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Title: A Young Girl’s Diary

Author: An Anonymous Young Girl

Commentator: Prefaced by a letter by Sigmund Freud

Translator: Eden and Cedar Paul

Release Date: January 21, 2006 [EBook #752]
Last Updated: November 6, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A YOUNG GIRL’S DIARY ***




Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger






A YOUNG GIRL’S DIARY

Prefaced with a Letter by Sigmund Freud

Translated by Eden and Cedar Paul


CONTENTS

     FIRST YEAR     Age 11 to 12
     SECOND YEAR    Age 12 to 13
     THIRD YEAR     Age 13 to 14
     LAST HALF-YEAR Age 14 to 14 1/2
     CONCLUSION


PREFACE


THE best preface to this journal written by a young girl belonging to
the upper middle class is a letter by Sigmund Freud dated April 27,
1915, a letter wherein the distinguished Viennese psychologist testifies
to the permanent value of the document:


“This diary is a gem. Never before, I believe, has anything been written
enabling us to see so clearly into the soul of a young girl, belonging
to our social and cultural stratum, during the years of puberal
development. We are shown how the sentiments pass from the simple egoism
of childhood to attain maturity; how the relationships to parents
and other members of the family first shape themselves, and how they
gradually become more serious and more intimate; how friendships are
formed and broken. We are shown the dawn of love, feeling out towards
its first objects. Above all, we are shown how the mystery of the sexual
life first presses itself vaguely on the attention, and then takes
entire possession of the growing intelligence, so that the child suffers
under the load of secret knowledge but gradually becomes enabled to
shoulder the burden. Of all these things we have a description at once
so charming, so serious, and so artless, that it cannot fail to be of
supreme interest to educationists and psychologists.

“It is certainly incumbent on you to publish the diary. All students of
my own writings will be grateful to you.”

In preparing these pages for the press, the editor has toned down
nothing, has added nothing, and has suppressed nothing. The only
alterations she has made have been such as were essential to conceal the
identity of the writer and of other persons mentioned in the document.
Consequently, surnames, Christian names, and names of places, have been
changed. These modifications have enabled the original author of the
diary to allow me to place it at the free disposal of serious readers.

No attempt has been made to correct trifling faults in grammar and other
inelegancies of style. For the most part, these must not be regarded
as the expression of a child’s incapacity for the control of language.
Rather must they be looked upon as manifestations of affective
trends, as errors in functioning brought about by the influence of the
Unconscious.

THE EDITOR. VIENNA, _Autumn_, 1919.




FIRST YEAR, AGE ELEVEN TO TWELVE


FIRST YEAR


July 12, 19 . . . Hella and I are writing a diary. We both agreed that
when we went to the high school we would write a diary every day. Dora
keeps a diary too, but she gets furious if I look at it. I call Helene
“Hella,” and she calls me “Rita;” Helene and Grete are so vulgar. Dora
has taken to calling herself “Thea,” but I go on calling her “Dora.” She
says that little children (she means me and Hella) ought not to keep a
diary. She says they will write such a lot of nonsense. No more than in
hers and Lizzi’s.

July 13th. Really we were not to begin writing until after the holidays,
but since we are both going away, we are beginning now. Then we shall
know what we have been doing in the holidays.

The day before yesterday we had an entrance examination, it was very
easy, in dictation I made only 1 mistake--writing _ihn_ without _h_. The
mistress said that didn’t matter, I had only made a slip. That is quite
true, for I know well enough that _ihn_ has an _h_ in it. We were both
dressed in white with rose-coloured ribbons, and everyone believed
we were sisters or at least cousins. It would be very nice to have
a cousin. But it’s still nicer to have a friend, for we can tell one
another everything.

July 14th. The mistress was very kind. Because of her Hella and I are
really sorry that we are not going to a middle school. Then every
day before lessons began we could have had a talk with her in the
class-room. But we’re awfully pleased because of the other girls. One is
more important when one goes to the high school instead of only to
the middle school. That is why the girls are in such a rage. “They are
bursting with pride” (that’s what my sister says of me and Hella, but
it is not true). “Our two students” said the mistress when we came away.
She told us to write to her from the country. I shall.

July 15th. Lizzi, Hella’s sister, is not so horrid as Dora, she
is always so nice! To-day she gave each of us at least ten
chocolate-creams. It’s true Hella often says to me: “You don’t know her,
what a beast she can be. _Your_ sister is generally very nice to me.”
 Certainly it is very funny the way in which she always speaks of us as
“the little ones” or “the children,” as if she had never been a child
herself, and indeed a much littler one than we are. Besides we’re just
the same as she is now. She is in the fourth class and we are in the
first.

To-morrow we are going to Kaltenbach in Tyrol. I’m frightfully excited.
Hella went away to-day to Hungary to her uncle and aunt with her mother
and Lizzi. Her father is at manoeuvres.

