You have now, dearest friend, an approximate view of my life and work.  That I should be happy you can scarcely expect, but I feel the calm of the fatalist who surrenders himself to his fate, astonished perhaps a little at the often curious manner in which it disposes of me and leads me into unexpected paths, and saying to myself:  “So it was to be.”

With real horror I think of Germany and of my future enterprises in that country.  God forgive me, but I discover nothing but mean and miserable things, conceit and a pretence of solid work without any real foundation; half-heartedness in everything.  After all I prefer to see “Le Pardon de Ploermel” in Paris than under the shadow of the famous, glorious German oak tree.  I must also confess to you that my treading once more German soil did not produce the slightest impression upon me, except in so far as I was astonished at the insipidity and impertinence of the language I had to listen to.  Believe me, we have no Fatherland, and if I am “German” it is because I carry my Germany along with me.  This is fortunate, because the Mayence garrison has certainly not inspired me with enthusiasm.

X. seems to be angry with me; I at last got annoyed with him because his optimism irritated me.

I cannot understand a good many things, and allowance ought to be made for me on account of my curious life.  X., it seems to me, fritters himself away; he undertakes too much, and by that means loses the compact, concentric quality which a true man needs.  I cannot look on without being painfully affected.  On the other hand, I am, no doubt, very wrong in not accepting so true a friend as he is; and I have much reason to acknowledge X.’s friendship.  He must not be angry with me and do as he likes; but he should be sometimes a little more punctual with his letters.

Believe me, that in spite of my Paris surroundings I feel awfully lonely, while of you I can never think except as of some one who is surrounded by people, even at Weimar.  Perhaps I have a good many erroneous notions in that respect; at least Madame Street gave me to understand as much when she described her visit to you.  She said that you had been very sad, although in very good health.  Well, I certainly cannot see why you should be particularly joyous; at the same time this news has struck me very much, and Madame W., to whom I spoke about it, was quite frightened.  There is something about you which causes you to appear surrounded by splendour and light, and makes it difficult for us to understand what could make you sad.  Least of all am I inclined to discover the cause of your irritation in the stupid reception which your works have met with now and then, for it seems to me that no one ought to know better than you that this animosity is caused not by your works, but by the false light in which you appear to the multitude.  That light which reveals you as so exceptional a phenomenon, that a misconception of it is only too easily accounted