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Vienna, August 20, 1873
Dear Friend,
I have heard the terrible news of your fall from Frau Lipska's own lips, besides many other things that suited those lips admirably and that brilliantly confirmed the veracity of your own reports. Because I had been “most highly recommended” by Rosa,1 she commanded my presence two mornings ago, which behest I obeyed at ten o'clock. I did not do so gladly, for—I see no reason why I should keep it a secret from you—my natural good looks had been robbed of their symmetry by the rebellious encroachments of a bedbug. But her reception of me made it clear that she was willing to advance out of the fund of old friendship that which I was unable to acquire anew. I found her almost unchanged, her little face a trifle paler and less composed, and catechised her with the shamelessness of an elderly tutor while she, with the simple artlessness of a doll, responded to my teasing with affectionately told and elaborate stories. “Eduard” replaced the “Herr Sigmund” when the latter wearied of speaking of himself. “Eduard” is cheerful, “Eduard” is enjoying himself—she maintained that she warned “Eduard” just one second before he actually fell, and went on to describe her own fright and that of the others quite enchantingly. I was not particularly surprised to hear of the first coincidence—ya sabes, que el amor es el unico “clairvoyant” [you know that love is the only clairvoyant]. One of her brothers was present but did not bother us or appear to be at all interested: he seems to be troubled water from which I drew but little. I did not come across a sister-in-law, just two gentlemen, in their prime, of inordinate stupidity and with a great deal of local knowledge. I agreed to run a small errand for her and promised to see her to the train and so this bitter cup, too, passed from me!
Your excellent advice, intended to inspire my studies of frances [French], strikes me as making a virtue, something that has nothing to do with “virtus,” of necessity. “