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Vienna, December 11, 1874
Dear Friend,
Let us hope that the gloomy, one-taler thoughts that left their traces in your last letter have long since relinquished their grip on you; that the melancholy which gazed out at me with little doe-brown eyes from your welcome lines was but a transitory mood; I, for one, would feel unable to join you and sing the second part in Jeremiah's lamentations; I shall gladly impart to you what little I know of the cause of my better humor.
Still, I have your melancholy mood to thank for allowing me to hear once more affectionate words such as I rarely heard from you in Vienna; for we find it easier to express our feelings in deeds than in words, and are ashamed to address sentimental words, even such innocent ones as “dear friend,” to those who have long since enjoyed them in our feelings. Writing makes it all easier, and since it does one good to read warm and friendly words addressed to oneself, two friends should always be separated from time to time. For a brief period only, mind you; if you were to be absent for more than two semesters, I, too, should consider the want to which you allude a most painful one. You are right that no correspondence can ever replace conversations; but, precisely because it has so much to make up for, a letter is doubly and trebly precious.
The gap your absence has opened in my social life has remained unfilled, nor have I ever looked for anyone to fill it. I should be unable to muster a dozen friends, although I have enemies by the dozen and of all shapes and sizes—a veritable pattern book. With Wahle alone I have established more cordial relations—his naive idealism endears him to me—and with Paneth I engage in a lively exchange of ideas, fostered by the identity of our studies and the similarity of our aspirations. But Paneth, though otherwise amiable enough, is so intoxicated by his own perfection that it would hardly enter his head to seek his complement in a friend. When you return, therefore, you will