My dear poet, we are much older now, and things without number have happened to us, many of which meant nothing. What does it matter, some were beautiful and others were mad. I used to hear that you spent whole nights on the riverbank fishing, but it was not the catch you were after, you fisher of names. They said you would stand nearly waist-deep in the river, and when some aquatic creature plucked at your line and you saw the bobber jumping, you were as excited as if you were leading an attack. My aunts spoke of your sheer folly. And rightly so, for all that should have gone to the kitchen you threw back into the current, laughing like someone with whiskers smeared with honey. The sense of these zoological fancies escaped me, but the play of it all was something I could understand. So much the better. The ceiling of these days is blackened with smoke and autumn is on the way. Naturally, it is deepest night now, and forest branches drum against the windows of my room. I am comforted when thinking of your antics, and I would be glad to know of more of your merry mischief that has yet to come to light. It’s a pity my father, who could say a great deal about such matters, is dead. My father, whom you resemble so very much! It is a precious thing for me to speak with you, and because I know less of your affairs than I would like, and less than would satisfy me, permit me to begin a tale of some brigands with whom we share a common name. The recklessness of this tale is quite to my liking, and I firmly hope it will give you no offense either.*