by an atmosphere of affection, would grow old too, freed from
her nervous troubles.
The painter felt allured by this picture of patriarchal happiness. He
would go out of the world without having tasted the best fruits which
life offers, but still with the peace of a soul that does not know the
great heat of passion.
Lulled by these illusions, the artist was sinking into sleep. He saw in
the darkness, the image of his calm old age, with rosy wrinkles and
silvery hair, at his side a sprightly little old lady, healthy and
attractive, with wavy hair, and around them a group of children, many
children, some of them with their fingers in their noses, others rolling
on their backs on the floor, like playful kittens, the older ones with
pencils in their hands, making caricatures of the old couple and all
shouting in a chorus of loving cries: "Grandpa, dear! Pretty grandma!"
In his sleepy fancy, the picture grew indistinct and was blotted out. He
no longer saw the figures, but the loving cry continued to sound in his
ears, dying away in the distance.
Then it began to increase again, drew slowly nearer, but it was a
complaint, a howl like that of the victim that feels the sacrificer's
knife at its throat.
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