_Evening_.

Do you know I wrote to you the whole morning? I wrote and wrote, with
no idea how time was passing, and was astonished and indignant, for I
haven't half told you all I want to, when I was called to dinner. It
seemed like shutting a door on you and leaving you outside without any
dinner, to go away and have it without you.

If it weren't for its being my day with you I don't know what I'd do
with Sundays. I would hate them. I'm not allowed to play on Sundays,
because practising is forbidden on that day, and, as Frau Berg said,
how is she to know if I am practising or playing? Besides, it would
disturb the others, which of course is true, for they all rest on
Sundays, getting up late, sleeping after dinner, and not going out till
they have had coffee about five. Today, when I hoped they had all gone
out, I had such a longing to play a little that I muted my strings and
played to myself in a whisper what I could remember of a very beautiful
thing of Ravel's that Kloster showed me the other day,--the most
haunting, exquisite thing; and I hummed the weird harmonies as I went
along, because they are what is so particularly wonderful about it.
Well, it really was a whisper, and I had to bend my head right over the
violin to hear it at all whenever a tram passed, yet in five minutes
Frau Berg appeared, unbuttoned and heated from her _Mittagsruhe_, and
requested me to have some consideration for others as well as for the
day.

I was very much ashamed of myself, besides feeling as though I were
fifteen and caught at school doing something wicked. I didn't mind not