hung the portrait that Goya had painted of him, of Don José, Marquis of Villafranca. People cried out in their enthusiasm and, who was it that day? Osuna perhaps? Somebody said, amid the silence that fell after the exclamations: “What an ideal couple, the Duchess of Alba and the Marquis of Villafranca! How they resemble each other, what a match! It doesn’t surprise me that they live in perfect harmony together.”
In more than one face I saw a grimace of mockery.
I replied: “Now then, dearest friend! How could I compete with my husband? I have the face of a wild animal, though not asmuch as you do, my dearest, whereas Don José has the eyes of a deer, which are nothing if not the expression of his soul.”
That is what I thought then of José, yes. Osuna had to shut up; José shone.
But I didn’t think that when they engaged me to him at the age of eleven, and married me to him when I was thirteen. At that time I was standing in front of the altar next to Mama and her bridegroom. Any man there seemed to me to be more masculine than my bony scarecrow with his big brown eyes. Even Miguelito, the son of our laundrywoman, had bigger muscles. Oh, how I loved playing with him in the granary! We took off our clothes and then swam together in the grain. One day I told my grandfather about our games and he quoted me something so beautiful I’ve remembered it ever since. A philosopher, Diderot, I think, told him:
L’habit de la nature, c’est la peau,
plus on s’éloigne de ce vêtement
plus on pèche contre le gout .
That is how I wrote it down and I took it seriously. I spent my wedding night with Miguelito in the granary. We swam nude among the corn, even though it was very cold. When my friends came to see me, I usually received them in the nude, following the advice of the French philosopher regarding good taste, and when the girls were frightened and about to flee, I made them a present of that wise sentence and added that I would dressmyself with my hair, so as not to alarm them. At that time my hair reached down to my knees. But I never received Don José like that. Soon, he stopped coming to visit me and preferred to spend nights playing the piano and the harpsichord, the viola and the violin. Only after a long time did I receive him, almost fully dressed because I find men’s bodies repulsive. I wanted a little child to play with, but he was unable to give me one. He wasn’t even capable of doing that.
“Hey Consuelo, what does my aya say?”
“Milady, Doña María says that she is ashamed to answer your question.”
“Wonderful, let her be ashamed, the pious thing. But did she give you an answer or didn’t she?”
“Milady, she says that after you came back from Piedrahíta you became friends with Don Manuel de Godoy, the Príncipe de la Paz .”
“Heavens, was it then? Yes, it’s true. At that time I wanted to kill two birds with one stone, and the only thing I managed to achieve was to injure myself. Go, go, don’t bother me now, girl.”
Finally! How hard it is to get rid of these gossipmongers. It was at a soiree in my palace. I had very few candles lit. My husband played Haydn for the guests and he managed to make me sad. I realized that year after year my life was slipping away, years lived uselessly, without aim, without emotion. Nothing attracted me, nobody needed me. I sang tonadillas , I acted in plays, people applauded me, admired my beauty and my talent, but none of that meant anything to me. That evening Don José played, no, in fact it wasn’t Haydn; he was playing something on the viola. Ithink it was Marin Marais, Les Folies d’Espagne . The same melody was repeated, grew like a wave, and then suddenly settled back again to rise quickly into a crescendo. Godoy stood behind my chair and whispered into my ear that never had any woman, that the affection he felt for me . . . that because of me he had neglected affairs of state . . . that I, that I, that I . . .
In short, the
In more than one face I saw a grimace of mockery.
I replied: “Now then, dearest friend! How could I compete with my husband? I have the face of a wild animal, though not asmuch as you do, my dearest, whereas Don José has the eyes of a deer, which are nothing if not the expression of his soul.”
That is what I thought then of José, yes. Osuna had to shut up; José shone.
But I didn’t think that when they engaged me to him at the age of eleven, and married me to him when I was thirteen. At that time I was standing in front of the altar next to Mama and her bridegroom. Any man there seemed to me to be more masculine than my bony scarecrow with his big brown eyes. Even Miguelito, the son of our laundrywoman, had bigger muscles. Oh, how I loved playing with him in the granary! We took off our clothes and then swam together in the grain. One day I told my grandfather about our games and he quoted me something so beautiful I’ve remembered it ever since. A philosopher, Diderot, I think, told him:
L’habit de la nature, c’est la peau,
plus on s’éloigne de ce vêtement
plus on pèche contre le gout .
That is how I wrote it down and I took it seriously. I spent my wedding night with Miguelito in the granary. We swam nude among the corn, even though it was very cold. When my friends came to see me, I usually received them in the nude, following the advice of the French philosopher regarding good taste, and when the girls were frightened and about to flee, I made them a present of that wise sentence and added that I would dressmyself with my hair, so as not to alarm them. At that time my hair reached down to my knees. But I never received Don José like that. Soon, he stopped coming to visit me and preferred to spend nights playing the piano and the harpsichord, the viola and the violin. Only after a long time did I receive him, almost fully dressed because I find men’s bodies repulsive. I wanted a little child to play with, but he was unable to give me one. He wasn’t even capable of doing that.
“Hey Consuelo, what does my aya say?”
“Milady, Doña María says that she is ashamed to answer your question.”
“Wonderful, let her be ashamed, the pious thing. But did she give you an answer or didn’t she?”
“Milady, she says that after you came back from Piedrahíta you became friends with Don Manuel de Godoy, the Príncipe de la Paz .”
“Heavens, was it then? Yes, it’s true. At that time I wanted to kill two birds with one stone, and the only thing I managed to achieve was to injure myself. Go, go, don’t bother me now, girl.”
Finally! How hard it is to get rid of these gossipmongers. It was at a soiree in my palace. I had very few candles lit. My husband played Haydn for the guests and he managed to make me sad. I realized that year after year my life was slipping away, years lived uselessly, without aim, without emotion. Nothing attracted me, nobody needed me. I sang tonadillas , I acted in plays, people applauded me, admired my beauty and my talent, but none of that meant anything to me. That evening Don José played, no, in fact it wasn’t Haydn; he was playing something on the viola. Ithink it was Marin Marais, Les Folies d’Espagne . The same melody was repeated, grew like a wave, and then suddenly settled back again to rise quickly into a crescendo. Godoy stood behind my chair and whispered into my ear that never had any woman, that the affection he felt for me . . . that because of me he had neglected affairs of state . . . that I, that I, that I . . .
In short, the
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