Dear master,
You really ought to go to see the sun somewhere; it is foolish to be
always suffering; do travel; rest; resignation is the worst of the
virtues.
I have need of it in order to endure all the stupidities that I
hear! You can not imagine to what a degree they have reached. France
which has been sometimes taken with St. Vitus dance (as under
Charles VI), seems to me now to have a paralysis of the brain. They
are mad with fear. Fear of the Prussians, fear of the strikes, fear
of the Exposition which does not go well, fear of everything. We
have to go back to 1849 to find such a degree of imbecility.
There was at the last Magny such inane conversation that I swore to
myself never to put foot inside the place again. The only subjects
under discussion all the time were Bismarck and the Luxembourg. I
was stuffed with it! For the rest I don't find it easy to live. Far
from becoming blunted my sensibilities are sharper; a lot of
insignificant things make me suffer. Pardon this weakness, you who
are so strong and tolerant.
The novel does not go at all well. I am deep in reading the
newspapers of '48. I have had to make several (and have not yet
finished) journeys to Sevres, to Creil, etc.
Father Sainte-Beuve is preparing a discourse on free thought which
he will read at the Senate a propos of the press law. He has been
very shrewd, you know.
You tell your son Maurice that I love him very much, first because
he is your son and secundo because he is he. I find him good,
clever, cultivated, not a poseur, in short charming, and "with
talent."
L. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
Nohant, 4 March, 1867
Dear good friend, the friend of my heart, the old troubadour is as
well as ten thousand men--who are well, and he is gay as a finch,
because the sun shines again and copy is progressing.
He will probably go to Paris soon for the play by his son Dumas, let
us try to be there together.
Maurice is very proud to be declared COCK by an eagle. At this
moment he is having a spree with veal and wine in honor of his
firemen.
The AMERICAN [Footnote: Henry Harrisse.] in question is charming. He
has, literally speaking, a passion for you, and he writes me that
after seeing you he loves you more, that does not surprise me.
Poor Bouilhet! Give him this little note enclosed here. I share his
sorrow, I knew her.
Are you amused in Paris? Are you as sedentary there as at Croisset?
In that case I shall hardly see you unless I go to see you.
Tell me the hours when you do not receive the fair sex, and when
sexagenarian troubadours do not incommode you.
Cadio is entirely redone and rewritten up to the part I read to you,
it is less offensive.
I am not doing Montreveche. I will tell you about that. It is quite
a story. I love you and I embrace you with all my heart.