When Stevenson a few days later came to London, it was before the
physicians and not the lawyers that he must present himself; and the
result of an examination by Sir Andrew Clark was his prompt and
peremptory despatch to Mentone for a winter's rest and sunshine at a
distance from all causes of mental agitation. This episode of his
life gave occasion to the essay _Ordered South_, the only one of his
writings in which he took the invalid point of view or allowed his
health troubles in any degree to colour his work. Travelling south by
slow stages, he wrote on the way a long diary-letter from which
extracts follow:--
_Avignon [November 1873]._
I have just read your letter upon the top of the hill beside the church
and castle. The whole air was filled with sunset and the sound of bells;
and I wish I could give you the least notion of the _southernness_ and
_Provencality_ of all that I saw.
I cannot write while I am travelling; _c'est un defaut_; but so it is. I
must have a certain feeling of being at home, and my head must have time
to settle. The new images oppress me, and I have a fever of restlessness
on me. You must not be disappointed at such shabby letters; and besides,
remember my poor head and the fanciful crawling in the spine.
I am back again in the stage of thinking there is nothing the matter
with me, which is a good sign; but I am wretchedly nervous. Anything
like rudeness I am simply babyishly afraid of; and noises, and
especially the sounds of certain voices, are the devil to me. A blind
poet whom I found selling his immortal works in the streets of Sens,
captivated me with the remarkable equable strength and sweetness of his
voice; and I listened a long while and bought some of the poems; and now
this voice, after I had thus got it thoroughly into my head, proved
false metal and a really bad and horrible voice at bottom. It haunted me
some time, but I think I am done with it now.
I hope you don't dislike reading bad style like this as much as I do
writing it: it hurts me when neither words nor clauses fall into their
places, much as it would hurt you to sing when you had a bad cold and
your voice deceived you and missed every other note. I do feel so
inclined to break the pen and write no more; and here _apropos_ begins
my back.
_After dinner._--It blows to-night from the north down the valley of the
Rhone, and everything is so cold that I have been obliged to indulge in
a fire. There is a fine crackle and roar of burning wood in the chimney
which is very homely and companionable, though it does seem to postulate
a town all white with snow outside.
I have bought Sainte-Beuve's Chateaubriand and am immensely delighted
with the critic. Chateaubriand is more antipathetic to me than anyone
else in the world.
I begin to wish myself arrived to-night. Travelling, when one is not
quite well, has a good deal of unpleasantness. One is easily upset by
cross incidents, and wants that _belle humeur_ and spirit of adventure
that makes a pleasure out of what is unpleasant.
_Tuesday, November 11th._--There! There's a date for you. I shall be in
Mentone for my birthday, with plenty of nice letters to read. I went
away across the Rhone and up the hill on the other side that I might see
the town from a distance. Avignon followed me with its bells and drums
and bugles; for the old city has no equal for multitude of such noises.
Crossing the bridge and seeing the brown turbid water foam and eddy
about the piers, one could scarce believe one's eyes when one looked
down upon the stream and saw the smooth blue mirroring tree and hill.
Over on the other side, the sun beat down so furiously on the white road
that I was glad to keep in the shadow and, when the occasion offered, to
turn aside among the olive-yards. It was nine years and six months since
I had been in an olive-yard. I found myself much changed, not so gay,
but wiser and more happy. I read your letter again, and sat awhile
looking down over the tawny plain and at the fantastic outline of the
city. The hills seemed just fainting into the sky; even the great peak
above Carpentras (Lord knows how many metres above the sea) seemed
unsubstantial and thin in the breadth and potency of the sunshine.
I should like to stay longer here but I can't. I am driven forward by
restlessness, and leave this afternoon about two. I am just going out
now to visit again the church, castle, and hill, for the sake of the
magnificent panorama, and besides, because it is the friendliest spot in
all Avignon to me.
_Later._--You cannot picture to yourself anything more steeped in hard
bright sunshine than the view from the hill. The immovable inky shadow
of the old bridge on the fleeting surface of the yellow river seemed
more solid than the bridge itself. Just in the place where I sat
yesterday evening a shaven man in a velvet cap was studying
music--evidently one of the singers for _La Muette de Portici_ at the
theatre to-night. I turned back as I went away: the white Christ stood
out in strong relief on his brown cross against the blue sky, and the
four kneeling angels and lanterns grouped themselves about the foot with
a symmetry that was almost laughable; the musician read on at his music,
and counted time with his hand on the stone step.
_Menton, November 12th._--My first enthusiasm was on rising at Orange
and throwing open the shutters. Such a great living flood of sunshine
poured in upon me, that I confess to having danced and expressed my
satisfaction aloud; in the middle of which the boots came to the door
with hot water, to my great confusion.
To-day has been one long delight, coming to a magnificent climax on my
arrival here. I gave up my baggage to an hotel porter and set off to
walk at once. I was somewhat confused as yet as to my directions, for
the station of course was new to me, and the hills had not sufficiently
opened out to let me recognise the peaks. Suddenly, as I was going
forward slowly in this confusion of mind, I was met by a great volley of
odours out of the lemon and orange gardens, and the past linked on to
the present, and in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the whole
scene fell before me into order, and I was at home. I nearly danced
again.
I suppose I must send off this to-night to notify my arrival in safety
and good-humour and, I think, in good health, before relapsing into the
old weekly vein. I hope this time to send you a weekly dose of sunshine
from the south, instead of the jet of _snell_ Edinburgh east wind that
used to was.--Ever your faithful friend,