Koseritz, Monday, July 20.

My own darling mother,

I’m too happy,—­too happy to write, or think, or remember, or do anything except be happy.  You’ll forgive me, my own ever-understanding mother, because the minutes I have to take for other things seem so snatched away and lost, snatched from the real thing, the one real thing, which is my lover.  Oh, I expect I’m shameless, and I don’t care.  Ought I to simper, and pretend I don’t feel particularly much?  Be ladylike, and hide how I adore him?  Telegraph to me—­telegraph your blessing.  I must be blessed by you.  Till I have been, it’s like not having had my crown put on, and standing waiting, all ready in my beautiful clothes of happiness except for that.  I don’t care if I’m silly.  I don’t care about anything.  I don’t know what they think of our engagement here.  I imagine they deplore it on Bernd’s account,—­he’s an officer and a Junker and an only son and a person of promise, and altogether heaps of important things besides the important thing, which is that he’s Bernd.  And you see, little mother, I’m only a woman who is going to have a profession, and that’s an impossible thing from the Junker point of view.  It’s queer how nothing matters, no criticism or disapproval, how one can’t be touched directly one loves somebody and is loved back.  It is like being inside a magic ring of safety.  Why, I don’t think that there’s anything that could hurt me so long as we love each other.  We’ve had a wonderful morning walking in the forest.  It’s all quite true what happened last night.  It wasn’t a dream.  We are engaged.  I’ve hardly seen the others.  They congratulated us quite politely.  Kloster was very kind, but anxious lest I should let love, as he says, spoil art.  We laughed at that.  Bernd, who would have been a musician but for his family and his obligations, is going to be it vicariously through me.  I shall work all the harder with him to help me.  How right you were about a lover being the best of all things in the world!  I don’t know how anybody gets on without one.  I can’t think how I did.  It amazes me to remember that I used to think I was happy.  Bless me, little mother—­bless us.  Send a telegram.  I can’t wait.

  Your Chris.

  Koseritz, Thursday, July 23.

My own mother,

Thank you so much for your telegram of blessing, darling one, which I have just had.  It seems to set the seal of happiness on me.  I know you will love Bernd, and understand directly you see him why I do.  We are so placid here these beautiful summer days.  Everybody accepts us now resignedly as a fait accompli, and though they remain unenthusiastic they are polite and tolerant.  And whenever I play to them they all grow kind.  It’s rather like being Orpheus with his lute, and they the mountain tops that freeze.  I’ve discovered I can melt them by just making music.  Helena really does love music.  It was quite true what her mother said.  Since I played that first wonderful night of my engagement she has been quite different to me.  She still is silent, because that’s her nature, and she still stares; but now she stares in a sort of surprise, with a question in her eyes.  And wherever she may be in the house or garden, if she hears me beginning to play she creeps near on tiptoe and listens.