Thursday, 20 October 1881

I finished my sketch of the shop yesterday, and after buying three hundred francs' worth of old fabrics and bidding tender farewells to al señor Don Lorenzo, we departed. Pollack left twenty minutes before us; he packed my canvases. [Blacked out: I bought] from two other colleagues of Lorenzo's two scarves, two dresses, and a large old embroidered salmon-red silk curtain: two hundred francs in total. The three-hundred-franc lot contains four large silk-embroidered canvases from Salamanca, a matching scarf and dress, a piece of red velvet embroidered in silk and gold resembling church vestments. A large piece of silk with large flowers and
foliage extremely pale and of a respectable age. A kind of altar cloth in pink silk, the center in white stripe with embroideries and appliqués. Very worn. But this morning I spent two hours in Córdoba — just time enough to cast a glance at the city, which is ravishing… in its fashion — in short I adore cities like that; it has Roman remains that enchant me. And the mosque is a genuine marvel — you see, the Moorish tone of Paris prejudices and disgusts one against the real thing, which is wonderful. Toledo then… Córdoba seems to me far more magnificent, and the mosque is a marvel; there is no other word. But what fury seizes one in contemplating the Christian mushrooms that have sprouted inside it! Those chapels and that Coro are so many crimes against art — lèse-arts (lizards, for readers of Le Pays). One is indignant to see this masterpiece spoiled by stupid men. This Christian profanation is barbaric. If you could imagine those thousands of little columns, ravishing in their lightness, making the mosque like a forest with a ceiling — you would understand the horror of having blocked here and there those unique aisles with chapels, iron-gated doors topped by tin-painted female saints. And the Gothic infamies! That art in infamy — its barbarous imprint, its sickly, ignorant character. Those eternal pillars, those doorways burrowed with capricious, coarse designs. Those dreadful hydrocephalic saints with hands emerging God knows how from straight-pleated cloaks, artless… bodies flat and crippled. [Blacked out: I don't say] this apropos of Córdoba, but in general. I shall have seen soon all the most famous cathedrals, and it is impossible for me to arrive at admiring Gothic, which I have detested since my earliest childhood — a touching detail. And when one adds to that ravishing religious paintings from the late 14th and 15th centuries — then it is complete! And to think there are beings who swoon — that is, who pretend to swoon — before those naïve primitive saints with horrible, badly drawn, graceless faces. Give them credit for the intention, the religious character (which is prettily dreadful!) — but do not say it is beautiful. One would like to stay a month in Córdoba. But for that one would not have to be traveling with one's aunt, who in ten minutes finds a way to enrage one ten times: first by raging herself — now it is that there is nothing worth seeing and the guide leads us deliberately to earn money and make us miss the train; then it is that a carriage is needed to go to the mosque. In Córdoba! At eight
o'clock in the morning! [Blacked out: Think of it — one might catch a cold] and besides I, who am dying, cannot walk. In short, a furious air. What delightful company! Adorable companions for an artistic journey through Spain! I pray to God the whole time that it not affect me — for it is despairing to see everything thus ruined. It makes no difference — I have no luck — it is enough to make one weep. I take care of myself, love comfort, and am very fond of good food — but when one comes to pester me with that for the rest of my life I would rather be abandoned in the street! And besides, the things one intends to do oneself — if someone comes to suggest [blacked out: I have sworn to do] always the contrary, hoping to be less pestered — but instead of hinting at it to a third person or through words, you can guess with what finesse! So if one comes to pester you twenty times about what you had yourself intended to do of your own accord, the spontaneous impulse is no longer there, and one is… Ah! Lord, how these people bore me!! At least while young Pollack was there I escaped to some degree their stupidities… Besides, my poor aunt is delighted when there is someone — she would gladly have paid Pollack's travel costs if that were possible, for she knows well that she enrages me, poor woman; only as it is unconscious, it always begins again.

Notes

Lèse-arts: Marie's coinage, modeled on lèse-majesté (high treason). The parenthetical "(lézards, pour les lecteurs du Pays)" — "(lizards, for readers of Le Pays)" — is a wordplay: lèse-arts sounds like lézards (lizards); Le Pays was a conservative Bonapartist newspaper.