Christine | Page 7

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 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 trickle down what
would be my beard if I had one. And I choke over the rolls, and I spill
things in my hurry to run away and talk to you. I got another letter from

you yesterday, and Hilda Seeberg, a girl boarding here and studying
painting, said when she met me in the passage after I had been reading
it in my room, "You have had a letter from your _Frau Mutter, nicht_?"
So you see your letters shine in my face.
Don't be afraid I won't take enough exercise. I go for an immense walk
directly after dinner every day, a real quick hot one through the
Thiergarten. The weather is fine, and Berlin I suppose is at its best, but
I don't think it looks very nice after London. There's no mystery about
it, no atmosphere; it just blares away at you. It