Thursday, 27 October 1881

Oh! The joy of having left horrible Seville! I say horrible all the more as I have been in Granada since yesterday evening, we have been out since this morning, I have already seen the inevitable cathedral, the Generalife,¹ and part of the gypsy caves! I am in a state of enthusiasm. At Biarritz and at Seville my arms were cut off — everything seemed finished, dead. During the three hours I spent in Córdoba I had the impression of an artistic city — that is, I would have worked there with perfect spirit. As for Granada, the only misfortune is not being able to stay six months, a year. One does not know which way to run there are so many things to do. Streets, silhouettes, views! One becomes a landscape painter — then those strange and interesting types appear with brilliant colors so harmoniously warm. But the most curious thing I saw was the Granada prison — the penitentiary where the convicts work. I do not know how this fancy came to me, and I certainly do not regret it, though one leaves with one's temples squeezed as after the bullfight. The prison commander immediately acceded to the wish of noble foreign ladies, and we were shown everything. A guard walked before us and we were flanked by six trustee prisoners chosen from among the most reliable of the criminals, armed with sticks and charged with maintaining order. I could not describe the impression made by that herd of men ranging themselves and removing their hats, with a swiftness resembling fear, before the stripes and sticks of the guards. They are beaten, so the guide told me. Disarmed, imprisoned, compelled to work like children — these men inspire in me only pity, rather than making me think of the crimes and misdeeds that have gathered them there — to

the number of 1,380. I will say more — it is almost tenderness, a singular tenderness one feels before that horde of wretches saluting with such humble air, seemingly working with such zeal — [blacked out:] some at their work, others over notebooks where they are learning to read, and this with such timid bearing [blacked out: showing a] childlike simplicity. Yes, they are beaten — that is evident; they have the air of those poor street dogs who lie down resignedly to receive blows. But what heads! I would so like to make a painting… right there… I have permission if I can find some corner with three or four figures — unfortunately it leads one toward a canvas too large… I recommend this somber visit before seeing the Generalife, whose gardens are most certainly a branch office of paradise. Ah! How to describe to you those tangles of oleanders, orange trees, the richest and most exquisite plants? Those cypress-lined paths, those cracked Arab walls crowned with roses… Brooks running between violet beds… Go to the prison, then to the Generalife. Tomorrow — the Alhambra, and the head of a convict I am going to paint.