July 19th. It’s awfully hard to write every day in the holidays.
Everything is so new and one has no time to write. We are living in a
big house in the forest. Dora bagged the front veranda straight off
for her own writing. At the back of the house there are such swarms of
horrid little flies; everything is black with flies. I do hate flies and
such things. I’m not going to put up with being driven out of the
front veranda. I won’t have it. Besides, Father said: “Don’t quarrel,
children!” (_Children_ to _her_ too!!) He’s quite right. She puts
on such airs because she’ll be fourteen in October. “The verandas are
common property,” said Father. Father’s always so just. He never lets
Dora lord it over me, but Mother often makes a favourite of Dora. I’m
writing to Hella to-day. She’s not written to me yet.

July 21st. Hella has written to me, 4 pages, and such a jolly letter. I
don’t know what I should do without her! Perhaps she will come here in
August or perhaps I shall go to stay with her. I think I would rather go
to stay with her. I like paying long visits. Father said: “We’ll see,”
 and that means he’ll let me go. When Father and Mother say We’ll see it
really means Yes; but they won’t say “yes” so that if it does not come
off one can’t say that they haven’t kept their word. Father really lets
me do anything I like, but not Mother. Still, if I practice my piano
regularly perhaps she’ll let me go. I must go for a walk.

July 22nd. Hella wrote that I positively must write every day, for one
must keep a promise and we swore to write every day. I. . . .

July 23rd. It’s awful. One has no time. Yesterday when I wanted to write
the room had to be cleaned and D. was in the arbour. Before that I had
not written a _single_ word and in the front veranda all my pages blew
away. We write on loose pages. Hella thinks it’s better because then one
does not have to tear anything out. But we have promised one another to
throw nothing away and not to tear anything up. Why should we? One can
tell a friend everything. A pretty friend if one couldn’t. Yesterday
when I wanted to go into the arbour Dora glared at me savagely, saying
What do you want? As if the arbour belonged to her, just as she wanted
to bag the front veranda all for herself. She’s too sickening.

Yesterday afternoon we were on the Kolber-Kogel. It was lovely. Father
was awfully jolly and we pelted one another with pine-cones. It was
jolly. I threw one at Dora and it hit her on her padded bust. She let
out such a yell and I said out loud You couldn’t feel it _there_. As she
went by she said Pig! It doesn’t matter, for I know she understood me
and that what I said was true. I should like to know what _she_ writes
about every day to Erika and what she writes in her diary. Mother was
out of sorts and stayed at home.

July 24th. To-day is Sunday. I do love Sundays. Father says: You
children have Sundays every day. That’s quite true in the holidays, but
not at other times. The peasants and their wives and children are all
very gay, wearing Tyrolese dresses, just like those I have seen in the
theatre. We are wearing our white dresses to-day, and I have made a
great cherrystain upon mine, not on purpose, but because I sat down upon
some fallen cherries. So this afternoon when we go out walking I must
wear my pink dress. All the better, for I don’t care to be dressed
exactly the same as Dora. I don’t see why everyone should know that
we are sisters. Let people think we are cousins. She does not like it
either; I wish I knew why.

Oswald is coming in a week, and I am awfully pleased. He is older than
Dora, but I can always get on with him. Hella writes that she finds it
dull without me; so do I.

July 25th. I wrote to Fraulein Pruckl to-day. She is staying at
Achensee. I should like to see her. Every afternoon we bathe and then
go for a walk. But to-day it has been raining all day. Such a bore. I
forgot to bring my paint-box and I’m not allowed to read all day. Mother
says, if you gobble all your books up now you’ll have nothing left to
read. That’s quite true, but I can’t even go and swing.

Afternoon. I must write some more. I’ve had a frightful row with Dora.
She says I’ve been fiddling with her things. It’s all because she’s so
untidy. As if _her_ things could interest me. Yesterday she left her
letter to Erika lying about on the table, and all I read was: He’s as
handsome as a Greek god. I don’t know who “he” was for she came in at
that moment. It’s probably Krail Rudi, with whom she is everlastingly
playing tennis and carries on like anything. As for handsome--well,
there’s no accounting for tastes.

July 26th. It’s a good thing I brought my dolls’ portmanteau. Mother
said: You’ll be glad to have it on rainy days. Of course I’m much too
old to play with dolls, but even though I’m 11 I can make dolls’
clothes still. One learns something while one is doing it, and when I’ve
finished something I do enjoy it so. Mother cut me out some things and I
was tacking them together. Then Dora came into the room and said Hullo,
the child is sewing things for her dolls. What cheek, as if she had
never played with dolls. Besides, I don’t really play with dolls any
longer. When she sat down beside me I sewed so vigorously that I made a
great scratch on her hand, and said: Oh, I’m so sorry, but you came too
close. I hope she’ll know why I really did it. Of course she’ll go and
sneak to Mother. Let her. What right has she to call me child. She’s got
a fine red scratch anyhow, and on her right hand where everyone can see.

