Somewhat, I hear, at our not sending you more papers; had we sent them to you, you would have, most probably, grumbled still more. For they are growing more & more stupid, I have been told;—if Anything of interest is just now going on at Paris, the Press takes precious care to hush it up & let you hear nothing of it.

As we don’t go much to the cafés at present we see very little of the papers ourselves: last night, however, we happened to take a “bock” at one of them & to fall in with the Figaro. Paul read it & assured me there was nothing in it, but I took up the paper & caught sight of the following lines, as good, I dare say, as any of the rest in its columns.

«Avez-vous jamais eu l’idée de traduire en Français les noms des juifs allemands? En voici un specimen: Blumenfeld, fleur de champs; Blumenthal, fleur de vallées; Rosenberg, rose de montagne; Rosenkranz, couronne de roses etc. etc.

Strauss c’est … le bouquet.

Ne croirait-on pas que ça embaume, disait le roi Louis I de Bavière.

Eh bien, c’est une peste!»

Another extract that I had intended to send you but mislaid, was not bad, as it showed the inherent modesty of the French character. It was a critique of Faust; the most grotesque thing I ever read: Marguerite is awfully abused in it not being quite up to the standard of the virtuous & moral critic; & the public is positively assured that Goethe himself never understood his play until Frenchmen had explained it to him. I thought of the French translations you had mentioned to me & understood the truth of the remark. But all this, you see, is hardly worth transport.

My paper is up: my dear Challey, will you thank Jenny from us for her long & amusing letter & give my love to all the folks at home.

I am, my dear old Nicky,your affectionate Kakadou.

Little Schnaps is not quite well, but sends you all heaps of kisses.