The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 21Stevenson, Robert Louis
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The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 21
Stevenson, Robert Louis
English literature -- 19th century
I had been about ten days in the residencia, when there sprang up a high
and harsh wind, carrying clouds of dust. It came out of malarious
lowlands, and over several snowy sierras. The nerves of those on whom it
blew were strung and jangled; their eyes smarted with the dust; their
legs ached under the burthen of their body; and the touch of one hand
upon another grew to be odious. The wind, besides, came down the gullies
of the hills and stormed about the house with a great, hollow buzzing
and whistling that was wearisome to the ear and dismally depressing to
the mind. It did not so much blow in gusts as with the steady sweep of a
waterfall, so that there was no remission of discomfort while it blew.
But higher up on the mountain it was probably of a more variable
strength, with accesses of fury; for there came down at times a far-off
wailing, infinitely grievous to hear; and at times, on one of the high
shelves or terraces, there would start up, and then disperse, a tower of
dust, like the smoke of an explosion.
I no sooner awoke in bed than I was conscious of the nervous tension and
depression of the weather, and the effect grew stronger as the day
proceeded. It was in vain that I resisted; in vain that I set forth upon
my customary morning's walk; the irrational, unchanging fury of the
storm had soon beat down my strength and wrecked my temper; and I
returned to the residencia, glowing with dry heat, and foul and gritty
with dust. The court had a forlorn appearance; now and then a glimmer of
sun fled over it; now and then the wind swooped down upon the
pomegranates, and scattered the blossoms, and set the window shutter
clapping on the wall. In the recess the Senora was pacing to and fro
with a flushed countenance and bright eyes; I thought, too, she was
speaking to herself, like one in anger. But when I addressed her with my
customary salutation, she only replied by a sharp gesture and continued
her walk. The weather had distempered even this impassive creature; and
as I went on upstairs I was the less ashamed of my own discomposure.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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