Every year I write to you on December 28th, and you answer me on the 31st in time for your letter to reach me on New Year's morning.

You are punctual, dear uncle; you are even attentive; there is something affectionate in this precision.

But I do not know why your letters leave me unmoved.

The eighteen to twenty-five lines of which each is composed are from your head, rather than your heart.

Why do you not tell me of my parents, whom you knew; of your daily life; of your old servant Madeleine, who nursed me as a baby; of the Angora cat almost as old as she; of the big garden, so green, so enticing, which you trim with so much care, and which rewards your attention with such luxuriance.