Friday, 28 October 1881

So I spent today in the prisons of Granada.
The prisoners enjoy a charming liberty — the courtyard resembles a market, the doors do not appear to close very well, and in short this prison does not much resemble descriptions of French maximum-security institutions.
My poor devil of a convict posed very well all day — but as I made the head life-size and roughed in the hands in a single day (sublime genius!) I did not render as exactly as usual the startlingly shifty character of the individual. And I am wrong to blame the lack of time, for if I am not more satisfied it is due to the light, which changed several times, and also to those good convicts — I had a dozen of them behind my back the whole time. They took turns but there were always some, and it is irritating to feel eyes behind one. The excellent deputy warden, in whose office I was working, had placed chairs behind me — as in a theatre — for his friends who succeeded one another there all day long. And at every moment there was a knock at the door — prisoners, the well-behaved ones, the trusty prisoners who asked to come in and came in. The interpreter and Rosalie stayed there the whole time, and I learned in this way that a man who murdered his wife is to be publicly strangled next week. Then that there is a prisoner in there for having refused to salute a procession — and other astonishing things. Have you noticed that when one says, as I did just now — “and other astonishing things,” or “I’ll skip some, including the best ones,” or again “and what I have told you is nothing compared to the rest” —
it always means that one has skipped nothing, not even the worst; that one has told the strongest things and there is no rest — only that one wishes to outdo the truth. Very often, in speaking of a person, one cites what they have done worst, saying: here is something typical of them — judge then what the great sins are. But let us return to my convict: I had attributed to him the most enormous crimes, yet it seems all he did was pass counterfeit money.
But this idea of his relative innocence perhaps prevented me from giving him the criminal air he has. For he has a face capable of anything — so I shall construct a little story for him, which I shall bring out in Paris. The balcony window looked onto the courtyard, and all those poor devils watched with Spanish avidity — the model, the easel, the painter. When we came out they rushed forward like starving dogs, with grimaces, clasped hands, exclamations at the sight of their comrade’s portrait.
At the moment of crossing the threshold, the deputy warden was kind enough to show the canvas to the entire courtyard, which was straining on tiptoe; then he carried it to the chief and to the commander, who came down into the street to greet me in my carriage. Then the deputy warden still walking before the horses, we stopped in front of the house of another prison official who came to look. And after the commander and the deputy warden had renewed their assurances of receiving me again with pleasure, I at last departed to find my aunt, with whom we take a turn on the promenade.
I wrote in the corner of my canvas: Antonio Lopez (?) condemned to death 1881, October, for murder, theft, and counterfeiting. Poor man — but in any case I slander him under a pseudonym. His name may be Rodríguez or Pérez instead of López. I depicted him wearing his knitting; most of those agreeable citizens — that is to say, all those who are not occupied in the carpentry, joinery, shoemaking workshops etc. etc. — knit stockings like peaceful housewives.
The condemned man was walking about the courtyard as freely as those who are there for only a year or two, for trifles. Several of these gentlemen prefer home cooking to the cuisine of the establishment, and their gracious companions bring them delicious dinners, which Coco would certainly not want. Coco, nicknamed the assassin — no one ever knew why — who, whenever his colleagues behaved with me as Francis I did with Titian, leapt at them without barking, the better to bite.

Notes

The anecdote is usually told of the Emperor Charles V, who stooped to pick up a brush Titian had dropped; Marie gives it to Francis I. ↩