“Oh yes; rather.”

“Well, an acquaintance of mine saw you last summer with several ladies in the Harz Mountains, and you preferred to converse with the tallest, that must have been your fiancee.”

The tallest woman in your party was, I fancy, Frau von Mittelstaedt. * * * The Harz!  The Harz!

After a thorough consultation with Frau Bellin, I have decided to make no special changes here for the present, but to wait until we can hear the wishes of the lady of the house in the matter, so that we may have nothing to be sorry for.  In six months I hope we shall know what we have to do.

It is impossible as yet to say anything definite about our next meeting.  Just now it is raining; if that continues the Elbe may be played out in a week or two, and then. * * * Still no news whatever about the Landtag.  Most cordial greetings and assurances of my love to your parents, and the former—­the latter, too, if you like—­to all your cousins, women friends, etc.  What have you done with Aennchen?[7] My forgetting the Versin letters disturbs me; I did not mean to make such a bad job of it.  Have they been found Farewell, my treasure, my heart, consolation of my eyes.

Your faithful BISMARCK.

Another picture, a description of a storm in the Alps, which catches my eye as I turn over the pages of the book, and pleases me much: 

  “The sky is changed, and such a change!  O night,
  And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
  Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
  Of a dark eye in woman!  Far along
  From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
  Leaps the live thunder; not from one lone cloud,
  But every mountain now has found a tongue,
  And Jura answers through her misty shroud—­
  Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud.

  And this is in the night:—­most glorious night! 
  Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
  A sharer in thy fierce and fair delight—­
  A portion of the tempest and of thee! 
  How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
  And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 
  And now again ’tis black, and now the glee
  Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
  As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.”

On such a night the suggestion comes uncommonly near to me that I wish to be a sharer in the delight, a portion of tempest, of night;[8] mounted on a runaway horse, to dash down the cliffs into the falls of the Rhine, or something similar.  A pleasure of that kind, unfortunately, one can enjoy but once in this life.  There is something intoxicating in nocturnal storms.  Your nights, dearest, I hope you regard, however, as sent for slumber, not for writing.[9] I see with regret that I write English still more illegibly than German.  Once more, farewell, my heart.  Tomorrow noon I am invited to be the guest of Frau Brauchitsch, presumably so that I may be duly and thoroughly questioned about you and yours.  I’ll tell them as much as I please. Je t’embrasse mille fois.