Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Sunday, 16 October 1881

It is old Pollack who takes us there. [Words blacked out: One of the most curious things here is El Rastro — a street occupied by all manner of stalls, like Russian village fairs, where one finds everything. And such life, animation, teeming crowds under this burning sun! It is admirable! This infinitely rich bric-à-brac is housed in dirty buildings, back rooms, and] legendary stairways — and masses of fabrics, tapestries, and embroideries enough to drive one mad. And these wretches [blacked out: seem] utterly unaware — they pierce fine fabrics hung on the wall with nails to hang old frames, they walk over embroideries spread on the floor. And old furniture, frames, sculptures, reliquaries, silverware, old twisted nails. I bought an old salmon-red silk curtain entirely embroidered, for which they were asking three hundred francs and which they gave me for a hundred and fifty; and an embroidered canvas skirt with pale flowers of a pretty tone, which they let me have for five francs after asking twenty. How unfortunate not to have a hundred thousand francs to spend — one could furnish an entire studio… But even with ten thousand francs alone! One could buy a great deal. Escobar comes to take us to the bullfight. We are in a box with Mlle Martinez, her father, two others, and Escobar. I had wanted to return for a second
impression. Eight bulls had been announced and it is, I believe, the last Sunday. In short, a brilliant performance. The King, the Queen, the Infantas at their post. Music, sun, wild clamor, stamping, whistles, waving handkerchiefs, hats thrown — it is a unique spectacle, of a compelling grandeur unlike anything else. [Seven lines blacked out: illegible] I am beginning to know my way about and took an interest in the performance [blacked out: illegible]. I went with reluctance and a shudder of disgust, yet I maintained composure before this butchery with refined cruelties. First, as you know, the picadores come out on horseback — three or four of them — and the bull is provoked; he is made to disembowel horses. After a few minutes a trumpet sounds — the signal to proceed to the banderillas. The surviving horses often return to the bull, and once the wretched beast has been sufficiently pierced, once it is bloody, once it ceases to respond to goading, the matador arrives. The first one, after three times saluting the royal box and throwing his hat, calm and cold, brings down the beast by standing before it with a kind of red cape on a stick in his left hand and in his right a naked sword with which — and this is the height of style — to kill the animal with a single thrust. The public intervenes constantly: now whistles because they passed too quickly from one exercise to another; now wild excitement and savage clamor. The success fell to a gray bull from a famous breeding house, who dreadfully disemboweled, and repeatedly gored, dragged, and gutted an old thin horse and nearly wounded a man. Must I also speak of a poor devil of a bull the color of a cow, very peaceable, who wanted to leave all the time, turned his back on the men's attacks, and refused to touch a single horse? But the case is foreseen: for bulls too good-natured, explosive banderillas are planted, which ignite and burst like firecrackers in the animal's hide, making it leap with smoke and flame and blood across its back. Explosive banderillas are the dishonor of a bull — but despite this outrage to his self-regard, the animal in question refused to lose his temper, contented himself with mooing plaintively, avoiding blows, and dying at last after undergoing a thousand martyrdoms — for the thrust was badly placed, it was necessary to stir the sword in the wound and strike several more times. And this is not the most hideous spectacle one can witness!! It is very beautiful on condition of seeing nothing… Yet one ends by
taking an interest, and one maintains a brave air before these ignominies out of pride. I watched the whole time. One comes out of it slightly drunk with blood — one could almost stick iron points into everyone's neck… I cut my melon at table as though planting a banderilla, and my meat seemed to come quivering straight out of the bull's torn hide. [Blacked out: Oh! It makes your legs cramp and] squeezes your head. It is a school for assassins. Now certainly these men are elegant, graceful — their movements are perfectly harmonious and dignified despite their extreme suppleness. One finds magnificent this duel of the man and this immense beast — but is it truly a duel when one always knows who must succumb? I confess that the matador arriving in his brilliant costume that outlines his form, having made his three salutes of so particular a character [blacked out: (he twists his] arm three times, high and straight before him) — calm, cold — coming to place himself very close before the animal [blacked out: with that] cape and that sword… And see, it is [blacked out: almost the best] part of the game — [blacked out: almost no] blood is shed. Yes, I say this has an astonishing [blacked out: and grandiose character. But the] horses — the Spaniards themselves do not like the horses part… Am I then reconciled with this savage pleasure? I don't say that — but there is a very beautiful side, almost grand: this arena, these fourteen or fifteen thousand spectators — one has there a vision of antiquity, which I love so much [struck: nevertheless]. And then the bloody, horrible, ignoble side… If the men were less skilled, if they received some good wound more often, I would not object — but it is this human cowardice that revolts me. Yet they say it requires a lion's courage… Well, no! They are too skilled, they too surely avoid the terrible but naïve, foreseen, and provoked attacks of the beast. The true danger is the banderillas, for the man runs to meet the bull, and at the moment the animal charges to gore him he forestalls it by planting his banderillas between its shoulders. That requires exceptional courage and skill, especially considering that the bull is nearly fresh and has so far only disemboweled horses… The gray was superb — he really gored his beast to the core — it is horrible, you think? Well, no: arrived at a certain degree of intensity, horror no longer affects one. And if one were always watching horses or men torn, truly and completely and with real
fury — like the gray bull — well, it would not harm the spectators and would be truly gripping. I do not pose as cruel — and the proof is that the small pricks and long martyrdoms squeeze my head — but I confess I would not criticize these [blacked out: games] if they were more serious. If you had seen the horns and nearly the entire head of the bull disappear into the horse's belly, with a burst of rage — that strength of the beast, not yet wounded, not yet tired — you would understand why I prefer that full fury to the wounds inflicted on the legs and necks of horses who are forced to walk toward the bull again, who recoil and are driven forward with cane blows — that is odious. So I reproach them for their skill — that is to say, their virtuosity, their talent? I don't know… I find the bulls too gentle. At El Rastro I was introduced to Madrazo, who paid me compliments on my copy.