Your old troubadour is again prostrate. Every moment his guitar threatens to be broken. And then he sleeps forty-eight hours and is cured — but feeble, and he can not be in Paris on the 16th as he had intended. Maurice went alone a little while ago, I shall go to join him in five or six days.
Little Aurore consoles me for this mischance. She twitters like a bird along with the birds who are twittering already as in full spring time.
The anemone Sylvia which I brought from the woods into the garden and which I had a great deal of trouble in acclimating is finally growing thousands of white and pink stars among the blue periwinkle. It is warm and damp. One can not break one’s guitar in weather like this. Good-bye, dear good friend.
Last updated Monday, December 22, 2014 at 10:50