often feel like dancing. Brinkenstein must have commended me
to the king, for he often addresses me, and in a manner that seems to
say: 'We understand each other perfectly.'"

"_June 1st_ (_at night_).

"It is a pity, dear Emma, that what I have written above bears no date.
I have completely forgotten when I wrote it--auld lang syne, as it says
in the pretty Scotch song.

"I feel the justice of your complaint, that my letters are written for
myself and not for the one to whom they are addressed; that is,
whenever I feel like writing, but not when you happen to wish for news.
But you are wrong in charging this to egotism. I am not an egotist. I
am wholly absorbed by the impressions of the moment. Ah, why are you
not here with me! There is not a day, not a night, not an hour-- But I
shall do better. That is, I mean to try, at all events.

"The king distinguishes me above all others, and I enjoy the favor of
the whole court. If it were not for the demon that ever whispers to
me--

"I send you my photograph. We are now wearing wings on our hats, and
the feather you see on mine was taken from an eagle that the king shot
with his own hand.

"Oh, what lovely days and nights we are having! If one could only do
without sleep. I am giving great attention to music and sing nothing
but Schumann. His music invests the soul with a magic veil, with a fire
that seems to consume while it fills you with happiness, and from the
spell of which none can escape, though they try ever so hard. I gladly
yield to its influence. I have just been singing 'The heavens have
kissed the earth.' It was late at night, and I felt as if I could go on
singing forever. You know my habit of repeating the same song again and
again; of all things a _pot-pourri_ of the emotions is least to my
liking. At last I lay down by the window--who was it that glided past?
I dare not say. I do not care to know. There was a humming in the
direction of the lamp on my table. A moth-fly had flown into it and had
been consumed by the flame. The moth had not wished to die; it had
imagined the light to be a glowing flower-cup, and had buried itself in
it.

"It was a beautiful death! To die in the summer night, amid song and in
the light of the fiery calyx. Good-night!"

"_June 3d_,

"No matter where I am or what I do, I am always excited, without
knowing why. But I have i