Essays; Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894 -- Travel
From time to time a market is held, and the town has a season of revival;
cattle and pigs are stabled in the streets; and pickpockets have been
known to come all the way from Lyons for the occasion. Every Sunday the
country folk throng in with daylight to buy apples, to attend mass, and
to visit one of the wine-shops, of which there are no fewer than fifty in
this little town. Sunday wear for the men is a green tailcoat of some
coarse sort of drugget, and usually a complete suit to match. I have
never set eyes on such degrading raiment. Here it clings, there bulges;
and the human body, with its agreeable and lively lines, is turned into a
mockery and laughing-stock. Another piece of Sunday business with the
peasants is to take their ailments to the chemist for advice. It is as
much a matter for Sunday as church-going. I have seen a woman who had
been unable to speak since the Monday before, wheezing, catching her
breath, endlessly and painfully coughing; and yet she had waited upwards
of a hundred hours before coming to seek help, and had the week been
twice as long, she would have waited still. There was a canonical day
for consultation; such was the ancestral habit, to which a respectable
lady must study to conform.
Two conveyances go daily to Le Puy, but they rival each other in polite
concessions rather than in speed. Each will wait an hour or two hours
cheerfully while an old lady does her marketing or a gentleman finishes
the papers in a café. The _Courrier_ (such is the name of one) should
leave Le Puy by two in the afternoon and arrive at Monastier in good on
the return voyage, and arrive at Monastier in good time for a six-o’clock
dinner. But the driver dares not disoblige his customers. He will
postpone his departure again and again, hour after hour; and I have known
the sun to go down on his delay. These purely personal favours, this
consideration of men’s fancies, rather than the hands of a mechanical
clock, as marking the advance of the abstraction, time, makes a more
humorous business of stage-coaching than we are used to see it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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