a chromo. For a long, long while, I always seemed to see that picture
hanging in all its variety of colour on the wall before me at night. For
months and months after my vigil with the body of the man who had been
garroted outside of Pamplona, I never entered a dark room but that his
image rose up before me in all its gruesome details. I also passed
through a period of disagreeable dreams. Some time would elapse after I
awoke before I was able to tell where I was, and I was frightened by it.




SARASATE


It was my opinion then, and still is, that a fiesta at Pamplona is among
the most vapid things in the world.

There was a mixture of incomprehension and culture in Pamplona, that was
truly ridiculous. The people would devote several days to going to bull
fights, and then turn about, when evening came, and welcome Sarasate
with Greek fire.

A rude and fanatical populace forgot its orgy of blood to acclaim a
violinist. And what a violinist! He was one of the most effeminate and
grotesque individuals in the world. I can see him yet, strutting along
with his long hair, his ample rear, and his shoes with their little
quarter-heels, which gave him the appearance of a fat cook dressed up in
men's clothes for Carnival.

When Sarasate died he left a number of trinkets which had been presented