reat men felt and thought long ago. Who
cares then about Frau Berg's boarders not speaking to one, and the
Berlin streets and policemen being unkind? Actually I forget the long
miles and hours I am away from you, the endless long miles and hours
that reach from me here to you there, and am happy, oh happy,--so happy
that I could cry out for joy. And so I would, I daresay, if it
wouldn't spoil the music.

There's Wanda coming to tell me dinner is ready. She just bumps the
soup-tureen against my door as she carries it down the passage to the
diningroom, and calls out briefly, "_Essen_."

I'll finish this tonight.

_Bedtime_.

I just want to say goodnight, and tell you, in case you shouldn't have
noticed it, how much your daughter loves you. I mayn't practise on
Sundays, because of the _Hausruhe_, Frau Berg says, and so I have time
to think; and I'm astonished, mother darling, at the emptiness of life
without you. It is as though most of me had somehow got torn off, and
I have to manage as best I can with a fragment. What a good thing I
feel it so much, for so I shall work all the harder to shorten the
time. Hard work is the bridge across which I'll get back to you. You
see, you're the one human being I've got in the world who loves me, the
only one who is really, deeply, interested in me, who minds if I am
hurt and is pleased if I am happy. That's a watery word,--pleased; I
should have said exults. It is so wonderful, your happiness in my
being happy,--so touching. I'm all melted with love and gratitude when
I think of it, and of the dear way you let me do this, come away here
and realize my dream of studying with Kloster, when you knew it meant
for you such a long row of dreary months alone. Forgive me if I sound
sentimental. I know you will, so I needn't bother to ask. That's what
I so love about you,--you always understand, you never mind. I can
talk to you; and however idiotic I am, and whatever sort of a
fool,--blind, unkind, ridiculous, obstinate or wilful--take your
choice, little sweet mother, you'll remember occasions that were
fitted by each of these--you look at me with those shrewd sweet eyes
that always somehow have a laugh in them, and say some little thing
that shows you are brushing aside all the ugly froth of nonsense,
and are intelligently and with perfect detachment searching for the
reason. And having found the reason you understand and forgive; for
of course there always _is_