Embrace Johnnie, and tell him to write.

  [5.]

Thanks for all the commissions you have executed so well.  To- day, that is on the 9th, I received the piano and the other things.  Do not send my little bust to Warsaw, it would frighten them, leave it in the press.  Kiss Johnnie for his letter.  I shall write him a few lines shortly.

To-morrow I shall very likely send back my old servant, who loses his wits here.  He is an honest man and knows how to serve, but he is tiresome, and makes one lose one’s patience.  I shall send him back, telling him to wait for me in Paris.  If he appears at the house, do not be frightened.

  Latterly the weather has been only so-so.

The man in Chateauroux was waiting three days for the piano; yesterday, after receiving your letter, I gave orders that he should be recalled.  To-day I do not yet know what kind of tone the piano has, as it is not yet unpacked; this great event is to take place to-morrow.  As to the delay and misunderstanding in sending it, do not make any inquiries; let the matter rest, it is not worth a quarrel.  You did the best you could.  A little ill-humour and a few days lost in expectation are not worth a pinch of snuff.  Forget, therefore, my commissions and your transaction; next time, if God permits us to live, matters will turn out better.

I write you these few words late at night.  Once more I thank you, most obliging of men, for the commissions, which are not yet ended, for now comes the turn of the Troupenas business, which will hang on your shoulders.  I shall write to you on this subject more fully some other time, and to-day I wish you good night.  But don’t have dreams like Johnnie—­that I died; but rather dream that I am about to be born, or something of the sort.

In fact, I am feeling now as calm and serene as a baby in swaddling-clothes; and if somebody wished to put me in leading- strings, I should be very glad—­nota bene, with a cap thickly lined with wadding on my head, for I feel that at every moment I should stumble and turn upside down.  Unfortunately, instead of leading-strings there are probably awaiting me crutches, if I approach old age with my present step.  I once dreamt that I was dying in a hospital, and this is so strongly rooted in my mind that I cannot forget it—­it is as if I had dreamt it yesterday.  If you survive me, you will learn whether we may believe in dreams.

  And now I often dream with my eyes open what may be said to
  have neither rhyme nor reason in it.

  That is why I write you such a foolish letter, is it?

  Send me soon a letter from my people, and love your old

  Frederick.

  [6.] Nohant [1841].

  Thanks for your very kind letter.  Unseal all you judge
  necessary.

  Do not give the manuscripts to Troupenas till Schubert has
  informed you of the day of publication.  The answer will very
  likely come soon through Leo.