a reason when ordinary people, not born
fiends, are disagreeable. I'm sure that's why we've been so happy
together,--because you've never taken anything I've done or said that
was foolish or unkind personally. You've always known it was just so
much irrelevant rubbish, just an excrescence, a passing sickness;
never, never your real Chris who loves you.

Good-bye, my own blessed mother. It's long past bedtime. Tomorrow I'm
to have my first regular lesson with Kloster. And tomorrow I ought to
get a letter from you. You will take care of yourself, won't you? You
wouldn't like me to be anxious all this way off, would you? Anxious,
and not sure?

Your Chris.

_Berlin, Tuesday, June 2nd, 1914_.

Darling mother, I've just got your two letters, two lovely long ones at
once, and I simply can't wait till next Sunday to tell you how I
rejoiced over them, so I'm going to squander 20 pfennigs just on that.
I'm not breaking my rule and writing on a day that isn't Sunday,
because I'm not really writing. This isn't a letter, it's a kiss. How
glad I am you're so well and getting on so comfortably. And I'm well
and happy too, because I'm so busy,--you can't think how busy. I'm
working harder than I've ever done in my life, and Kloster is pleased
with me. So now that I've had letters from you there seems very little
left in the world to want, and I go about on the tips of my toes.
Good-bye my beloved one, till Sunday.

Chris.

Oh, I must just tell you that at my lesson yesterday I played the Ernst
F sharp minor concerto,---the virtuoso, firework thing, you know, with
Kloster putting in bits of the orchestra part on the piano every now
and then because he wanted to see what I could do in the way of
gymnastics. He laughed when I had finished, and patted my shoulder,
and said, "Very good acrobatics. Now we will do no more of them. We
will apply ourselves to real music." And he said I was to play him
what I could of the Bach Chaconne.

I was so happy, little mother. Kloster leading me about among the
wonders of Bach, was like being taken by the hand by some great angel
and led through heaven.

_Berlin, Sunday, June 7th, 1914_.

On Sunday mornings, darling mother, directly I wake I remember it is my
day for being with you. I can hardly be patient with breakfast, and
the time it takes to get done with those thick cups of coffee that are
so thick that, however deftly I drink, drops always trickl