July 27th. There’s such a lot of fruit here. I eat raspberries and
gooseberries all day and Mother says that is why I have no appetite for
dinner. But Dr. Klein always says Fruit is so wholesome. But why should
it be unwholesome all at once? Hella always says that when one likes
anything awfully much one is always scolded about it until one gets
perfectly sick of it. Hella often gets in such a temper with her mother,
and then her mother says: We make such sacrifices for our children and
they reward us with ingratitude. I should like to know what sacrifices
they make. I think it’s the children who make the sacrifices. When I
want to eat gooseberries and am not allowed to, the sacrifice is _mine_
not _Mother’s_. I’ve written all this to Hella. Fraulein Pruckl has
written to me. The address on her letter to me was splendid, “Fraulein
Grete Lainer, Lyzealschulerin.” Of course Dora had to know better than
anyone else, and said that in the higher classes from the fourth
upwards (because she is in the fourth) they write “Lyzeistin.” She said:
“Anyhow, in the holidays, before a girl has attended the first class
she’s not a Lyzealschulerin at all.” Then Father chipped in, saying that
_we_ (_I_ didn’t begin it) really must stop this eternal wrangling; he
really could not stand it. He’s quite right, but what he said won’t do
any good, for Dora will go on just the same. Fraulein Pruckl wrote that
she was _delighted_ that I had written. As soon as I have time she wants
me to write to her again. Great Scott, I’ve always time for _her_. I
shall write to her again this evening after supper, so as not to keep
her waiting.

July 29th. I simply could not write yesterday. The Warths have arrived,
and I had to spend the whole day with Erna and Liesel, although it
rained all day. We had a ripping time. They know a lot of round games
and we played for sweets. I won 47, and I gave five of them to Dora.
Robert is already more than a head taller than we are, I mean than
Liesel and me; I think he is fifteen. He says Fraulein Grete and carried
my cloak which Mother sent me because of the rain and he saw me home
after supper.

To-morrow is my birthday and everyone has been invited and Mother has
made strawberry cream and waffles. How spiffing.

July 30th. To-day is my birthday. Father gave me a splendid parasol
with a flowered border and painting materials and Mother gave me a huge
postcard album for 800 cards and stories for school girls, and Dora gave
me a beautiful box of notepaper and Mother had made a chocolate-cream
cake for dinner to-day as well as the strawberry cream. The first thing
in the morning the Warths sent me three birthday cards. And Robert had
written on his: With deepest _respect your faithful R_. It is glorious
to have a birthday, everyone is so kind, even Dora. Oswald sent me a
wooden paper-knife, the handle is a dragon and the blade shoots out
of its mouth instead of flame; or perhaps the blade is its tongue, one
can’t be quite sure. It has not rained yet on my birthday. Father says I
was born under a lucky star. That suits me all right, tip top.

July 31st. Yesterday was heavenly. We laughed till our sides ached over
Consequences. I was always being coupled with Robert and oh the things
we did together, not really of course but only in writing: kissed,
hugged, lost in the forest, bathed together; but I say, I wouldn’t do
_that!_ quarrelled. That won’t happen, it’s quite impossible! Then we
drank my health clinking glasses five times and Robert wanted to drink
it in wine but Dora said that would never do! The real trouble was
this. She always gets furious if she has to play second fiddle to me and
yesterday I was certainly first fiddle.

Now I must write a word about to-day. We’ve had a splendid time. We
were in Tiefengraben with the Warths where there are such a lot of wild
strawberries. Robert picked all the best of them for me, to the great
annoyance of Dora who had to pick them for herself. Really I would
rather pick them for myself, but when some one else picks them for one
for _love_ (that’s what Robert said) then one is quite glad to have them
picked for one. Besides, I did pick some myself and gave most of them to
Father and some to Mother. At afternoon tea which we had in Flischberg
I had to sit beside Erna instead of Robert. Erna is rather dull. Mother
says she is _anemic_; that sounds frightfully interesting, but I don’t
quite know what it means. Dora is always saying that she is anemic,
but of course that is not true. And Father always says “Don’t talk such
stuff, you’re as fit as a fiddle.” That puts her in such a wax. Last
year Lizzi was really anemic, so the doctor said, she was always having
palpitation and had to take iron and drink Burgundy. I think that’s
where Dora got the idea.

