You do not currently have permission to view the full text for this document. Please sign in to an account with an active subscription or contact support.
Paris
November 8, 1885
My beloved darling
Dimly aware that I have not written to you for ages and reminded by a card from you that by now you may have once more
got used to Mama and would like to hear from me, I am writing to you again. All kinds of minor things have happened, but the most important fact for me is that my work is now proceeding smoothly and I am just reaching the proper pitch of enthusiasm, which is another reason why I haven't written. But I haven't made any discoveries as yet.
Yesterday my failure to write had another cause. My head was reeling; I had been to the Porte St. Martin theater to see Sarah Bernhardt.1 I am still rather tired and ravaged by the heat and the blood-&-thunder melodrama, which lasted from 8 to 12:30, but it was worth it. How shall I begin to tell you about it? I am so clumsy today at arranging things. First the minor details. We (I was with one of my Russians) paid four francs and for this were given seats in the stalles d'orchestre, which I suggest should be translated simply as the orchestra stable. One could see and hear perfectly, but I think I will have more room and be more comfortable in my grave; at least I will be stretched out. The play started at 8 P.M., had five acts or eight scenes (Theodora, of course); after the first act the excruciating heat gradually increased until toward the end it was neither describable nor bearable. And on top of that the wretched megalomania of the French for insisting on 4 1/2 hours of theater as they do on five- or six-course meals. To enjoy one's way through something quickly, allowing interest to help conquer fatigue, is too plebeian for them; so they prolong a 2 1/2-hour play by two hours of entr'acte during which one can, it's true, go out into the beautiful evening and drink beer, smoke a cigar and eat oranges; but if one returns too early (as one invariably does), one suffers the ghastly tortures of anticipation in the oven. I really cannot praise the play, Victorien Sardou's2 The