Galgenberg, Nov. 15th.
Dear Mr. Anstruther,--I shall send this to Jermyn Street, as it can no
longer catch you in Italy. Jena is not on the way from London to Berlin,
and I don't know what map persuaded you that it was. It is very faithful
and devoted of you to want so much to see Professor Martens again, but
you know he is a busy man, and for five minutes with him as he rushes
from a lecture to a private lesson it hardly seems worth while to make
such a tremendous _détour_. Why, you would be hours pottering about on
branch lines and at junctions, and would never, I am certain, see your
luggage again. Still, it is not for me to refuse your visit to Professor
Martens on his behalf who as yet knows nothing about it. I merely
advise; and you know I do not easily miss an opportunity of doing that.
What another odd idea of yours to want to call on our Berlin relations.
Has Italy put these various warm genialities into your head? I did not
think I had made the Heinrich Schmidts attractive. I was shivering while
I wrote with renewed horror, as the remembrance of that evening with
them and of that morning rose up again before me. That the result should
be a thirst on your part for their address fills me with astonishment.
Do you want to go and do them good? Soften Onkel Heinrich, and teach him
to cherish kind Tante Else with the meek blue eyes and claret-colored
silk dress? You cannot seriously intend to set up regular social
intercourse with them. It is certain you will never meet them at any
party you go to,--no, not even Elschen's mother-in-law. The classes are
with us divided so rigorously that the needle's eye was child's play to
the camel compared to this other entering. You will, very properly,
remembering my cloistered life, inquire what I know about it; but it
seems to me, only please don't laugh, that I have seen and known quite a
good deal. When Experience leaves gaps, quick Imagination fills them up.
The straws I have noticed have been enough to show me which way the wind
was blowing; and women, pray remember, are artists at putting two and
two together. Therefore I prophesy that if you are at the English
Embassy in Berlin fifty years and meet fresh people every day of them,
among those people will never be Onkel Heinrich and Tante Else. What,
then, is the use of giving you their address? I will, if you really
seriously wish it, but I must warn you that they would be intensely
surprised by a call from you, and it would in no way add to their
comfort. The connecting thread is altogether too slender. Papa is not a
relation whose introductions they value, and to come from him is a
handicap rather than a recommendation. Do you know the only possible
conclusion they would come to?--and come to it they certainly
would--that somehow, somewhere, in a train, or a shop, or walking, you
had seen Lieschen, and had fallen in love with her. And before you knew
where you were you would be married to Lieschen.
How sad to have to come away from the flaming Spanish chestnuts of
Italy, and turn your face toward London fogs. You don't seem to mind.
You never do seem to mind the things that would fill my heart with
leaden despair, and over other things that should not matter you cry
out. Indeed, far from minding you seem eager to be off. Yet London can't
be nice in November, and Berlin, where you so soon will be, is simply
horrid. It was in November that we were there, and we splashed about in
a raw, wet cold,--rain on the verge of sleet and snow, a bitter wind at
the corners, the omnibuses all full (we could not afford the dearer and
more respectable tram), and everybody we met had an unkind strange face
that stared at us, in spite of hurry and umbrellas, with a thoroughness
and comprehensiveness that must be peculiar to Berlin. Papa's galoshes
didn't fit and kept coming off, and they always did it at the most
difficult moment, generally when we were crossing a street, and there
they would lie, scattered beneath hoofs and wheels, till I had rescued
them again. Also his umbrella, being old and never having been very
strong, turned inside out at extra gusty corners, and we, who had come
to look and wonder, found that the Berlin people thought we had come to
be looked and wondered at. But do not let me damp your ardor with these
gloomy tales. It is such an excellent thing that you should be ardent at
all after this long while of dissatisfaction with life that I ought to
cheer you on and not talk dreary. Besides, your umbrella won't mind
corners, and you do not wear galoshes. I wish you joy, then, of your new
post, and hope you will be very happy in it. Papa was most interested to
hear you were coming so near us, and sends you many messages whose
upshot is that you are to be a good boy and do him credit. He doesn't
know about the unfortunate ending to your engagement, and I shall not
tell him, for he would be sorry; and more and more as the days and
months melt away into a dream I am anxious that he should not be made
sorry. Do you not think that old people should never be made sorry?
Yours sincerely,