as I have not let you
hear from me for a long time. The card doesn't count. The last
time I wrote, I was in the midst of Christmas preparations; now
the Christmas holidays are past and gone. Innstetten and my
good friend Gieshuebler left nothing undone to make Holy Night
as agreeable for me as possible, but I felt a little lonely and
homesick for you. Generally speaking, much as I have cause to
be grateful and happy, I cannot rid myself entirely of a
feeling of loneliness, and if I formerly made more fun than
necessary, perhaps, of Hulda's eternal tears of emotion, I am
now being punished for it and have to fight against such tears
myself, for Innstetten must not see them. However, I am sure
that it will all be better when our household is more
enlivened, which is soon to be the case, my dear mama. What I
recently hinted at is now a certainty and Innstetten gives me
daily proof of his joy on account of it. It is not necessary to
assure you how happy I myself am when I think of it, for the
simple reason that I shall then have life and entertainment at
home, or, as Geert says, 'a dear little plaything.' This word
of his is doubtless proper, but I wish he would not use it,
because it always give me a little shock and reminds me how
young I am and that I still half belong in the nursery. This
notion never leaves me (Geert says it is pathological) and, as
a result, the thing that should be my highest happiness is
almost the contrary, a constant embarrassment for me. Recently,
dear mama, when the good Flemming damsels plied me with all
sorts of questions imaginable, it seemed as though I were
undergoing an examination poorly prepared, and I think I must
have answered very stupidly. I was out of sorts, too, for often
what looks like sympathy is mere inquisitiveness, and theirs
impressed me as the more meddlesome, since I have a long while
yet to wait for the happy event. Some time in the summer, early
in July, I think. You must come then, or better still, so soon
as I am at all able to get about, I'll take a vacation and set
out for Hohen-Cremmen to see you. Oh, how happy it makes me to
think of it and of the Havelland air! Here it is almost always
cold and raw. There I shall drive out upon the marsh every day
and see red and yellow flowers everywhere, and I can even now
see the baby stretching out its hands for them, for I know it
must feel reall