Monday, 11 a.m., Sept. 28.
Livy darling, I didn't write yesterday. We left La Voulte in a driving
storm of cold rain--couldn't write in it--and at 1 p. m. when we were
not thinking of stopping, we saw a picturesque and mighty ruin on a high
hill back of a village, and I was seized with a desire to explore it;
so we landed at once and set out with rubbers and umbrella, sending the
boat ahead to St. Andeol, and we spent 3 hours clambering about those
cloudy heights among those worn and vast and idiotic ruins of a castle
built by two crusaders 650 years ago. The work of these asses was
full of interest, and we had a good time inspecting, examining and
scrutinizing it. All the hills on both sides of the Rhone have peaks and
precipices, and each has its gray and wasted pile of mouldy walls and
broken towers. The Romans displaced the Gauls, the Visigoths displaced
the Romans, the Saracens displaced the Visigoths, the Christians
displaced the Saracens, and it was these pious animals who built these
strange lairs and cut each other's throats in the name and for the glory
of God, and robbed and burned and slew in peace and war; and the pauper
and the slave built churches, and the credit of it went to the Bishop
who racked the money out of them. These are pathetic shores, and they
make one despise the human race.
We came down in an hour by rail, but I couldn't get your telegram till
this morning, for it was Sunday and they had shut up the post office
to go to the circus. I went, too. It was all one family--parents and
5 children--performing in the open air to 200 of these enchanted
villagers, who contributed coppers when called on. It was a most gay and
strange and pathetic show. I got up at 7 this morning to see the poor
devils cook their poor breakfast and pack up their sordid fineries.
This is a 9 k-m. current and the wind is with us; we shall make Avignon
before 4 o'clock. I saw watermelons and pomegranates for sale at St.
Andeol.
With a power of love, Sweetheart,
SAML.