August 1st. Hella is rather cross with me because I wrote and told her
that I had spent the whole day with the W’s. Still, she is really my
only friend or I should not have written and told her. Every year in the
country she has another friend too, but that doesn’t put me out. I can’t
understand why she doesn’t like Robert; she doesn’t know anything about
him except what I have written and certainly that was nothing but good.
Of course she does know him for he is a cousin of the Sernigs and she
met him once there. But one does not get to know a person from seeing
them once. Anyhow she does not know him the way I do. Yesterday I was
with the Warths all day. We played Place for the King and Robert caught
me and I had to give him a kiss. And Erna said, that doesn’t count, for
I had let myself be caught. But Robert got savage and said: Erna is a
perfect nuisance, she spoils everyone’s pleasure. He’s quite right, but
there’s some one else just as bad. But I do hope Erna has not told Dora
about the kiss. If she has everyone will know and I shouldn’t like that.
I lay in wait for Erna with the sweets which Aunt Dora sent us. Robert
and Liesel and I ate the rest. They were so good and nearly all large
ones. At first Robert wanted to take quite a little one, but I said he
must only have a big one. After that he always picked out the big ones.
When I came home in the evening with the empty box Father laughed and
said: There’s nothing mean about our Gretel. Besides, Mother still has
a great box full; I have no idea whether Dora still has a lot, but I
expect so.

August 2nd. Oswald arrived this afternoon at 5. He’s a great swell now;
he’s begun to grow a moustache. In the evening Father took him to the
hotel to introduce him to some friends. He said it would be an awful
bore, but he will certainly make a good impression especially in his new
tourist getup and leather breeches. Grandmama and Grandpapa sent love to
all. I’ve never seen them. They have sent a lot of cakes and sweets and
Oswald grumbled no end because he had to bring them. Oswald is always
smoking cigarettes and Father said to him: Come along old chap, we’ll
go to the inn and have a drink on the strength of your good report. It
seems to me rather funny; no one wants to drink anything when Dora and I
have a good report, at most they give us a present. Oswald has only Twos
and Threes and very few Ones and in Greek nothing but Satisfactory, but
I have nothing but Ones. He said something to Father in Latin and Father
laughed heartily and said something I could not understand. I don’t
think it was Latin, but it may have been Magyar or English. Father knows
nearly all languages, even Czech, but thank goodness he doesn’t talk
them unless he wants to tease us. Like that time at the station when
Dora and I were so ashamed. Czech is horrid, Mother says so too. When
Robert pretends to speak Czech it’s screamingly funny.

August 3rd. I got a chill bathing the other day so now I am not allowed
to bathe for a few days. Robert keeps me company. We are quite alone and
he tells me all sorts of tales. He swings me so high that I positively
yell. To-day he made me really angry, for he said: Oswald is a regular
noodle. I said, that’s not true, boys can never stand one another.
Besides, it is not true that he lisps. Anyhow I like Oswald much better
than Dora who always says “the children” when she is talking of me and
of Hella and even of Robert. Then he said: Dora is just as big a goose
as Erna. He’s quite right there. Robert says he is never going to smoke,
that it is so vulgar, that real gentlemen never smoke. But what about
Father, I should like to know? He says, too, that he will never grow a
beard but will shave every day and his wife will have to put everything
straight to him. But a beard suits Father and I can’t imagine him
without a beard. I know I won’t marry a man without a beard.

August 5th. We go to the tennis ground every day. When we set off
yesterday, Robert and I and Liesel and Erna and Rene, Dora called after
us: The bridal pair in spee. She had picked up the phrase from Oswald. I
think it means in a hundred years. _She_ can wait a hundred years if she
likes, we shan’t. Mother scolded her like anything and said she mustn’t
say such stupid things. A good job too; in spee, in spee. Now we always
talk of her as Inspee, but no one knows who we mean.

August 6th. Hella can’t come here, for she is going to Klausenburg with
her mother to stay with her other uncle who is district judge there or
whatever they call a district judge in Hungary. Whenever I think of a
district judge I think of District Judge T., such a hideous man. What
a nose and his wife is so lovely; but her parents forced her into the
marriage. I would not let anyone force me into such a marriage, I would
much sooner not marry at all, besides she’s awfully unhappy.

August 7th. There has been such a fearful row about Dora. Oswald told
Father that she flirted so at the tennis court and he could not stand
it. Father was in a towering rage and now we mayn’t play tennis any
more. What upset her more than anything was that Father said in front of
me: This little chit of 14 is already encouraging people to make love to
her. Her eyes were quite red and swollen and she couldn’t eat anything
at supper because she had such a _headache!!_ We know all about her
headaches. But I really can’t see why I shouldn’t go and play tennis.

