BERLIN, December 21.
Dear Emma--The ticket is not to be found either in the wardrobe or in
the desk. Perhaps it slipped out when you were packing, and was thrown
away. I can think of no other explanation.
To-morrow or next day I will again go to Herr Palaschke, and try to
wheedle him out of my property by all possible blandishments and
assurances, but to-day I am confined to my room, for my cold has
resulted in a severe attack of neuralgia.
I had a dreadful scene with the cook yesterday. On the day of your
departure she gave me notice, and when I tried to persuade her to
remain she turned on me and told me in a very insolent manner that I
knew nothing about housekeeping, and that it was only out of sympathy
for you, dear Emma, that she had so long remained with us at such low
wages, and that she should leave immediately. I answered calmly, but
firmly, that she must stay till the end of her engagement. Then she
began to cry and storm, and at last was so outrageously impertinent as
to declare that even _you_ could not manage to live with me. I lost
my temper and must, I suppose, have called her an “impudent woman,”
though I can not remember saying it. Unfortunately for me I have had no
experience in dealing with viragos.
Two hours later, after supper, I rang and discovered that she was
already gone, bag and baggage, leaving in the kitchen a badly spelled
_billet doux_, in which she threatened me with a lawsuit for calling
her an “impudent woman,” in case I should refuse to give her a
certificate of character.
I am now entirely without servants. The porter’s wife blacks my shoes
for a handsome consideration, and brings me from the café meals which
ought to be condemned by the health inspector. As you have truly
remarked, it will be impossible to replace these women before the New
Year, but I have already written to a dozen employment bureaus, and
will go myself as soon as I am able to leave the house. This has grown
into a long letter, my dear Emma, but when the heart is full the pen
runs rapidly.
I also suspect that abominable cook of taking my gold sleeve
buttons--those left me by Uncle Friedrich--though I have, of course, no
proof. Have you any idea where they are? If so please drop me a line.
Good-by, my dear Emma, and I trust you are more comfortable than I am.
Your MAX.