Galgenberg, Jan. 13th.
Dear Mr. Anstruther,--Just a line to tell you that I have recovered, and
you are not to take my letter yesterday too seriously. I woke up this
morning perfectly normal, and able to look out on the day before me with
the usual interest. Then something very nice happened: my translation of
Papa's book didn't come back, but instead arrived an urbane letter
expressing a kind of reluctant willingness, if you can imagine the
mixture, to publish it. What do you think of that? The letter, it is
true, goes on to suggest, still with urbanity, that no doubt no one will
ever buy it, but promises if ever any one does to send us a certain just
portion of what was paid for it. 'Observe, Rose-Marie,' said Papa when
his first delight had calmed, 'the unerring instinct with which the
English, very properly called a nation of shopkeepers, instantly
recognize the value of a good thing when they see it. Consider the long
years during which I have vainly beaten at the doors of the German
public, and compare its deafness with the quick response of our alert
and admirable cousins across the Channel. Well do I know which was the
part that specially appealed to this man's business instinct--'
And he mentioned, while my guilty ears burned crimson, a chapter of
statistics, the whole of which I had left out.
Yours sincerely,