Don’t be worried about me, my Polycarp. I have nothing serious, a little grippe, and this right arm which hardly moves but which electricity will cure. One thinks that it is an effort.
I am much more worried about you, although you are ten times as strong as I am, but your morale is affected whereas mine takes what comes, in a cowardly way, if you like, but there is perhaps a philosophy in knowing how to be cowardly rather than angry.
Do write to me, tell me that you are going out of doors, that you are walking, that you are better. — I have finished going over the proofs of Flamarande. That is the most boring part of the task.
I shall send you the book when it is published. I know that you do not like to read bit by bit.
I am a little tired; however, I want to begin something else. Since it is not warm enough to go out, I get bored with not having anything on the stocks. Everything is going well in the nest, except for a few colds. Spring is so peevish this year! At last the pale sun will become the dear Phoebus-Appolo with the shining hair, and all will go well.
Aurore is getting so big that one is surprised to hear her laugh and play like a child, always good, and tender, the other is always very funny and facetious.
Tell us of yourself and always love us as we love you.
Your old troubadour
Last updated Monday, December 22, 2014 at 10:50