Now please don’t think I am fretting, will you, because I’m not.  It’s only that I love you.  We’re such friends.  You always understand, you are never shocked.  I can say whatever comes into my head to you.  It is as good as saying one’s prayers.  One never stops in those to wonder whether one is shocking God, and that is what one loves God for,—­because we suppose he always understands, and therefore forgives; and how much more—­is this very wicked?—­one loves one’s mother who understands, because, you see, there she is, and one can kiss her as well.  There’s a great virtue in kissing, I think; an amazing comfort in just touching the person one loves.  Goodnight, most blessed little mother, and good-bye for a week.  Your Chris.

Perhaps I might write a little note—­not a letter, just a little note,—­on Wednesdays?  What do you think?  It would be nothing more, really, than a postcard, except that it would be in an envelope.

Berlin, Sunday, June 14th, 1914.

Well, I didn’t write on Wednesday, I resisted. (Good morning, darling mother.) I knew quite well it wouldn’t be a postcard, or anything even remotely related to the postcard family.  It would be a letter.  A long letter.  And presently I’d be writing every day, and staying all soft; living in the past, instead of getting on with my business, which is the future.  That is what I’ve got to do at this moment:  not think too much of you and home, but turn my face away from both those sweet, desirable things so that I may get back to them quicker.  It’s true we haven’t got a home, if a home is a house and furniture; but home to your Chris is where you are.  Just simply anywhere and everywhere you are.  It’s very convenient, isn’t it, to have it so much concentrated and so movable.  Portable, I might say, seeing how little you are and how big I am.

But you know, darling mother, it makes it easier for me to harden and look ahead with my chin in the air rather than over my shoulder back at you when I see, as I do see all day long, the extreme sentimentality of the Germans.  It is very surprising.  They’re the oddest mixture of what really is a brutal hardness, the kind of hardness that springs from real fundamental differences from ours in their attitude towards life, and a squashiness that leaves one with one’s mouth open.  They can’t bear to let a single thing that has happened to them ever, however many years ago, drop away into oblivion and die decently in its own dust.  They hold on to it, and dig it out that day year and that day every year, for years apparently,—­I expect for all their lives.  When they leave off really feeling about it—­which of course they do, for how can one go on feeling about a thing forever?—­they start pretending that they feel.  Conceive going through life clogged like that, all one’s pores choked with the dust of old yesterdays.  I picture the Germans trailing through life more and more heavily