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Vienna, 2 A.M.
July 13, 1883
Gardener Bünsow,1 lucky man, to be allowed to shelter my darling sweetheart! Why didn't I become a gardener instead of a doctor or writer? Perhaps you need a young chap to work for you in the garden, and I could offer myself so as to bid good morning to the little princess and perhaps even demand a kiss in return for a bunch of flowers.
But this letter is not to Gardener Bünsow, rather to you, my Marty, my Cordelia-Marty. Why Cordelia? This will be explained later. Are you longing to know, darling? Your sore throat will be better, is bound to be better, by the time you get this letter-it was nice of you to write to me about it, but not at all nice of you to get it. If it's nothing worse, don't let yourself be excessively coddled, wrapped in shawls and all that kind of thing, my child; I believe that a little toughening, which can surely be risked in such harmless circumstances, is better in the long run. And I am looking forward to your news and hope you will eat well, if necessary in secret,2 and if you need money for this, my sweet, just let me know, for I have some again.
Today was the hottest, most excruciating day of the whole season, I was really almost crazy with exhaustion. Realizing that I was badly in need of refreshment, I went to see Breuer,3 from whom I have just returned, rather late. He had a headache, the poor man, and was taking salicy1. The first thing he did was to chase me into