bath and tidied up I shall get out my fiddle and see if I’ve forgotten how to play it between London and Berlin.  If only I can be sure you aren’t going to be too lonely!  Beloved mother, it will only be a year, or even less if I work fearfully hard and really get on, and once it is over a year is nothing.  Oh, I know you’ll write and tell me you don’t mind a bit and rather like it, but you see your Chris hasn’t lived with you all her life for nothing; she knows you very well now,—­at least, as much of your dear sacred self that you will show her.  Of course I know you’re going to be brave and all that, but one can be very unhappy while one is being brave, and besides, one isn’t brave unless one is suffering.  The worst of it is that we’re so poor, or you could have come with me and we’d have taken a house and set up housekeeping together for my year of study.  Well, we won’t be poor for ever, little mother.  I’m going to be your son, and husband, and everything else that loves and is devoted, and I’m going to earn both our livings for us, and take care of you forever.  You’ve taken care of me till now, and now it’s my turn.  You don’t suppose I’m a great hulking person of twenty two, and five foot ten high, and with this lucky facility in fiddling, for nothing?  It’s a good thing it is summer now, or soon will be, and you can work away in your garden, for I know that is where you are happiest; and by the time it’s winter you’ll be used to my not being there, and besides there’ll be the spring to look forward to, and in the spring I come home, finished.  Then I’ll start playing and making money, and we’ll have the little house we’ve dreamed of in London, as well as our cottage, and we’ll be happy ever after.  And after all, it is really a beautiful arrangement that we only have each other in the world, because so we each get the other’s concentrated love.  Else it would be spread out thin over a dozen husbands and brothers and people.  But for all that I do wish dear Dad were still alive and with you.

This pension is the top fiat of a four-storied house, and there isn’t a lift, so I arrived breathless, besides being greatly battered and all crooked after my night sitting up in the train; and Frau Berg came and opened the door herself when I rang, and when she saw me she threw up two immense hands and exclaimed, “Herr Gott!”

“Nicht wahr?” I said, agreeing with her, for I knew I must be looking too awful.

She then said, while I stood holding on to my violin-case and umbrella and coat and a paper bag of ginger biscuits I had been solacing myself with in the watches of the night, that she hadn’t known when exactly to expect me, so she had decided not to expect me at all, for she had observed that the things you do not expect come to you, and the things you do expect do not; besides, she was a busy woman, and busy women waste no time expecting anything in any case; and then she said, “Come in.”