The Oberforster put on a thin green linen coat for supper, which he left unbuttoned to mark that he was off duty, and we sat round the table till it was starlight.  Owls hooted in the forest across the road, and bats darted about our heads.  Also there were mosquitoes.  A great many mosquitoes.  Herr Bornsted told me I wouldn’t mind them after a while. “Herrlich,” I said, with real enthusiasm.

And now I’m going to bed.  Kloster was right to send me here.  I’ve been leaning out of my window.  The night tonight is the most beautiful thing, a great dark cave of softness.  I’m at the back of the house where the meadow is and the good cow, and beyond the meadow there’s another belt of forest, and then just over the tops of the pines, which are a little more softly dark than the rest of the soft darkness, there’s a pale line of light that is the star-lit water of the Haff.  Frogs are croaking down by the stream, every now and then an owl hoots somewhere in the distance, and the air comes up to my face off the long grass cool and damp.  I can’t tell you the effect the blessed silence, the blessed peace has on me after the fret of Berlin.  It feels like getting back to God.  It feels like being home again in heaven after having been obliged to spend six weeks in hell.  And yet here, even here in the very lap of peace, as we sat in the porch after supper the Oberforster talked ceaselessly of Weltpolitik.  The very sound of that word now makes me wince; for translated into plain English, what it means when you’ve pulled all the trimmings off and look at it squarely, is just taking other people’s belongings, beginning with their blood.  I must learn enough German to suggest that to the Oberforster:  Murder, as a preliminary to Theft.  I’m afraid he would send me straight back in disgrace to Frau Berg.

Good night darling mother.  I’ll write oftener now.  My rules don’t count this fortnight.  Bless you, beloved little mother.

  Your Chris.

  Schuppenfelde, Monday, July 13th.

Sweet mother,

I got your letter from Switzerland forwarded on this morning, and like to feel you’re by so much nearer me than you were a week ago.  At least, I try to persuade myself that it’s a thing to like, but I know in my heart it makes no earthly difference.  If you’re only a mile away and I mayn’t see you, what’s the good?  You might as well be a thousand.  The one thing that will get me to you again is accomplished work.  I want to work, to be quick; and here I am idle, precious days passing, each of which not used for working means one day longer away from you.  And I’m so well.  There’s no earthly reason why I shouldn’t start practising again this very minute.  A day yesterday in the forest has cured me completely.  By the time I’ve lived through my week of promised idleness I shall be kicking my loose box to pieces!  And then for another whole week there’ll only be two hours of my violin allowed.  Why, I shall fall on those miserable two hours like a famished beggar on a crust.