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
to him during his artistic career--mostly match-boxes, cigarette cases,
and the like--which the Town Council of Pamplona has assembled and now
exhibits in glass cases, but which, in the public interest, should be
promptly disposed of at auction.