“Ah, if one only plays the piano!”
“28th October 1861.—Dear Louis,—Did I not know what a terrible effect disappointment has on even the best characters, I should really feel inclined to let you have some home truths. You have wounded me mortally with a deliberate calmness that shows you were master of your language. But I can forgive, for you are not a bad son after all.
“You go too far. Is it my fault that I am not rich, that I could not let you live idly in Paris with a wife and children? Is there a shadow of justice in reproaching me as you do? For nearly three months you keep silence, then comes this ironical letter! My poor dear boy, it is not right.
“Don’t worry about your debt to the tailor; send me the bill and I will pay him.
“You ask me to beg a post for you. From whom? You know there never was a more awkward man than I at asking favours.
“Good-bye, dear son, dear friend, dear unlucky boy—unlucky by your own fault, not by mine.”
“17th June 1862.—You have received my letter and telegram,[27] but I write to ask whether you can come to me in Baden on the 6th or 7th August, as I know you would enjoy hearing the last rehearsals and first performance of my opera. In my leisure moments you would be my companion, you would see my friends, we should be together.
“Could you leave your ship so near its date for sailing?
“I am not sure how much money I can send you. The expenses of that sad ceremony—the transference from St Germain—will be great.
“I am rather afraid, too, of trusting you in a gambling town, but if you will give me your word of honour not to stake a single florin I will trust you.