CCLIX. TO GEORGE SAND
Thursday
Why do you leave me so long without any news of yourself, dear good master? I am cross with you, there!
I am all through with the dramatic art. Carvalho came here last Saturday to hear the reading of le Sexe faible, and seemed to me to be satisfied with it. He thinks it will be a success. But I put so little confidence in the intelligence of all those rascals, that for my part, I doubt it.
I am exhausted, and I am now sleeping ten hours a night, not to mention two hours a day. That is resting my poor brain.
I am going to resume my readings for my wretched book, which I shall not begin for a full year.
Do you know where the great Tourgueneff is now?
A thousand affectionate greetings to all and to you the best of everything from your old friend.
CCLX. TO GEORGE SAND
Sunday …
I am not like M. de Vigny, I do not like the "sound of the horn in the depth of the woods." For the last two hours now an imbecile stationed on the island in front of me has been murdering me with his instrument. That wretched creature spoils my sunlight and deprives me of the pleasure of enjoying the summer. For it is lovely weather, but I am bursting with anger. I should like, however, to talk a bit with you, dear master.
In the first place, congratulations on your seventieth year, which seems more robust to me than the twentieth of a good many others! What a Herculean constitution you have! Bathing in an icy stream is a proof of strength that bewilders me, and is a mark of a "reserve force" that is reassuring to your friends. May you live long. Take care of yourself for your dear grandchildren, for the good Maurice, for me too, for all the world, and I should add: for literature, if I were not afraid of your superb disdain.