n'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,