Dear Natalie!--Owing to business affairs which will claim me still
longer, it will be impossible for me to come to Trouville before the
beginning of September. I am very sorry, but I hope and wish that you
will not, on this account, put off your journey to the sea-shore; you
know how you need the stay in the bracing air. I have engaged a
residence for you through Madame de C., and also had everything
arranged for your comfortable reception--a low chalet with a look-out
over the sea. I know how you love it,--the poor wild sea, that cannot
help it if it sometimes crushes a ship, and that finds no rest from
despair over the evil which it does and cannot prevent.
You must not take any sea-baths; Dr. H. suitably impressed that upon me
in the spring. But in any case, wait until I come.
From my great, clever boy I often receive long, pretty, regularly
written letters which please me very much. I will show them to you when
we are together again. The boy is romantic, through and through, which
touches me in these our present times, and also a little of a pedant,
which makes me impatient, but still, he is a dear, splendid fellow, and
that you must tell him from me.
The little note, which I recently received from Maschenka, was
laughably comic, and sweet enough to eat. The little witch wrote me
quite secretly, without telling you anything about it. She confessed
all her naughtinesses to me very remorsefully and over hurriedly, from
anxiety that you might write something about them to me. Is she really
so naughty, and passionate, and wild? She is still charming in spite of
all, so thoroughly good-hearted and tender and generous, and withal so
incredibly gifted. I tell you her little note--it was adorned with
three ink spots, and I could not read a word of the writing--but still
it was a little poem.
And how she loves you! Just as she is, I find her charming enough to
make one lose one's head over her; and I am very sorry that one must
cure her of her amusing little faults; they are so becoming to her.
That you must naturally not tell her from me, but give her a very warm
kiss from me on her full, defiant lips, of which you always assert that
they are like mine. Do not vex yourself too much over it,--rejoice in
our little gypsy as she is. And if you again worry over her inherited
good-for-nothingness, then look in her wonderfully beautiful, large
eyes, which she did not inherit from me. You will find your soul in
them--let that be your consolation. Farewell, my angel, spare yourself
really--really! Only do not think of saving at all on the journey. You
know that I cannot bear that. Think only of your comfort and of what a
joy it would be to me if, at our next meeting, I should find your poor
thin cheeks somewhat rounder than when I left you.