August 8th. Oswald says that it wasn’t the student’s fault at all but
only Dora’s. I can quite believe that when I think of that time on the
Southern Railway. Still, they won’t let me play tennis any more, though
I begged and begged Mother to ask Father to let me. She said it would
do no good for Father was very angry and I mustn’t spend whole days
with the Warths any more. Whole days! I should like to know when I was a
whole day there. When I went there naturally I had to stay to dinner at
least. What have I got to do with Dora’s love affairs? It’s really too
absurd. But grown-ups are always like that. When one person has done
anything the others have to pay for it too.

August 9th. Thank goodness, I can play tennis once more; I begged and
begged until Father let me go. Dora declares that nothing will induce
her to ask! That’s the old story of the fox and the grapes. She has been
playing the invalid lately, won’t bathe, and stays at home when she can
instead of going for walks. I should like to know what’s the matter with
her. What I can’t make out is why Father lets her do it. As for Mother,
she always spoils Dora; Dora is Mother’s favourite, especially when
Oswald is not on hand. I can understand her making a favourite of
Oswald, but not of Dora. Father always says that parents have no
favourites, but treat all their children alike. That’s true enough as
far as Father is concerned, although Dora declares that Father makes a
favourite of me; but that’s only her fancy. At Christmas and other times
we always get the same sort of presents, and that’s the real test.
Rosa Plank always gets at least three times as much as the rest of the
family, that’s what it is to be a favourite.

August 12th. I can’t write every day for I spend most of my time
with the Warths. Oswald can’t stand Robert, he says he is a cad and
a greenhorn. What vulgar phrases. For three days I haven’t spoken to
Oswald except when I really had to. When I told Erna and Liesel about
it, they said that brothers were always rude to their sisters. I said,
I should like to know why. Besides, Robert is generally very nice to his
sisters. They said, Yes before you, because he’s on his best behaviour
with you. Yesterday we laughed like anything when he told us what fun
the boys make of their masters. That story about the cigarette ends
was screamingly funny. They have a society called T. Au. M., that is
in Latin Be Silent or Die in initial letters. No one may betray the
society’s secrets, and when they make a new member he has to strip off
all his clothes and lie down naked and every one spits on his chest and
rubs it and says: Be One of Us, but all in Latin. Then he has to go to
the eldest and biggest who gives him two or three cuts with a cane and
he has to swear that he will never betray anyone. Then everyone smokes
a cigar and touches him with the lighted end on the arm or somewhere
and says: Every act of treachery will burn you like that. And then the
eldest, who has a special name which I can’t remember, tattoos on him
the word Taum, that is Be Silent or Die, and a heart with the name of
a girl. Robert says that if he had known me sooner he would have chosen
“Gretchen.” I asked him what name he had tattooed on him, but he said
he was not allowed to tell. I shall tell Oswald to look when they
are bathing and to tell me. In this society they abuse the masters
frightfully and the one who thinks of the best tricks to play on them
is elected to the Rohon; to be a Rohon is a great distinction and the
others must always carry out his orders. He said there was a lot more
which he couldn’t tell me because it’s too tremendous. Then I had to
swear that I would never tell anyone about the society and he wanted
me to take the oath upon my knees, but I wouldn’t do that and he nearly
forced me to my knees. In the end I had to give him my hand on it and a
kiss. I didn’t mind giving him that, for a kiss is nothing, but nothing
would induce me to kneel down. Still, I was in an awful fright, for we
were quite alone in the garden and he took me by the throat and tried
to force me to my knees. All that about the _society_ he told me when
we were quite alone for he said: I can’t have your name tattooed on me
because it’s against our laws to have two names but now that you have
sworn I can let you know what I really am and think in secret.

I couldn’t sleep all night for I kept on dreaming of the society,
wondering whether there are such societies in the high school and
whether Dora is in a society and has a name tattooed on her. But it
would be horrible to have to strip naked before all one’s schoolfellows.
Perhaps in the societies of the high-school girls that part is left
out. But I shouldn’t like to say for sure whether I’d have Robert’s name
tattooed on me.

August 15th. Yesterday Robert told me that there are some schoolboy
societies where they do very improper things, but that never happened in
their society. But he didn’t say what. I said, the stripping naked seems
to me awful; but he said, Oh, that’s nothing, that must happen if
we’re to trust one another, it’s all right as long as there’s nothing
improper. I wish I knew what. I wish I knew whether Oswald knows about
it, and whether he is in such a society or in a proper one and whether
Father was in one. If I could only find out. But I can’t ask, for if I
did I should betray Robert. When he sees me he always presses my left
wrist without letting anyone see. He said that is the warning to me to
be silent. But he needn’t do that really, for I never would betray him
whatever happened. He said: The pain is to bind you to me. When he says
that his eyes grow dark, quite black, although his eyes are really grey
and they get very large. Especially in the evening when we say goodbye,
it frightens me. I’m always dreaming of him.

