Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Saturday, 1 October 1881

[Words blacked out: One thinks one has] dreamed, coming out of that bloody infamy. Bullfights. Abominable slaughter of broken-down horses and cattle, in which the men appear to run no danger whatsoever and play an ignoble role. The only moments interesting to me, in fact, were watching the men roll on the ground — one of them was trampled by the bull, a true miracle of escape, and so he received an ovation. Cigars are thrown, hats — returned very neatly, not the cigars, the hats. Handkerchiefs wave and savage howls go up… Actually the ovation was addressed to someone else, not the one who fell — no matter. The public knows them and has its favorites; to me they are puppets of various colors. It is a cruel game — but is it amusing? There it is! Well, no — it is neither gripping nor interesting; it is horrible and ignoble. [Words blacked out: This beast,] allegedly furious, which they goad with multicolored cloaks and into which they plant kinds of lances — the blood flows; the more the animal shakes himself, the more he leaps, the more he wounds himself. They present poor horses [words blacked out: with their] eyes blindfolded, [words blacked out: which he disembowels, the intes]tines coming out, the blood flowing — the horse rises nonetheless and obeys to the last extremity the man who often falls with him but almost never comes to harm. That black blood on the sand, and that scarlet blood on the backs of the bulls — there was a black one in particular when we arrived that bore what looked like scarlet ribbons; I thought it was decorated with ribbons at first, for those lances planted in its hide
were streaming. And when the horses are dead the combat continues with the men — that is to say a dozen Spanish idiots goad and riddle with stabs [words blacked out: the bull] which [words blacked out: leaps and pursues] but it is always the cape he meets. And when — wounded, bleeding, bellowing in distress — he stops and turns his head from the attacks, they present that red cape again and kick him… The crowd stamps its feet; the poor beast drops to its knees and lies down to die in the harmless pose of a cow resting in a meadow. He is killed with a blow to the nape. [Words blacked out: illegible, in the end] the music plays, and three beribonned horses harnessed to a kind of hook to which the carcass is attached come to carry off at a gallop the dead horses and dead bull. And then it starts again — three men on horseback, more disemboweled horses, and then the ridiculous, bloody goading of the toreadors. [Words blacked out: And when] about fifteen horses and five or six bulls have been killed, the elegant public goes to stroll in the Buen Retiro — one of the most beautiful parks in the world, which I prefer to the Bois, to say nothing of London and Vienna, and which is more beautiful than the villas of Rome — but no, Rome has a charm such that nothing can be compared to it. The King, the Queen, the Infantas attended the combat — more than fourteen thousand spectators. And this is every Sunday. And one must see the faces of all those sinister fools to believe that people can become passionate over such horrors… if only they were genuine horrors! But these inoffensive broken-down horses and these bulls who are only furious because they are excited, wounded, martyrized… The Queen, being Austrian, cannot enjoy it. She is not bad-looking. The King looks like a Parisian Englishman — tailor or stockbroker, very correct. The youngest of the Infantas is the only pleasant one; the guileless Isabella told me that I resembled her… Given that she is her daughter and she and her other children are frightful, I am flattered, for she is truly pleasant — and as for the others, pretty. But… We left Biarritz Thursday morning and arrived in the evening at Burgos. The Pyrenees strike me with their majestic beauty — at last one escapes Biarritz's cardboard rocks. We traveled with a fat gentleman who spoke no French; none of us speaks Spanish; nonetheless he explained an illustrated newspaper to me and offered two flowers at a station. And a young man going to Lisbon, who only
wanted only to be helpful — a sort of Englishman from Gibraltar. If you imagine that traveling with my mothers is a pleasure, you are quite mistaken. Besides, it is entirely natural — they have neither my youth nor my curiosities… In short, since it is past, I shall speak no more of their innocent small vexations — especially since they are so fussy that I shall have a thousand occasions to return to the subject. Martyred airs, and then absurd questions, pretending to believe themselves in some wilderness, a country one never goes to. And the guide saying it is cold in Burgos — a true desolation; one should have brought the pelisses, what is to be done, what will become of us. What a country! And see what there? The cathedral — but only the English go… And the worst of it is that all this was addressed to me in the third person, or nothing was said at all, but while speaking of something else — airs! And if I protest, they say nothing was said and that I am looking for pretexts to quarrel. They act as if they were forced into the journey that makes them miserable — and nothing is more difficult than fighting against such airs; one resigns oneself, says nothing — what do I