“You shall have a stitched copy of my Mémoires as soon as I get one, but I must have your solemn promise not to let it out of your own hands, and to return it when you have read it.”
To M. and Mme Damcke.[32]
“Hôtel de la Métropole, Geneva, 22nd August 1865.—Dear Friends,—I only write lest you should think yourselves forgotten. You know I do not easily forget, and, if I did, I could never lose remembrance of such friends as you.
“I am strangely and indescribably agitated here.
“Sometimes quite calm, at others full of uneasiness—even pain. I was most cordially welcomed. They like me to be with them, and chide me when I keep away.
“I stay there sometimes four hours at a time. We go long walks beside the lake. Yesterday we took a drive, but I am never alone with her, so can speak only of outward things, and I feel that the oppression of my heart will kill me.
“What can I do? I am unjust, stupid, unreasonable.
“They have all read the Mémoires. She reproached me mildly for publishing her letters, but her daughter-in-law said I was quite right, and I believe she was not really vexed.
“Already I dread the moment of departure. It is charming country, and the lake is most beautiful, pure and deep; yet I know something deeper, purer, and yet more beautiful....
“Adieu, dear friends.”