August 18th. Yesterday evening we had illuminations in honour of the
emperor’s birthday. We didn’t get home until half past twelve. At first
we went to a concert in the park and to the illuminations. They fired
salutes from the hills and there were beacons flaring on the hill-tops;
it was rather creepy although it was wonderful. My teeth chattered once
or twice, I don’t know whether I was afraid something would happen or
why it was. Then R. came and talked such a lot. He is set on going into
the army. For that he needn’t learn so much, and what he’s learning now
is of no use to him. He says that doesn’t matter, that knowledge will
give him a great pull. I don’t think he looks stupid, though Oswald says
so to make me angry. All at once we found ourselves quite away from the
others and so we sat on a bench to wait for them. Then I asked R. once
more about the other societies, the ones in which they do such improper
things. But he wouldn’t tell me for he said he would not rob me of my
innocence. I thought that very stupid, and I said that perhaps he didn’t
know himself and it was all put on. All that happened, he said, was that
anyone who joined the society was tickled until he couldn’t stand it any
longer. And once one of them got St. Vitus’s dance, that is frightful
convulsions and they were afraid that everything would come out. And
since then in their society no more tickling had been allowed. Shall
I tickle you a little? I don’t understand you, I said, and anyhow you
daren’t.

He gave a great laugh and suddenly he seized me and tickled me under the
arm. It made me want to laugh frightfully, but I stifled it for there
were still lots of people going by. So he gave that up and tickled my
hand. I liked it at first, but then I got angry and dragged my hand
away. Just then Inspee went by with two other girls and directly they
had passed us we followed close behind as if we had been walking like
that all the time. It saved me a wigging from Mother, for she always
wants us all to keep together. As we went along R. said: Look out,
Gretel, I’m going to tickle you some day until you scream.--How absurd,
I won’t have it, it takes two to do that.

By the way, in the raffle I won a vase with 2 turtledoves and a bag of
sweets and R. won a knife, fork and spoon. That annoyed him frightfully.
Inspee won a fountain pen, just what I want, and a mirror which makes
one look a perfect fright. A good job too, for she fancies herself such
a lot.

August 29th. O dear, such an awful thing has happened. I have lost pages
30 to 34 from my diary. I must have left them in the garden, or else on
the Louisenhohe. It’s positively fiendish. If anyone was to find them.
And I don’t know exactly what there was on those pages. I was born
to ill luck. If I hadn’t promised Hella to write my diary every day I
should like to give up the whole thing. Fancy if Mother were to get hold
of it, or even Father. And it’s raining so fearfully to-day that I can’t
even go into the garden and still less on the Louisenhohe above all not
alone. I must have lost it the day before yesterday, for I didn’t write
anything yesterday or the day before. It would be dreadful if anyone
were to find it. I am so much upset that I couldn’t eat anything at
dinner, although we had my favourite chocolate cream cake. And I’m so
unhappy for Father was quite anxious and Mother too and they both
asked what was the matter with me and I nearly burst out crying before
everyone. We had dinner in the hotel to-day because Resi had gone away
for 2 days. But I couldn’t cry in the room before Father and Mother for
that would have given the show away. My only hope is that no one will
recognise my writing, for Hella and I use upright writing for our diary,
first of all so that no one may recognise our writing and secondly
because upright writing doesn’t use up so much paper as ordinary
writing. I do hope it will be fine to-morrow so that I can hunt in the
garden very early. I have been utterly in the dumps all day so that I
didn’t even get cross when Inspee said: “Have you been quarrelling with
your future husband?”

August 30th. It’s not in the garden. I begged Mother to let us go to
Louisenhutte this afternoon. Mother was awfully nice and asked what I
was so worried about, and whether anything had happened. Then I couldn’t
keep it in any longer and burst out crying. Mother said I must have
lost something, and this gave me an awful fright. Mother thought it was
Hella’s letter, the one which came on Tuesday, so I said: No, much worse
than that, my diary. Mother said: Oh well, that’s not such a terrible
loss, and will be of no interest to anyone. Oh yes, I said, for there
are all sorts of things written in it about R. and his society. Look
here, Gretel, said Mother, I don’t like this way you talk about R.; I
really don’t like you to spend all your time with the Warths; they’re
really not our sort and R. is not a fit companion for you; now that
you are going to the high school you are not a little girl any longer.
Promise me that you’ll not be eternally with the Warths.--All right,
Mother, I will break it off gradually so that nobody will notice. She
burst out laughing and kissed me on both cheeks and promised me to
say nothing to Inspee about the diary for she needn’t know everything.
Mother is such a dear. Still 3 hours and perhaps the pages are still
there.

