Saturday, 22 October 1881

Well, here I am in this so much praised Seville. Here is a draft of a letter to Julian¹ which will explain [struck: how] I am ill-disposed to see. In short, I am wasting a great deal of time here. I have seen the museum — a single room full of Murillo; I would prefer something else, especially as he has nothing but Virgins and other female saints. I, who am barbarous, presumptuous, ignorant, and coarse, have still not seen a Virgin as I imagine She should be. Raphael's Virgins are beautiful in photographs… Besides, I shall give you my precious opinion when I have seen them again. Murillo does not speak to me much, I confess — those Virgins with pink cheeks and round faces. There is the one in the Louvre so much copied; that is the most felt — one can even call it divine. And the tobacco factory.² What a smell! If it were only the tobacco! A jumble of women with bare arms and necks, girls and children. For the most part these teeming creatures are pretty, and it is a curious visit. The Spanish women

have a grace that other women do not have. Café singers, cigar rollers — they walk like queens, and with that a suppleness, an incomparable grace. And such necks! Round arms of very pure form with a magnificent tone… Victorious and astonishing creatures. There was one in particular who rose to go fetch tobacco leaves… The carriage of a queen, the suppleness of a cat, a divine grace… with a superb head, a dazzling complexion, such arms, such eyes, such a smile. By the name of a dog!³ Not to mention those who have merely style — all the girls are funny and ravishing. There are some ugly ones but few, and even the ugly ones have something.