before me, only you, all the women I paint will be you. Open your eyes to me for the last time, my love!”
He kissed my eyes.
In the end, María had to drag him out the door.
I didn’t open my eyes. I pretended I was asleep. The last punishment, the last revenge.
Your morning words, spoken in a low voice, with tenderness . . . Were they a dream, or a vision?
The crystal glass has disappeared from my bedside table.
María Teresa del Pilar Cayetana de Silva, Duchess of Alba, died in 1802 at the age of forty. Francisco de Goya, sixteen years older than she, outlived her by another twenty-six years. He designed the tomb of the duchess. In the drawing, the good spirits and the angels raise up the deceased; the duchess is in the same position as the dressed and naked majas.
During the rest of his life, Goya had among his possessions the duchess’s crystal glass, an object the owner had always kept with her whenever she travelled. And, during the rest of his life, the painter remained faithful in his work to a certain type of woman. With very few exceptions, all his women are María Teresa, Duchess of Alba.
THE GARNET NECKLACE
“‘A dangerous woman.’ That’s how the Vienna prefecture described her in their report: ‘Dangerous. A flirt. A bad mother.’ That’s literally what they put in their police report. It goes on: ‘She indulges in literary activity and is a firm defender of the Czech national cause; she mixes with influential people, not only in Bohemia but also in Moravia and Northern Hungary. The police should keep an eye on her, albeit discreetly.’ Here’s another item, also concerning Madam Božena Němcová. Listen to this, Fräulein Zaleski: ‘The friendships she cultivates make her highly suspicious; she should be obliged to return to Prague. I beg of you to see that this is done.’ Do you see what I mean, Fräulein Zaleski? I have just been quoting from a coded telegram from the chief of the prefecture of the Civil and Military Administration of Northern Hungary. Do take off your coat, there’s a hanger over there. Please be seated.”
“Thank you. What do you wish me to do?”
“Have you found out the current address of the person we are tailing?”
“I’ve been trying to find—”
“Fräulein Zaleski, please don’t give me any talk about ‘trying’! You have pledged yourself to work for the secret service of the Prague Prefecture. Are you aware of the importance of your mission?”
“Herr von Päumann, the authoress Božena Němcová currently resides in Slovakia, excuse me, I mean Northern Hungary, in a mountain village called Brezno. She visits various hamlets scattered at the feet of Dumbier Mountain.”
“With whom does she stay?”
“The Slovakian poet Samo Chalupka. He and his wife have taken her in.”
“What does she do?”
“She studies the local scene, collects Slovakian folktales, and writes them.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me so in a letter. At this stage she has complete confidence in me. Her husband tells me that in every letter she writes to him, she sends me her warm regards and asks after my health, which is rather poor, as you know.”
“Your health is none of my concern. You had better tell me what this writer’s husband, Josef Němec, told you about her in privacy.”
“Němec wrote to her that since she can allow herself the luxury of dedicating herself to literature and strolling through the countryside with a bunch of poets, it would be nice if she could send him some money to pay the rent. She wrote back and told him how to obtain some funds. She was furious, however, that her husband had thought that she should swindle her patron, Count Kolowrat-Krakovsky.”
“What else?”
“Němcová went on to tell her husband that as she has been ill for years, she would stay and continue to live in the country, and that she would never get better if she returned to their miserable Prague surroundings.”
“A few days ago, General Kempen, chief of the Imperial Prefecture, told me that Němcová’s journey to Northern Hungary would have cost more than the allowance she receives from Count Kolowrat-Krakovsky. By this, he was insinuating that some sort of organization financed the endeavor and that her move was, without a doubt, politically motivated.”
“Herr von Päumann, heaven knows I have no wish to defend her, but I am convinced that this is just a cultural trip.”
“Please be silent! General Kempen has spoken openly about this as a nationalist, pan-Slav undertaking, and has severely reprimanded