ask for, in the end? And yet I did not insist — it was they who proposed coming to Spain; I insist on nothing anymore. In short, we are not happy together, and for as long as we are together it will be a thoroughly successful little bourgeois hell. So — Burgos… Ah! they are insupportable; when it is not the doleful resignation and complaints in the third person, it is so complete an indifference that one is quite taken aback. Imagine someone pulling on a rope attached to a great weight — one gets out of breath, one drags this ball and chain with every difficulty in the world, and crack! One feels nothing more; the rope is left in one's hands. Perhaps it is absurd, but I am always very much influenced by my surroundings, and the most beautiful things in the world, seen in such company… God knows what one would do, what one would say, what ideas one would have in a different environment — above all for an artist, it is very painful, I assure you. Everything depends on!… I do not know what — a nothing, and the wings fall and one is left a fool. Where am I going? What does Burgos matter to me — Madrid, the museum? What is the use? And then even when they are sometimes like other people, well, it still does not work — there has been too much bitterness, in short it is sad! All the same I made a sketch in the cathedral… Describe it? Is it possible? This heap of ornaments, garishly painted sculptures, gilding, flourishes, gewgaws,
a grandiose whole. Ah! The half-dark chapels, the great iron screens — no, it is truly a marvel. And above all that stamp of religious romanticism: these churches call out for the rendezvous — one dips one's fingers in the holy water and looks for someone to make eyes at. And the comparatively modest Chartreuse of Miraflores. We go toward evening, which further heightens the poetry of these Spanish churches. At the cathedral they show the famous Magdalene by Leonardo da Vinci (?) — Horror! I dare to confess that I find it ugly and it says nothing to me — nor do the Raphaels for that matter. Infamy! Ah! Bah. And the chapel of the Constable of Mendoza and his worthy wife, who embroidered the copes they show us. These custodians are dreadful — they touch the paintings and sculptures with their dirty fingers to show them better to us… In short, since yesterday morning we are in Madrid; this morning at the museum. Ah! The Louvre is pale beside it — Rubens, Philippe de Champaigne — I do not know what, even Van Dyck and the Italians! Nothing is comparable to Velázquez — but I am still too dazzled to judge. And Ribera! Good Lord. There you have the true naturalists! Can one see anything more true, more admirably true, more divinely, more genuinely true! Ah! How moved one is, and how unhappy to see such things! Ah! How one wishes one had genius! And people dare to speak of the pallors of Raphael and the meager paintings of the French School!! O the color! To feel color and not be able to render it — that is not possible! [Written across the page: I was almost suffocated at my first visit and had to pinch my hands so as not to cry with admiration.]
Soria came before dinner with his friend M. Pollack (railway administrator) and his son, who is a painter and worked at Julian's. Soria's manners are deplorable — he touches your hands; on leaving, your shoulders — I am shocked. I shall go to the museum alone tomorrow. [Words blacked out: One would not believe] what a silly remark can inflict in front of masterpieces. It is painful as a stab of a knife, and if one is offended one looks too foolish. [Words blacked out: And besides I have a modesty] that perhaps cannot be explained — I would not want to be seen admiring something; in short, I am ashamed [words blacked out: to be caught showing a sincere impression — I cannot explain it] here. It seems to me that one can only seriously speak of something that has moved one with someone with whom one is in perfect
communion of ideas… One talks well with… well, I talk well with Julian, who is not a fool — but there is always a touch of exaggeration so that enthusiasm, for instance, has a mocking side that shields it from ridicule, however slight, or simply if one is not understood… you understand. But to receive a deep impression and express it simply, seriously, as one felt it… I cannot imagine being able to do that with anyone except someone I loved completely… And if I could do it with a stranger, it would immediately create an invisible bond — very embarrassing afterward; one seems to have committed a wrong action together. Or else it is the Parisian-style exchange of ideas — affecting a slightly detached viewpoint, or the craftsman's perspective, so as not to appear too poetic — and speaking of the artistic side with words that make of it something exquisite but also something of the boulevardier: saveur, finesse… And then: it is very strong, it is quite simply the most astonishing thing one can see [words blacked out: and there is] something there truly unprecedented. Well — as I was saying — with Julian I have a good audience; I play, I narrate [words blacked out: and speak] even seriously, it is with him and de Daillens — that is to say, with de Daillens and him — that I converse best; but from that to… there is an abyss.

Notes

The Cartuja de Miraflores: a Carthusian monastery near Burgos, noted for its Gothic altarpiece and royal tombs. ↩