“Read, read.”

“Dear Effi:  The nearer we come to our wedding day, the more scanty your letters grow.  When the mail arrives I always look first of all for your handwriting, but, as you know, all in vain, as a rule, and yet I did not ask to have it otherwise.  The workmen are now in the house who are to prepare the rooms, few in number, to be sure, for your coming.  The best part of the work will doubtless not be done till we are on our journey.  Paper-hanger Madelung, who is to furnish everything, is an odd original.  I shall tell you about him the next time.  Now I must tell you first of all how happy I am over you, over my sweet little Effi.  The very ground beneath my feet here is on fire, and yet our good city is growing more and more quiet and lonesome.  The last summer guest left yesterday.  Toward the end he went swimming at nine degrees above zero (Centigrade), and the attendants were always rejoiced when he came out alive.  For they feared a stroke of apoplexy, which would give the baths a bad reputation, as though the water were worse here than elsewhere.  I rejoice when I think that in four weeks I shall row with you from the Piazzetta out to the Lido or to Murano, where they make glass beads and beautiful jewelry.  And the most beautiful shall be yours.  Many greetings to your parents and the tenderest kiss for yourself from your Geert.”

Effi folded the letter and put it back into the envelope.

“That is a very pretty letter,” said Mrs. von Briest, “and that it observes due moderation throughout is a further merit.”

“Yes, due moderation it surely does observe.”

“My dear Effi, let me ask a question.  Do you wish that the letter did not observe due moderation?  Do you wish that it were more affectionate, perhaps gushingly affectionate?”

“No, no, mama.  Honestly and truly no, I do not wish that.  So it is better as it is.”

“So it is better as it is.  There you go again.  You are so queer.  And by the by, a moment ago you were weeping.  Is something troubling you?  It is not yet too late.  Don’t you love Geert?”

“Why shouldn’t I love him?  I love Hulda, and I love Bertha, and I love Hertha.  And I love old Mr. Niemeyer, too.  And that I love you and papa I don’t even need to mention.  I love all who mean well by me and are kind to me and humor me.  No doubt Geert will humor me, too.  To be sure, in his own way.  You see he is already thinking of giving me jewelry in Venice.  He hasn’t the faintest suspicion that I care nothing for jewelry.  I care more for climbing and swinging and am always happiest when I expect every moment that something will give way or break and cause me to tumble.  It will not cost me my head the first time, you know.”

“And perhaps you also love your Cousin von Briest?”

“Yes, very much.  He always cheers me.”

“And would you have liked to marry Cousin von Briest?”

“Marry?  For heaven’s sake no.  Why, he is still half a boy.  Geert is a man, a handsome man, a man with whom I can shine and he will make something of himself in the world.  What are you thinking of, mama?”