I am returning to my mother next Monday, dear master. I have little hope of seeing you before then!
But when you are in Paris, what is to prevent you from pushing on to Croisset where everyone, including myself, adores you? Sainte-Beuve has finally consented to see a specialist and to be seriously treated. And he is better anyway. His morale is improving.
Bouilhet’s position gives him four thousand francs a year and lodging. He now need not think of earning his living, which is a real luxury.
No one talks of the war any more, they don’t talk of anything.
The Exposition alone is what “everybody is thinking about,” and the cabmen exasperate the bourgeois.
They were beautiful (the bourgeois) during the strike of the tailors. One would have said that SOCIETY was going to pieces.
Axiom: Hatred of the bourgeois is the beginning of virtue. But I include in the word bourgeois, the bourgeois in blouses as well the bourgeois in coats.
It is we and we alone, that is to say the literary men, who are the people, or to say it better: the tradition of humanity.
Yes, I am susceptible to disinterested angers and I love you all the more for loving me for that. Stupidity and injustice make me roar — and I HOWL in my corner against a lot of things “that do not concern me.”
How sad it is not to live together, dear master, I admired you before I knew you. From the day I saw your lovely and kind face, I loved you. There you are. — And I embrace you warmly.
I shall have the package of pamphlets about faience sent to the rue des Feuillantines. A good handshake to Maurice. A kiss on the four cheeks of Mademoiselle Aurore.
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:54