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Excelsior Savoia Palace
Trieste
27 Oct. 37
Dear Father Freud,
The last line on this trip shall be to you. I have just telephoned Eitingon and he told me that you were really extremely well. What more can I ask? Bathed in sweat, I sit at my desk and for a moment I look towards Vienna and you; then I look back at my paper again and give you a tender, grateful nod (I am always bathed in sweat these days. To judge by my glands everything is an exertion for me. My throat is still wretched—nose and trachea likewise. Ah well, I can cope with all that.) The Verlag, like all publishing firms, sent me the wrong thing, i.e. the number of Imago containing the first fragment of Moses. It should have been Analysis Terminable and Interminable.1 Well, I am now looking forward to getting the right number.
And now: auf Wiedersehen till the spring. Many things have cropped up which I must get down to during the winter months. Then I hope they will come to fruition in Europe. Theatre, Bonaparte.
To you, to Anna and to all your household I wish health and prosperity. You will be reading something of mine in November—end of November. And then you shall tell me whether it was worth my altering my trip for it. I think it was.
Ever yours
Zweig