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Göttingen, 10.viii.23
Dear Professor,
Whenever I thought of you, I remembered Heinerle and the fact that all the summer sunshine of these holidays will not be able to restore your happiness completely. And it is not only the loss, but at the same time the bitter injury that life could injure him in this way and showed him so little kindness—especially in this case, when after his recovery in Vienna such a blow of fate came so completely unexpectedly. It makes one distrustful and suspicious towards life itself, for despite all one's knowledge of its tricks one always forms one's judgments on the basis of one's few most personal experiences.*
And now I can only hope that this accursed life will at least permit that September may be one of the most blessed of all months for you—both for you and for Anna. For if I cannot have her here, as my egoism desires, then let her be in Rome!
How good it is of you, dear Professor, to worry about me; things are really going well with me, and not least through you. Certainly I could do with a few hours less, but when I had a good deal of spare time in the spring, I took on a few gratis analyses, which I cannot possibly give up. After all I am one of those rarely fortunate people who can rejoice every day to be able to work at exactly what they want to work at—and what more can one wish? With conditions as frightful as they are and the collapse of the currency, things are such that I should have no scruples in demanding money if only German patients had any—but who can keep pace with this inflation?
My Königsberg patient, about whom I wrote to you in the spring