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Vienna, Monday
January 28, 1884
A moment ago, my beloved treasure, I put the finishing touches to my first clinical publication. There it lies now, eighteen pages long, and it will spread itself in two to three issues. For
better or worse I have finished and there is a load off my heart. Now I can tackle something else and my Method will once more have a chance. Fleischl will arrange for the publication in Brain,1 and I still have one to two weeks to work on it, then I give my lecture, show my slides, send off my German and my English manuscripts, and then I am again like “Lucky Hans.”2 Life is hard, but I am drugging myself in work.
Your last letter, my treasure, contained the news I have been looking forward to for a long time. Of course I want your picture, if possible life size, to consecrate my new room into which I still haven't moved, and if I am the only one to receive a picture from you, I shall be especially happy. Otherwise, I really haven't much to say; my cold is still with me, my zest for work has returned, my impatience is greater than ever and one day it will make me explode. I didn't go to Breuer till Saturday, didn't go home for lunch because I was on duty. Schönberg, whom I had invited, waited for me in the coffeehouse till 6:30, as I read on my blackboard. The poor man, our rounds lasted till 7:15 P.M. I now have a compatriot of yours in my department, one Rodewald, who owned an inn in Hamburg, where he himself seems to have been the best customer. He is, moreover, a nervous case and if he hangs on long enough I may write a paper on him, too.
My patient was considerably improved yesterday-but he was only paying me a friendly visit. I still don't have any others.
Look, Marty, do read something good and write to me about it, I am getting such a barbarian with the pressure of my work.
I am not going to accept the job as Meynert's assistant; you wrote very sensibly about it. I probably won't come to Fräulein Fanny Philipp's3 wedding; I will come only to s