Bordeaux, 6th October, 1864.
Excuse this scrawl, but I have no paper at hand, and only wish to apprise you that I have reached this place safely. It seems almost like a dream to be here again. Yesterday morning I started from Baden, slept very well at Paris, set out this morning about eleven, and now at eleven P.M. am here. I think of leaving for Bayonne to-morrow morning at eight, to reach Biarritz by two. In Paris it was still cold; in Baden yesterday there was an early frost; on this side of the Loire things grew better; here it is decidedly warm—warmer than any night this year. I am, in fact, already quite well, and would be quite cheerful if I only knew that all was well with you. At Paris I felt very much inclined to live there again; he had arranged the house there very well, and the life I lead in Berlin is a kind of penal servitude when I think of my independent life abroad. If it agree with me, I think I shall take about fifteen baths, so that on the 21st or 22d I shall set out on my return journey; if God wills, you will then be—or perhaps somewhat earlier—at Berlin. In his care, Engel has locked me in; there is no bell, and this letter will lose a day, as it can not be sent to the post to-night. It is so warm that I have the window open.
Biarritz, 9th October, 1864.
When I remember how assiduously we lighted fires in Baden, and even in Paris, and that here the sun graciously requests me to take off my paletot and drawers, that we sat till ten by the sea in the moonlight, and this morning breakfast in the open air, and that I am writing to you at the open window, looking at the blue and sunny sea, and on bathing folks who are wandering about in very slight costumes, paddling with naked feet in the water, I can not help saying that southern nations possess a peculiar grace of God in their climate. I shall not yet bathe more than once, but shall soon venture upon two, if not, à la ——, upon more. The only comfort I require is to hear from you. If we were free people, I should propose to you to come with child and baggage to this place, and remain here the whole winter, as many of the English do, from reasons of economy, which prevails here in the winter season.
Biarritz, 12th October, 1864.
My dear Sister,—I am so delightfully disengaged that I can send a few lines in the direction of my thoughts! I am well, particularly since I have yesterday and to-day at last received news of Johanna’s gradual recovery. I reached here on the forenoon of the 7th—in Paris we still had fires, from Bordeaux an agreeable temperature, and here heat so that summer clothing was necessary. Since yesterday there has been a north wind, and it is cooler, but still warmer than I have felt it all the summer. A very light summer coat was too hot for me on my evening’s walk by the shore. Until now I have taken seven baths, and now proceed with two per diem. I am writing to you by the open window, with flickering lights, and the moonlit sea before me, the plash of which is accompanied by the carriage bells on the road to Bayonne. The lighthouse in front of me changes its light from red to white, and I am looking with some appetite at the clock, to see whether the dinner hour of seven has not arrived. I have not for a long time found myself in such comfortable climatic and business conditions, and yet the evil habit of work has rooted itself so deeply in my nature that I feel some disquiet of conscience at my laziness—almost long for the Wilhelm Strasse, at least if my dear ones were there. “Monsieur, le diner est servi,” is the announcement.
The 13th.—I could not yesterday write any further. After dinner we took a moonlight walk on the southern shore, from which we returned, very tired, at about eleven o’clock. I slept till nine; about ten bathed in water of 14° warmer[50] than ever I had found the North Sea in August; and now we are going together to Fuent Arabia, beyond the frontier; shall dine on our way back at St. Jean de Luz. The weather is heavenly to-day, the sea quiet and blue; it is almost too hot to walk in the sun.
