It is in order not to bore you with my complaints that I write so rarely to you now, for no one has a livelier sense than I of my unbearableness.
Send me Flamarande; that will give me a little air.
I embrace you all, and especially you, dear master, so great, so strong, and so gentle. Your Cruchard, who is more and more cracked, if cracked is the right word, for I perceive that the contents are escaping.
CCLXXXVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT 20th February
Then you are quite ill, dear old fellow? I am not worried about it, since it concerns only nerves and rheumatisms, and I have lived seventy years with all that nuisance in my body, and I am still healthy. But I am sad to know that you are bored, suffering, and your spirit turned to darkness as it necessarily is when one is ill.
I was sure that a moment would come when someone would prescribe walking to you. All your illness comes from the lack of exercise, a man of your strength and your complexion ought to have lived an athletic life.
Don't sulk then about the very wise order that condemns you to an hour's walk each day.
You fancy that the work of the spirit is only in the brain, you are very much mistaken, it is also in the legs.
Tell me that two weeks of this regime has cured you. It will happen,
I am sure of it.
I love you, and I embrace you, as does every one of my brood.