all your tares, which I have not yet discovered, and leave at least a
sample of them for me. With this exhortation, so full of unction, I
will go to sleep, although it has just struck ten, for last night
there was little of it; the unaccustomed physical exercise has used me
up a bit, and tomorrow I am to be in the saddle again before daylight.
Very, very tired am I, like a child.


Schönhausen, March 14, 1847.

_Jeanne la Méchante!_--What is the meaning of this? A whole week has
passed since I heard a syllable from you, and today I seized the
confused mass of letters with genuine impatience--seven official
communications, a bill, two invitations, one of which is for a theatre
and ball at Greifenberg, but not a trace of Zuckers (the Reinfeld
post-office) and "Hochwohlgeboren." [14] I could not believe my eyes, and
had to look through the letters twice; then I set my hat quite on my
right ear and took a two hours' walk on the highway in the rain, without
a cigar, assailed by the most conflicting sentiments--"a prey to violent
emotions," as we are accustomed to say in romances. I have got used to
receiving my two letters from you regularly every week, and when once we
have acquired the habit of a thing we look upon that as our well-won
right, an injury to which enrages us. If I only knew against whom I
should direct my wrath--against Böge, against the post-office, or
against you, _la chatte la plus noire_, inside and out. And why don't
you write? Are you so exhausted with the effort you made in sending two
letters at a time on Friday of last week? Ten days have gone by since
then--time enough to rest yourself. Or do you want to let me writhe,
while you feast your eyes on my anxiety, tigress! after speaking to me
in your last letters about scarlet and nervous fevers, and after I had