Blinded by the beauty of the night, he had left the window open and an owl had come in, landed on the window-sill, and listened to all that had been said; the old woman's voice was sweet, her speech as pure as a flower: if God had sent an angel as a messenger, it would have sounded like that. She said that, despite his efforts to conceal it, he knew how to appreciate true art and that many people were of her opinion, but that he was mistaken in thinking that he had discovered her secret. It was not for him alone to discover it; it was for everyone. It would be easy to share what was common to them all, it would just mean that he had to set aside his pretensions. He did not understand the allusion; he made a gesture of rejection. "Beauty can be shared," she insisted, "without detriment to anyone; you can have it. You and all the others, together." "They have no interest in my feelings. I am old and ugly. We can have nothing in common. This is the story of the death of the world, of God, the end of everything." "You are wrong. God has created us, he loves us; we live within his universe and are a part of him. If he wishes, he can lift you up to the level of his art. He can make you share what is truly beautiful, he can make you love what you had thought he had created only to torture, if he wishes. You believe in the end of things, but that is because you do not know him, who is the beginning of all things, who will always be." "It is too late," he said. "I can understand what you say but I have nothing to give in return. My life is worthless, a misery for myself and all others; it has to end, I have to die. Even that will not appease the horror, so who could want more?" His face was the one she remembered when she saw it, old and disfigured, when she was so proud of her work and saw it rejected; her heart was breaking. She had nothing left to give. It was time to leave, she could no longer be here. She had been the only person who gave him her love and affection; she was the only person who had touched him, the one who had caressed him and shown him affection. He had loved her too, he had told her so; it was not just a pretence. But she, she could see her love for him being trampled underfoot, in front of his eyes, and she could see his desperation too. She did not know what she was, she knew only what he had told her, his belief in God, his love for his religion, how he thought he could feel him around him, how he believed he could see him; they had touched one another and she had held him as if she loved him. He had been so happy then, so full of pride, so pleased to have her. The years that he had spent living alone in that house had been like a punishment, his life was no longer worth living, he was an outcast, an old dog left by himself. A little before dawn, the owl left the room through the open window; she followed it, she had to follow it, but she was too weak and could not move. She watched it flying up, higher and higher; then a dog's bark rang out in the valley, it was the dog that came to the house from time to time to share her dinner, which was very simple. The great dog was there when she appeared; he had smelled her out and knew that she was there. She saw it, how he was waiting for her, so proud of his role, so full of joy that she had appeared. Then, with his soft nose, he brushed her face and licked her, and the tears flowed. Then she let him eat, he ate and she felt strong again; she was reborn. # _A PORTRAIT BY MICHELANGELO_ A BORED MOUTH HAD turned her head to a portrait. Every evening, when the master had finished carving up a joint of mutton on the sideboard, he would take his place in front of his easel. He would sit there, staring at the face before him, as if waiting for it to do something, or say something. But it just stared back; it was a blank, pale face. It was ugly. The expression he gave it was frightening; its fixed, half-closed eye reminded him of a stone that had once lodged itself in his tooth. The mouth alone was strange: it had a red stain on it, like blood. He made no attempt to interpret it; it had probably caught the edge of the butcher's cleaver and spattered. He could not think of anything else to do, and so he did what he did every evening; he started to paint. The portrait was finished when it was complete, but after a while he started again. He would stand in front of the canvas with his paintbrush, and then he would look at his own work, studying it as if he was about to buy it at an auction, then he would look at the painting again, still not convinced, and finally he would take a piece of bread, hold the canvas to his cheek and press down hard to blot out the eyes. That is what he did every evening. Then he would pick up the plate, take his place at table, and carve up the joint for himself, before the portrait, this empty face, took the food from his plate. The mistress sat at the other end of the table, in her place. It was an honour; she was the mistress, she was the beauty. She never said anything to him, she would not take part in his joke, she kept herself aloof; she would not even look in his direction when she served the food, as if she did not know him, even if he waved his fork at her. She was not really a woman. She was like a man. There was nothing soft in her and, without noticing it, he had learned to protect himself from her; she had grown used to that, to her mannishness. She was no more than a woman, and not even that; she was a woman-man, but a woman-man with masculine force. She had been born a man, with powerful, masculine legs, and they had made her walk like that; the legs were strong, they did not obey her. She liked to wear skirts, but she liked it when a man's jacket was wrapped around her, when her head rested in its lap and she was lifted up. She kept company with men; she loved men, but she did not have lovers. One of her legs was stronger than the other; he had always known it was there, it was strong like a man's. That was the reason why he had felt strange when she had wanted to ride a horse in her childhood; it had been a horse that had grown up like a man, from the inside out, not as horses were meant to do. As a boy, he had sat on its rump in the schoolroom. A man sat there then; his father had been a gentleman, a landowner who had come from a long way off, who had a big estate. The man was his father's servant and sat in the schoolroom now that he had left his master's service and was retired. The mistress's father had died early. He had been found in his bed, one day, in his boxer shorts and with his arm around his wife. The old man had been very ugly, with a big nose and huge forearms. He was like his sons, but was not like them; they had both grown up like their mother, beautiful and proud, whereas he was like his father, coarse and proud, and now he was gone. She had been their father's favourite. When he was a little boy, he had done everything she had told him to do; he had done as she had bade him. She was like a mother, she gave him food, she warmed his feet in the bath and put clean clothes on him. His father had been cold and indifferent; his mother was warm and understanding; he preferred her to him. She was an angel. It was still a shock to see her in her rough country clothes, wearing a man's jacket and carrying a man's boots. It was as if he had opened a door and found a woman whom he had never seen before, who had come from another world. She looked at him without blinking, and he looked at her the same way. The only thing she was interested in was her work; she kept working, painting and painting until the last minute of the last day. She would talk to him, but only to encourage him, she was not interested in his stories. When she died, he could not bear it; he thought she was coming back, but there was no one else. He had been surprised; he had not understood how much he loved her; in a week he had given up everything, even the portrait, for her. He did not love anyone now; he was lost and empty, the day had lost its meaning; in the end, everything was only a game of two people. It was over,