AVIGNON, _September 29_.
I have not heard from you for many days, and it has been almost as long
a time since I have written to you. But I have a good excuse. The
business in which I am engaged is extremely fatiguing. All day I must
walk or drive, and at night, no matter how tired, I must despatch a
dozen pages of prose. I speak of commonplace writing only, for, from
time to time, I have some extraordinary piece of work to do for my
minister. But, since those things are never read, I can safely indulge
in all manner of nonsense.
The country that I am exploring is charming, but the people are stupid
to the last degree. No one ever opens his mouth that he does not sound
his own praises, from the man who wears a frockcoat to the porter. There
is no sign here of the tact which distinguishes the gentleman, and
which it gave me so much pleasure to discover among the common people of
Spain.
Except for this, it is impossible to find a country more like Spain. The
general aspect of the landscape and of the town is the same. The workmen
lie down in the shade and wrap themselves in their cloaks with an air as
tragic as that of the Andalusians. Everywhere the odour of garlic and
oil is mingled with that of oranges and jessamine. The streets are
protected by canvas during the day, and the women have small, well-shod
feet. Even the patois has in it a suggestion of the Spanish accent. Late
in the season as it is, there is still a tremendous buzzing of gnats,
fleas, and bugs, which are fatal to sleep. I must endure this life for
two months still before looking on human beings again! I am thinking
constantly of my return to Paris, and in imagination I enjoy no end of
delicious moments spent with you. Perhaps the very best thing for which
I long is to see you coming in the distance, and to win from you a
little nod in token of recognition....
You ask me for a drawing of a Roman capital. I have not a single one
left. I have sent all my sketches to Paris. Besides, you would find a
capital very uninteresting. The decoration consists of either devils, or
dragons, or saints. The devils belonging to the early period of
Christianity have in them nothing attractive. As for the dragons and the
saints, I am sure you have very slight regard for them.
I have begun to draw for you a Maçonese costume. It is the only one that
I have seen which possesses any grace. Even the girdle is arranged so
oddly that the most slender waist could not be distinguished from the
stoutest. One must have a special kind of physical organism to wear such
a costume. The cheapness of cotton-stuffs, and the ease of communication
with Paris, have caused the national costumes to fall into disuse.
I gave myself a sort of sprain last night. I am writing now with one
foot stretched on a chair, in a state of impatience difficult to
describe. When will the swelling leave my foot? That is the question. If
I were obliged to spend five or six days more in this position I do not
know what would become of me. I believe I should prefer to be seriously
ill rather than to be tied down as I am by such a trifling thing. At the
same time, this causes me no little pain.
Avignon is full of churches and palaces, all surmounted by high towers,
with machicolated battlements. The great Palace of the Popes is an
example of Middle-Age fortifications. It shows the friendly security
that reigned in this land about the thirteenth or fourteenth century. In
the Palace of the Popes you ascend a hundred steps of a winding stairway
and then find yourself suddenly facing a wall. Turning your head, you
see, fifteen feet above you, the continuation of the stairway, which can
only be reached by means of a ladder. There are, also, subterranean
chambers, which were used during the Inquisition. You are shown furnaces
where the irons were heated to torture the heretics, and the remains of
a complicated instrument, also used for torture. The inhabitants of
Avignon are as proud of their Inquisition as the English are of their
Magna Charta. “We,” they say, “invented the _auto-da-fé_, the Spaniards
only imitated us!”
At Vienna a few days ago I saw an antique statue which overthrew all my
previous opinions concerning Roman statuary. I had always seen the
conventional ideal of beauty exert its influence on the imitation of
nature. In this instance it was altogether different. The statue
represents a huge, fat woman, with enormous hanging throat, and folds of
fat covering her ribs, just as Rubens painted his nymphs. It is all
portrayed with a fidelity to nature amazing to see. What would the
gentlemen of the Academy say to it?
Good-bye. It is time for the post to leave. Write to me at Montpellier,
and again at Carcassonne. I hope it will not be long before I shall go
to find your letter, which always makes me happy.
Good-bye once more.