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Paris, Sunday
January 17, 1886
My sweet little Princess
In spite of my recent declaration of war on you for making parcels instead of writing me long, affectionate, and flattering letters, I don't feel entitled to conceal from you that I love you excessively, in case you have already forgotten. Furthermore, that I am having some very good days and so far as it is possible I am quite contented, as will be seen by what follows:
First because a paper on brain anatomy has been concocted here in the following manner: I am sitting beside my sick Russian friend (grumbling about Ricchetti, who continues to pick his brains) telling him of a nice discovery which I made in Vienna and which I didn't publish because I was afraid there might be still more behind it. Whereupon he shows me his notes on precisely the same subject and tells me that he has divulged the result to a colleague and rival, who is going to use it in a publication. “No, dear friend,” say I, “we will publish that together-and, what's more, at once. I have brought several slides along, you have any amount of them, we will study them together, then you make a drawing, I will do the text, and then we will get it off together.”-Agreed.-The first day we spent 5 1/2 hours together studying the slides by day- and lamp-light, searching and doubting endlessly till he fell back on the bed and I left with such a buzzing in my head that I couldn't get to sleep, so I walked the boulevards from ten to midnight to air myself. The whole problem still seemed rather doubtful to me, but next day in the microscope I glimpsed a few auspicious things, got all excited, everything cleared up, and today we have all we want. It works out very well, I am mulling over the text, he is