Evening. Thank goodness! In front of the shelter I found 2 pages all
pulped by the rain and the writing all run and one page was in the
footpath quite torn. Someone must have trodden on it with the heel of
his boot and 2 pages had been rolled into a spill and partly burned. So
no one had read anything. I am so happy. And at supper Father said: I
say, why are your eyes shining with delight? Have you won the big prize
in the lottery? and I pressed Mother’s foot with mine to remind her not
to give me away and Father laughed like anything and said: Seems to me
there’s a conspiracy against me in my own house. And I said in a great
hurry: Luckily we’re not in our own house but in a hotel, and everyone
laughed and now thank goodness it’s all over. Live and learn. I won’t
let that happen again.

August 31st. Really I’m not so much with the W’s and with R. I think
he’s offended. This afternoon, when I went there to tea, he seized me
by the wrist and said: Your father is right, you’re a witch. “You need
a castigation.” How rude of him. Besides, I didn’t know what castigation
meant. I asked Father and he told me and asked where I had picked up the
word. I said I had passed 2 gentlemen and had heard one of them use it.
What I really thought was that castigation meant tickling. But it is
really horrid to have no one to talk to. Most of the people have gone
already and we have only a week longer. About that castigation business.
I don’t like fibbing to Father, but I really had to. I couldn’t say that
R. wanted to give me a castigation when I didn’t know what it meant.
Dora tells a lot more lies than I do and I always love catching her in a
lie for her lies are so obvious. I’m never caught. It only happened once
when Frau Oberst von Stary was there. Father noticed that time, for he
said: You little rogue, you tarradiddler!

September 3rd. Such a horrid thing has happened. I shall never speak to
R. again. Oswald is quite right in calling him a cad. If I had really
fallen out of the swing I might have broken my leg 4 days before we
have to start from home. I can’t make out how it all happened. It was
frightful cheek of him to tickle me as he did, and I gave him such a
kick. I think it was on his nose or his mouth. Then he actually dared to
say: After all I’m well paid out, for what can one expect when one keeps
company with such young monkeys, with such babies. Fine talk from him
when he’s not 14 himself yet. It was all humbug about his being 15 and
he seems to be one of the idlest boys in the school, never anything but
Satisfactory in his reports, and he’s not in the fifth yet, but only in
the fourth. Anyhow, we’ve settled our accounts. Cheeky devil. I shall
never tell anyone about it, it will be my first and I hope my last
secret from Hella.

September 6th. We are going home to-morrow. The last few days have been
awfully dull. I saw R. once or twice but I always looked the other way.
Father asked what was wrong between me and the Warths and R., so that
our great friendship had been broken off. Of course I had to fib, for
it was absolutely _impossible_ to tell the truth. I said that R. found
fault with everything I did, my writing, my reading aloud. (That’s quite
true, he did that once) and Father said: Well, well, you’ll make it up
when you say goodbye to-morrow. Father makes a great mistake. I’ll never
speak a word to him again.

For her birthday, although it’s not come yet, Dora is to have a navy
blue silk dustcloak. I don’t think the colour suits her, and anyhow
she’s much too thin to wear a dustcloak.

September 14th. Hella came back the day before yesterday. She looks
splendid and she says I do too. I’m so glad that she’s back. After all I
told her about R. She was very angry and said I ought to have given
him 2 more; one for the tickling and one for the “baby” and one for the
“young monkey.” If we should happen to meet him, shan’t we just glare at
him.

September 17th. Inspee has really got the silk dustcloak but I think the
tartan hood looks rather silly. Still, I didn’t say so, but only that
the cloak fitted beautifully. She has tried it on at least five times
already. I don’t know whether Father really wants to treat her as a
grown-up lady or whether he is making fun of her. I believe he’s only
making fun. She doesn’t really look like a grown-up lady. How could
she when she’s not 14 yet? Yesterday afternoon such a lot of girls were
invited, and of course Hella was invited on my account and we had a
grand talk. But most of them bragged frightfully about the country where
they _said_ they had been. We were 9 girls. But Hella is the only one I
care about.

September 21st. School begins to-morrow. By the way, we have agreed
to call it Liz [Lyzeum = High School] and not School. I’m frightfully
curious.

September 22nd, 19--. School began to-day. Hella came to fetch me and we
went along together. Inspee peached on us to Mother, saying we ran on in
front of her. We don’t want her as governess. There are 34 of us in the
class. Our teachers are a Frau Doktor, 2 mistresses, one professor, and
I think a drawing mistress as well. The Frau Doktor teaches German and
writing. She put us together on the 3rd bench. Then she made a speech,
then she told us what books to get, but we are not to buy them till
Monday. We have 3 intervals, one long and 2 short. The long one is for
games, the short ones to go out. I usen’t to go out at the elementary
school and now I don’t need to. Mother always says that it’s only a
bad habit. Most of the girls went out, and even asked to leave the room
during lesson time. To-day we hadn’t any proper lessons. They are to
begin to-morrow, but we don’t know what. Then we came home.

