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_ 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_.