In Spite Of The Disinterestedness With Which I Began This Letter,
I Come Round, Almost Without Knowing How, To Beg You To Write To
Me.
Don't do more than you like; but in any case forgive me for
growing old and arriving at the point when noble recollections
grow in proportion as the narrowing meannesses of daily life find
their true level.
Yes, even if you thought me more of a fool than
formerly, it would be impossible for me to hold your friendship
cheap, or not to prize highly the fact that, somehow or other, it
has not come to be at variance nor entirely at an end.
As the exigencies of my profession will not allow me leisure to
return so soon to Paris, I shall probably not have the
opportunity of seeing you for two years. Towards the middle of
July I go to Bonn for the inauguration of the Beethoven Monument.
Were it not that a journey to the Rhine is so commonplace, I
should beg you to let me do the honors of the left and of the
right bank to you, as well as to Chopin (a little less badly than
I was able to do the honors of Geneva!). My mother and my
children are to join me at Cologne in five or six weeks, but I
cannot hope for such good luck as that we might meet in those
parts, although after your winters of work and fatigue a journey
of this kind would be a refreshing distraction for you both.
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