If you knew how sweet you were the other day, you would never again be the tease you are sometimes. I wish you had been less reserved with me. At the same time, while your words were more ambiguous than the Apocalypse, I seemed to read your thoughts clearly. I wish you had the hundredth part of the pleasure which I have in following your thoughts. There are two persons in you, so you see you no longer resemble Cerberus. From three, you have come to be two. One, the better one, is all heart and soul. The other is a pretty statue, highly polished by society, gracefully draped in silk and cashmere, a charming automaton, the springs of which are adjusted with infinite skill. When one thinks he is speaking to the first, he finds he is speaking to the statue. Why must this statue be so attractive? If it were not for this, I should hope that, like the Spanish oaks, you would lose your outer bark as you grow older. It is better for you to remain as you are, but let the first person take the precedence over the automaton. I am getting all tangled up with my metaphors. At this moment I am reminded of a white hand. It seems to me that I wished to scold you, but I can not remember the reason. It is I this time who am suffering with my back. The pain attacked me after my return the other day, but I can not, like you, find relief in a twelve-hours sleep. The fact is, I am not as careful of my strength as you are. I hope to have a letter from you to-morrow, but you must write another also to tell me whether it is to be Saturday or Monday. Here is a third combination: Saturday, until four o’clock, and again Monday, from two until five. This, I think, would be a perfect arrangement. I must not fail to have your reply before noon Saturday. LXIII _Friday night, April 8, 1843._ For two days I have had a horrible headache, and you write me all sorts of dreadful things. The worst is that you have no remorse, and I had some hope that it would be otherwise. I am so downcast that I have not even the energy to abuse you. What, then, is this miracle of which you speak? It would be a miracle to make you less self-willed, but I shall never accomplish that. It is beyond my power. I shall have to wait, therefore, until Monday to hear the solution of the enigma, since you can not come to-morrow. Do you know it will have been a week since I saw you? It has been a long time since that has happened before. To make amends, we must take a long walk, and try to avoid disputes. Two o’clock, if that suits you. I shall expect you promptly to the minute. Your idea about Wilhelm Meister is rather pretty, but, after all, it is only a sophism.