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Vienna
June 19, 1882
My precious, most beloved girl
I knew it was only after you had gone1 that I would realize the full extent of my happiness and, alas! the degree of my loss as well. I still cannot grasp it, and if that elegant little box and that sweet picture were not lying in front of me, I would think it was all a beguiling dream and be afraid to wake up. Yet friends tell me it's true, and I myself can remember details more charming, more
mysteriously enchanting than any dream phantasy could create. It must be true. Martha is mine, the sweet girl of whom everyone speaks with admiration, who despite all my resistance captivated my heart at our first meeting, the girl I feared to court and who came toward me with high-minded confidence, who strengthened the faith in my own value and gave me new hope and energy to work when I needed it most.
When you return, darling girl, I shall have conquered the shyness and awkwardness which have hitherto inhibited me in your presence. We will sit alone in that nice little room again, my girl will settle down in the brown armchair (out of which we were so suddenly startled yesterday), I at her feet on the round stool, and we will talk of the time when there will be no difference between night and day, when neither intrusions from without nor farewells nor worries shall keep us apart.
Your lovely photograph. At first, when I had the original in front of me I did not think so much of it; but now, the more I stare at it the more it resembles the beloved object; I expect the pale cheeks to flush the color our roses were, the delicate arms to detach themselves from the surface and seize my hand; but the precious picture does not move, it just seems to say: “Patience! Patience! I am but a symbol, a shadow cast on paper; the real person is going to return, and then you may neglect me again.”
I would so much like to give the picture a place among my household gods that hang above my desk, but while I can display the severe faces of the men