my resignation, let the dike go, and proceed to Reinfeld. I expected
to have a letter from you today, but nothing except stupid police
matters. Do write very, very often, even if it takes one hundred
rix-dollars postage. I am always afraid that you are sick, and today I
am in such a mood that I should like to foot it to Pomerania. I long
for the children, for mammy and dad, and, most of all, for you, my
darling, so that I have no peace at all. Without you here, what is
Schönhausen to me? The dreary bedroom, the empty cradles with the
little beds in them, all the absolute silence, like an autumn fog,
interrupted only by the ticking of the clock and the periodic falling
of the chestnuts--it is as though you all were dead. I always imagine
your next letter will bring bad news, and if I knew it was in Genthin
by this time I would send Hildebrand there in the night. Berlin is
endurable when one is alone; there one is busy, and can chatter all
day; but here it is enough to drive one mad; I must formerly have been
an entirely different mortal, to bear it as I did. * * * The girl
received the notice to leave very lightly and good-naturedly, as
quite a matter of course; Kahle, on the other hand, was beside
himself, and almost cried; said he could not find a place at
Christmas-time, and would go to the dogs, as he expressed it. I
consoled him by promising to pay his wages for another quarter if he
failed to find a place by New Year's. The girl is quite useless except
in cooking, of which more orally. I cannot enumerate all the little
trifles, and certainly Kahle does not belong to the better half of
gardeners. * * * I feel so vividly as if I were with you while writing
this that I am becoming quite gay, until I again recollect the three
hundred and fifty miles, including one hundred and seventy-five
without a railroad. Pomerania is terribly long, after all. Have you my
Külz letter, too? Bernhard has probably kept it in his pocket. Do not
prepay your letters, or they will be stolen. Innumerable books have