warm sweetness, of this summer in places in the forests and by the sea,—­I don’t believe people who had done that could for at least another year want to quarrel and fight.  And by the time they did want to, having got jumpy in the course of months of uninterrupted herding together, it will be time for them to go for holidays again, back to the blessed country to be soothed and healed.  And each year we shall grow wiser, each year more grown-up, less like naughty children, nearer to God.  All we want is time,—­time to think and understand.  I feel religious now.  Happiness has made me so religious that I would satisfy even Aunt Edith.  I’m sure happiness brings one to God much quicker than ways of grief.  Indeed it’s the only right way of being brought, I think.  You know, little mother, I’ve always hated the idea of being kicked to God, of getting on to our knees because we’ve been beaten till we can’t stand.  I think if I were to lose what I love,—­you, Bernd, or be hurt in my hands so that I couldn’t play,—­it wouldn’t make me good, it would make me bad.  I’d go all hard, and defy and rebel.  And really God ought to like that best.  It’s at least a square and manly attitude.  Think how we would despise any creature who fawned on us, and praised and thanked us because we had been cruel.  And why should God be less fine than we are?  Oh well, I must go to bed.  One can’t settle God in the tail-end of a letter.  But I’m going to say prayers tonight, real prayers of gratitude, real uplifting of the heart in thanks and praise.  I think I was always happy, little mother.  I don’t remember anything else; but it wasn’t this secure happiness.  I used to be anxious sometimes.  I knew we were poor, and that you were so very precious.  Now I feel safe, safe about you as well as myself.  I can look life in the eyes, quite confident, almost careless.  I have such faith in Bernd!  Two together are so strong, if one of the two is Bernd.

Good night my blessed mother of my heart.  I’m going to say thank-prayers now, for you, for him, for the whole beautifulness of the world.  My windows are wide open on to the Haff.  There’s no sound at all, except that little plop, plop, of the water against the terrace wall.  Sometimes a bird flutters for a moment in the trees of the forest on either side of the garden, turning over in its sleep, I suppose, and then everything is still again, so still; just as if some great cool hand were laid gently on the hot forehead of the world and was hushing it to sleep.

Your Chris who loves you.

  Koseritz, Friday, July 25th, 1914.

Beloved mother,