I stepped ahead of him and, with my back to him, I hitched up my skirt and petticoats to show him my nakedness which the air could caress. I stayed like that for a while; after a moment, I turned my head and gave him a fleeting, teasing glance. He was as still as if he had been turned to stone, and looked at me as if stunned. And when he had recovered a little I understood that he was trying to engrave that image in his memory. Only after a little while did he start to chase me. He took me in a wild, fast way, and was eager to go back home already. Once there, he went straight to his improvised studio. After a long time, he went down to the kitchen, served himself a large glass of wine, and cut himself a piece of cheese.
Another day, I was sitting, nude, next to the fountain in the park of the palace and pouring water over myself. It was siesta time and everybody was resting. I thought I was alone and, intoxicated by the sun, the air, and Sanlúcar’s shining white sky, I sat with my legs open and played with the water, my body, my hair. Suddenly something moved in the undergrowth and I saw Francisco’s disheveled head.
“Susanna in the bath,” I laughed.
“Susanna and the old men,” he answered.
“Who is the other old man?”
“I am both one and the other,” he replied, devouring the image with his painter’s eyes. He took me up in his arms and carried me to the grass amid the pines. But he left soon so as to place on paper the image that he had kept inside him. Meanwhile I woke up my chambermaid so that she could clean away the thorns that had gotten stuck to my back.
The days went by. We went horseback riding; through the rays of low morning suns, we headed for the little chapel of Nuestra Señora del Rocío. On other days we reached the bright white villages splashed with women in black—Almonte, Sanlúcar, Coria del Río. Each time, we came back home full of beautiful impressions. Francisco grew fond of making expeditions to the lagoon of Santa Ollala and decided to paint it. He placed me in front of one of the streams that run into it. I soon grew impatient standing still. I preferred to ride, to walk, or to have tea on the sand while he drew with his fingers. I inscribed the words SÓLO GOYA there. From time to time I went back to renew the inscription after the wind had erased it. Francisco saw it and included it in a picture in which there is a tree with silky branches, a sandy stream near the lagoon. On the sandy bank, however, there is a human figure. The Muslims fear the representation of the human figure. For that reason, in their paintings the human element is missing. And, like them, I also believed, superstitiously, that if Francisco placed me in his picture, something would go wrong.
María, don’t spy on me from behind the door. Come in and tell me if you remember the milky light of Sanlúcar in which, at twilight, particles of golden dust glided. You don’t remember? How is that possible? You’re a silly old thing. You remember all my headaches, my pain and suffering, my jealousy and my dissatisfaction, and yet happiness has fled from your memories? Nobody is interested in happy love affairs. And the same thing happens to you as to the rest: when lovers overcome all obstacles, they are no longer good to play. The performance is over. Go away, go away, you silly old thing.
We didn’t want to know anything about the world, but the world had decided that it would not leave us in peace. Francisco received letters with commissions from his customers. He answered them, putting everything off for an indefinite period of time. I received messages from the court, in which they called for me to present myself there urgently. My mother-in-law, the Marquess of Villafranca, wrote me especially strict letters. I had to return so as to observe the period of mourning prescribed by etiquette, she told me. I ordered my lady-in-waiting to answer these letters, saying that I was not well and would be indisposed for some time. One day in early December, Francisco received a letter from Madrid, from his wife. She complained that she had not seen her husband for