I have been here since Sunday evening, dear master, and no happier than at Croisset, even a little less so, for I am very idle. They make so much noise in the house where we are that it is impossible to work. Moreover, the sight of the bourgeois who surround us is unendurable. I am not made for travelling. The least inconvenience disturbs me. Your old troubadour is very old, decidedly! Doctor Lambron, the physician of this place, attributes my nervous tendencies to the excessive use of tobacco. To be agreeable I am going to smoke less; but I doubt very much if my virtue will cure me!
I have just read Dickens’s Pickwick. Do you know that? There are superb passages in it; but what defective composition! All English writers are the same; Walter Scott excepted, all lack a plot. That is unendurable for us Latins.
Mister —— is certainly nominated, as it seems. All the people who have had to do with the Odeon, beginning with you, dear master, will repent of the support that they have given him. As for me, who, thank Heaven, have no more connection with that establishment, I don’t give a whoop.
As I am going to begin a book which will exact much reading, and since I don’t want to ruin myself in books, do you know of any dealer in Paris who would rent me all the books that I designated?
What are you doing now? We saw each other so little and so inconveniently the last time.
This letter is stupid. But they are making such a noise over my head that it is not clear (my head).
In the midst of my bewilderment, I embrace you and yours also. Your old blockhead who loves you.
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:54