The world of the Countess de Noailles has turned dark, Professor. He is not the same person with whom he shared a table on that evening organized by Marie Curie. Of the lively, bird-like little woman, I’m afraid, there is nothing left. Last week I was staying at his residence in Paris for two days. She has fired most of the servants, closed the west wing, spends her afternoons locked in her study writing mathematical formulas and poems on a huge blackboard. She says that only she knows what is dangerous inside her home: the steep stairs, the slippery bathtub, the oil lamps, the sharp knives. Outside her home, the Countess is extremely frightened of her own ignorance, and eager for information about crime, violence, and disaster.<\/p>\n
He sent for me to be brought from Bilbao to see it. In a note he asked me to bring the portrait I made of him a few years ago. He said it was a matter of life and death. You can imagine, Professor, the false promises I had to make to get the work out of the Museum. When I was in front of the countess, all she wanted to know was if I brought her the oil. Upon receiving it, his wide pupils, which now seem painted on a mask that hides his eyes, lit up. Right away, he asked me to leave. Throughout the night, from the adjoining room, I was flooded with chalk squeaks against the blackboard, preventing me from resting.<\/p>\n
The next morning the countess called me into her study. He said nothing about the scribbles on the blackboard, or about the oil painting that I had brought him and that he kept leaning against the opposite wall, placed so that the woman lying on the couch that I had painted, his very image, would see to work. I noticed that his gaze was again as fascinating as before, although, yes, a little more opaque. He suggested that we walk around the city. We walked arm in arm through Montmartre, taking slow, short steps, cautiously. The only time I was separated from her was when I walked into an antique store. As I left I found her next to a car, holding her shoulders, trembling, with her bag lying on the sidewalk. He said that a boy lying under the car had grabbed his ankle. That later the boy, with a muffled voice, had told him that he should save him and his brothers. Then, Professor, I knelt on the sidewalk to look under the car. I could see the sunlight reflected off the street and the metal springs in the belly of the car. No child. I pointed out that the infant could not have turned into fine air. On the way back to the residence, the Countess was outraged at me for the way I referred to things that turn into fine air.<\/p>\n
En la noche toc\u00f3 a mi puerta y me pidi\u00f3 que la siguiera a su estudio. La luz anaranjada de una vela le alumbraba el rostro. Parec\u00eda sombr\u00edamente contenta, profesor. Apunt\u00f3 hacia el cuadro y dijo que su parte hab\u00eda concluido, que ahora me correspond\u00eda hacer la m\u00eda. Le dije que no le entend\u00eda. El futuro, el pasado, el presente. Esto fue lo que dijo, profesor. Despu\u00e9s dio unos pasos hacia el \u00f3leo y le dio la vuelta. En el reverso del cuadro hab\u00eda escrita a l\u00e1piz una f\u00f3rmula largu\u00edsima que ocupaba casi todo el lienzo. En un recuadro en la parte inferior izquierda pone: \u00ab\u00bfQu\u00e9 soy yo? Un humilde \u00e1tomo errante \/ cuyo ardor ser\u00e1 \/ fue \/ es grave y piadoso. <\/i><\/p>\n
Antes de que pudiera articular palabra, dio un paso hacia m\u00ed, me mir\u00f3 a los ojos y dijo: \u00abEvite que Einstein acepte la c\u00e1tedra en Espa\u00f1a, debe viajar a los Estados Unidos. Ha de ense\u00f1arle el cuadro personalmente. Creo que mi retrato es m\u00e1s celebre guardado que expuesto\u00bb. Luego apag\u00f3 la vela y se march\u00f3 andando en la penumbra como si se desvaneciera en aire fino.<\/i><\/p>\n
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Fragment of a letter sent by Ignacio Zuloaga to Albert Einstein in the spring of 1933. The world of the Countess de Noailles has turned dark, Professor. He is not the same person with whom he shared a table on that evening organized by Marie Curie. Of the lively, bird-like little woman, I’m afraid, there […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":[],"yoast_head":"\n