TO REBECCA DIRICHLET IN BERLIN.
Dear Rebecca,—This is by way of a birthday letter. May it be a pleasant one; it comes late, but it means well, and as for the festival itself, I kept it this year in a very curious way, though a delightful one. Writing was out of the question. I had neither table nor ink; in fact, I was stuck fast in the Pontine Marshes. May there be a happy year before you, and may it bring about our meeting; if you thought of me on the day, our thoughts must have met somewhere on the Brenner, or perhaps in Innsbruck, for all mine travelled towards you. If you have not noticed the date of this, you will see from its tone that I am at Naples. I can’t get back to a reasonable state of mind just yet; things round one are too seductive, and compel one to do nothing and think of nothing—the example set by the whole population is irresistible; and though I intend to alter all that, it must be so during these first days. So I stand on my balcony for hours, and stare at Vesuvius and the bay.
But I shall have to fall back on my old strain of description, or with all this crowding in on me, I shall get confused, and you won’t be able to follow me
