LENARDO TO HIS AUNT.
“At last, dear aunt, you receive, after three years, my first letter, according to
our arrangement, which indeed was strange enough. I wanted to see the world,
and abandon myself to it, and for this period. I wished to forget my home, from
which I came and to which I hoped to return again. I wanted to retain the whole
impression, and that single details should not lead me, when at a distance, into
misconception. In the meantime the necessary tokens of existence have been
interchanged between us from time to time. I have received money, and little
gifts for my nearest friends have meanwhile been handed over to you for
distribution. From the sort of things sent, you could see where and how I was. In
the wines my uncle has surely tasted out my place of residence every time; then
the lace, the quodlibets, the steel-ware, have marked my way for the ladies
through Brabant to Paris and on to London; thus, on your writing, sewing, and
tea-tables, your morning robes and evening dresses, I shall find many a mark on
which I can hang my tales of travel. You have accompanied me, without hearing
from me, and perhaps are by no means curious to know anything further. To me,
on the contrary, it is in the highest degree necessary to learn, through your
goodness, how the circle which I am on the point of re-entering goes on. I should
like to enter actually from foreign parts like a stranger who, to be agreeable, first
informs himself about what they wish or like in the house, and does not imagine
to himself that they must receive him exactly according to his own liking, just
for the sake of his fine hair or eyes. Write to me, therefore, about the good uncle,
the dear nieces, about yourself, about our relations near and remote, and also
about old and new servants.
“Enough; let your practised pen, which you have not for so long inked for
your nephew, hold sway on the paper for his benefit. Your instructive letter shall
be my credentials, with which I shall present myself as soon as I have received
it. Thus it depends upon you to see me in your arms. One changes far less than
one thinks, and circumstances remain for the most part much the same. Not what
has changed, but what has remained, what has gradually increased and
decreased, I wish to recognize all at once, and to look again upon myself as in a
familiar mirror. Greet all our friends heartily, and believe in the strange fashion
of my absence and return more warmth is contained than is often found in
uninterrupted sympathy and cordial correspondence. A thousand greetings to
each and all.
“POSTSCRIPT.
“Do not neglect, dearest aunt, to say a word about our men of business, how
our agents and tenants are getting on. What has become of Valerina, the
daughter of the tenant whom uncle shortly before my departure had ejected —
rightly indeed, but still, as it seems to me, rather severely? You see that I still
remember much; I still know pretty well all. You must examine me about the
past, after you have communicated the present to me.”
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