Palma, 28 Dec 1838
Imagine me, between rocks and sea, in a cell in an
immense, deserted monastery, it's doors bigger than the
coach entrance to any Paris mansion. Here I am with my
hair uncurled, no white gloves, and as pale as usual. My
cell, shaped like a great coffin, has a vast and dusty arched
ceiling, and a little window looking to the garden with its
orange trees, palms and cypresses. Opposite the window,
below a rosette in the lacy Moorish style, is a camp-bed.
Beside the bed is an old untouchable, a kind of square
desk, on which stands a wax candle...on the same desk,
Bach, my scribbles, and other papers, not mine...(....and
the orange trees, palms and cypresses...) Silence... If
you shout...silence again... In short I am writing from a
very strange place...