The many dinners, soirees, concerts, and balls which I have to go to only bore me.  I am sad, and feel so lonely and forsaken here.  But I cannot live as I would!  I must dress, appear with a cheerful countenance in the salons; but when I am again in my room I give vent to my feelings on the piano, to which, as my best friend in Vienna, I disclose all my sufferings.  I have not a soul to whom I can fully unbosom myself, and yet I must meet everyone like a friend.  There are, indeed, people here who seem to love me, take my portrait, seek my society; but they do not make up for the want of you [his friends and relations].  I lack inward peace, I am at rest only when I read your [his friends’ and relations’] letters, and picture to myself the statue of King Sigismund, or gaze at the ring [Constantia’s], that dear jewel.  Forgive me, dear Johnnie, for complaining so much to you; but my heart grows lighter when I speak to you thus.  To you I have indeed always told all that affected me.  Did you receive my little note the day before yesterday?  Perhaps you don’t care much for my scribbling, for you are at home; but I read and read your letters again and again.

Dr. Freyer has called on me several times; he had learned from Schuch that I was in Vienna.  He told me a great deal of interesting news, and enjoyed your letter, which I read to him up to a certain passage.  This passage has made me very sad.  Is she really so much changed in appearance?  Perhaps she was ill?  One could easily fancy her being so, as she has a very sensitive disposition.  Perhaps she only appeared so to you, or was she afraid of anything?  God forbid that she should suffer in any way on my account.  Set her mind at rest, and tell her that as long as my heart beats I shall not cease to adore her.  Tell her that even after my death my ashes shall be strewn under her feet.  Still, all this is yet too little, and you might tell her a great deal more.

I shall write to her myself; indeed, I would have done so long ago to free myself from my torments; but if my letter should fall into strange hands, might this not hurt her reputation ?  Therefore, dear friend, be you the interpreter of my feelings; speak for me, “et j’en conviendrai.”  These French words of yours flashed through me like lightning.  A Viennese gentleman who walked beside me in the street when I was reading your letter, seized me by the arm, and was hardly able to hold me.  He did not know what had happened to me.  I should have liked to embrace and kiss all the passers-by, and I felt happier than I had done for a long time, for I had received the first letter from you.  Perhaps I weary you, Johnnie, with my passionateness; but it is difficult for me to conceal from you anything that moves my heart.

The day before yesterday I dined at Madame Beyer’s, her name is likewise Constantia.  I like her society, her having that indescribably