Your poor old troubadour, just getting well from a cruel attack of
rheumatism, during which he could not lie down, nor eat, nor dress
without aid, is at last up again. He suffered liver trouble,
jaundice, rash, fever, in short he was fit to be thrown out on a
pile of rubbish.
Here he is up again, very feeble, but able to write a few lines and
to say with you AMEN to the buried catholic dictatorships; it is not
even Catholics that they should be called, those people are not.
They are only clericals.
I note today in the papers that they have played l'Oncle Sam. I hear
that it is bad, but it may very well be a success all the same. I
think that your play is surely postponed and Carvalho seems as
capricious too, to me, as hard to put your finger on as other
theatrical managers.
All Nohant embraces you and I embrace you even more, but I cannot
write any more.