Roger goes.
Seriously, I think something of the sort will happen. I don't see how it
can help giving your father a dreadful shock; and suppose he gets ill,
and his blood is on my head? I can't see how it is to be avoided. There
is nothing to recommend me to him. He'll know I'm poor. He'll doubt if
I'm respectable. He won't even think me pretty. You might tell him that
I can cook, darn, manage as well as the thriftiest of _Hausfraus_, and I
believe it would leave him cold. You might dwell on my riper age as an
advantage, say I have lived down the first fevers of youth--I never had
them--say, if he objects to it, that Eve was as old as Adam when they
started life in their happy garden, and yet they got on very well, say
that I'm beautiful as an angel, or so plain that I am of necessity
sensible, and he'll only answer 'Fool.' Do you see anything to be done?
I don't; but I'm too happy to bother.
Later.
I had to go and help get supper ready. Johanna had let the fire out, and
it took rather ages. Why do you say you feel like screaming when you
think of me wrestling with Johanna? I tell you I'm so happy that nothing
any Johanna can do or leave undone in the least affects me. I go about
the house on tiptoe; I am superstitious, and have an idea that all sorts
of little envious Furies are lying about in dusty corners asleep, put to
sleep by you, and that if I don't move very delicately I shall wake
them--
O Freude, habe Acht,
Sprich leise, dass nicht der Schmerz erwacht....
That's not Goethe. By the way, _poor_ Goethe. What an unforeseen result
of a year in the City of the Muses, half an hour's journey from the Ilm
Athens itself, that you should pronounce his poetry coarse, obvious, and
commonplace. What would Papa say if he knew? Probably that young
Anstruther is not the intelligent young man he took him for. But then
Papa is soaked in Goethe, and the longer he soaks the more he adores
him. In this faith, in this Goethe-worship, I have been brought up, and
cannot, I'm afraid, get rid of it all at once. It is even possible that
I never shall, in spite of London and you. Will you love me less if I
don't? Always I have thought Goethe uninspired. The Muse never seized
and shook him till divinenesses dropped off his pen without his knowing
how or whence, divinenesses like those you find sometimes in the pages
of lesser men, lesser all-round men, stamped with the unmistakable stamp
of heavenly birth. Goethe knew very well, very exactly, where each of
his sentences had come from. But I don't see that his poetry is either
of the three things you say. I'm _afraid_ it is not the last two, for
the world would grow very interesting if thinking and writing as he did
were so obvious that we all did it. As to its being coarse, I'm
incurably incapable of seeing coarseness in things. To me
All is clean for ever and ever.
Everything is natural and everything is clean, except for the person who
is afraid it isn't. Perhaps, dear Roger, you won't, as Papa says, quite
apprehend my meaning; if you cannot, please console yourself with the
reflection that probably I haven't got one.
What you say about the money you'll have dazzles me. Why, it's a
fortune. We shall be richer than our _Bürgermeister_. You never told me
you were so rich. Five hundred pounds a year is ten thousand marks;
nearly double what we have always lived on, and we've really been quite
comfortable, now haven't we? But think of our glory when my hundred
pounds is added, and we have an income of twelve thousand marks. The
_Bürgermeister_ will be utterly eclipsed. And I'm such a good manager.
You'll see how we'll live. You'll grow quite fat. I shall give you
lovely food; and Papa says that lovely food is the one thing that ever
really makes a man give himself the trouble to rise up and call his wife
blessed.
It is so late. Good-night.