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April 24, 1899
IX., Berggasse 19
Dear Wilhelm,
Thanks for your announcement of the nectar; its place of origin and the hour when it was bought and the person who ordered it will be appreciated repeatedly. Since drinking alone is merely a vice, you will permit me to empty a glass apiece for Wilhelm, Ida, Robert, and Paulinchen.
A postcard of “mysterious” content awaits you in Florence. It makes reference to Innsbruck, as you will recall. Since then I have been ill-humored, at odds with my work and everything connected with it. Spring storms, according to your certainly optimistic conception — harbingers of birth. Therefore, I gladly will drink the punch made of Lethe.1
Alexander has returned, he too saturated with wine. How very much I should like to write here about some work that means something to me.
Introite et hic dii sunt.2
Or have I not ceded this to you?