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.