and now comes what is a little hard to say. Do you really know, dear Doctor Graesler, what I have been thinking? You suspect something that is not true, and that is what has been making you hesitate. To be sure, it is at the same time a proof of your affection for me. But is there not also—you will excuse me, won't you, if I say it—a little squeamishness in that, or vanity? Of course, a vanity and a squeamishness quite common among men; I know that well enough. But I just wanted to tell you that you do not have to worry about that any longer. Must I make it even clearer? Well, then, my dear friend, I have no confessions of any kind to make to you. As a matter of fact, when I think back to it, it was a remarkable kind of relationship. In those six months I do not believe that he kissed me more than ten times altogether.
"But the things one writes a good friend in the middle of the night, especially when one knows that in the end the letter does not have to be sent off at all! But the letter really would not have any purpose if I didn't write everything that happened to run through my head.—And yet, how dear he was to me! Perhaps just because he was so serious and gloomy. He was one of those doctors—and there are not many like that—who themselves suffer all the sorrow and misery they have to look upon. And so life was terribly difficult for him; and where would he have got the courage to be happy? Well, in time I should have managed to teach him where. I gave myself credit for that much ability. But it was simply not to be. I shall show you his picture too. I have been keeping it, of course. I no longer have the one of the other man, the singer. I did not receive it from him; I bought it of an art-dealer, before I even knew him. How much I still have to tell you! It is past midnight. Here I am, still sitting at the table, and I have no desire at all to be done writing. Besides, I can hear Father downstairs walking up and down and up and down. He is having those restless nights of his again. We have really bothered very little about him lately, haven't we? We two, my dear Doctor. Well, that will soon be different, won't it? Yes, and now I want to hurry and put down something else that has just occurred to me. Father was saying—about the sanitarium, you know—that in case you cannot convert the necessary amount into ready money without a lot of trouble, he would be glad to place some of his funds at your disposal. In fact, I believe he would even be willing to interest himself financially in the matter.