September 23rd. To-day we had the mistress who teaches geography and
history, she has no degree. Inspee says that she had her last year, but
she could not stand her, she’s so ugly. Father was angry and said to
Inspee: You silly goose, don’t fill her head with such stuff. Show
what you are worth as elder sister. One can learn something from every
mistress and every master if one likes. But I can’t say, we’re really
fond of Fraulein Vischer and I don’t much care for geography and
history. Besides I’m not learning for her but for myself. Frau Dr.
Mallburg is awfully nice and pretty. We shall always write Frau Dr. M.
for short. When she laughs she has two dimples and a gold stopping. She
is new at the school. I don’t know if we are to have singing too. In
French we have Madame Arnau, she is beautifully dressed, black lace.
Hella has a lovely pen and pencil case; it’s quite soft, we must have it
soft so that it shan’t make a row when it falls down during lesson time.
I think it cost 7 crowns or 1.70 crowns, I don’t know exactly. To-day
lessons went on until 12, first German, then arithmetic, then religion
for Catholics, and then we came away. Hella waited for me, for the Herr
Pastor did not come.

September 24th. We thought the book shops would be open to-day but we
were wrong. Hella’s mother said, that’s what happens when the chicks
think themselves wiser than the hens. In the afternoon Hella came to our
house and Inspee had been invited by the Fs. I don’t go there, for it’s
so dull, they play the piano all day. I have enough piano at my lessons.
My music lessons will begin when the school time-table has been fixed
up. Perhaps on October 1st, then I must write to Frau B., she told me to
write myself. She tells all her pupils to do that. I would rather have
had Hella’s music mistress. But she has no time to spare and I think she
charges more. At least she wouldn’t always be holding me up “Fraulein
Dora” as a model. We are not all so musical as Fraulein Dora. In the
evening Inspee was reading a great fat book until 10 or 12 o clock and
she simply howled over it. She said she had not, but I heard her and she
could hardly speak. She says she had a cold, liar.

September 25th. To-day they gave us the professors’ time-table, but it
won’t work until the professors from the Gymnasium know exactly when
they can come. Our Frau Doktor might be teaching in a Gymnasium, but
since there is only one here she teaches in our school. To-morrow we are
going to have a viva voce composition: Our Holidays. We may write 8 or
10 sentences at home before we come, but we must not look at what we
have written in class. I’ve written mine already. But I’ve not said
anything about Robert. He’s not worth thinking about anyhow. I did not
even tell Hella everything.

September 25th. We had the viva voce composition and Frau Doktor said,
very good, what is your name? Grete Lainer I said and she said: And
is that your chum next you? Now she must tell us how she spent her
holidays. Hella did hers very well too and Frau Doktor said again, very
good. Then the bell rang. In the long interval Frau Doktor played dodge
with us. It was great fun. I was it six times. In the little intervals
we were quite alone for the staff has such a lot to do drawing up the
time-table. A pupil-teacher from the F. high school is in our class. She
sits on the last bench for she is very tall. As tall as Frau Doktor.

September 26th. To-day we had Professor Riegel for the first time in
natural history. He wears eye-glasses and never looks any of us in the
face. And in French Madame A. said that my accent was the best. We’ve
got an awful lot on and I don’t know whether I shall be able to write
every day. The younger girls say Professor Igel instead of Riegel and
the Weinmann girl said Nikel.

September 30th. I’ve had simply no time to write. Hella hasn’t written
anything since the 24th. But I must write to-day for I met Robert in
Schottengasse. Good morning, Miss, you needn’t be so stuck up, he said
as he went by. And when I turned round he had already passed, or I would
have given him a piece of my mind. I must go to supper.

October 1st. I can’t write, Oswald has come from S., he has sprained his
ankle, but I’m not so sure because he can get about. He is awfully pale
and doesn’t say a word about the pain.

October 4th. To-day is a holiday, the emperor’s birthday. Yesterday Resi
told me something horrid. Oswald can’t go back to S. He has been up
to something, I wish I knew what, perhaps something in the closet. He
always stays there such a long time, I noticed that when I was in the
country. Or perhaps it may have been something in his society. Inspee
pretends she knows what it is but of course it isn’t true, for she
doesn’t know any more than I do. Father is furious and Mother’s eyes are
all red with crying. At dinner nobody says a word. If I could only find
out what he’s done. Father was shouting at him yesterday and both Dora
and I heard what he said: You young scamp (then there was something we
couldn’t understand) and then he said, you attend to your school books
and leave the girls and the married women alone you pitiful scoundrel.
And Dora said. Ah, now I understand and I said: Please tell me, he is my
brother as well as yours. But she said: “You wouldn’t understand. It’s
not suitable for such young ears.” Fancy that, it’s suitable for her
ears, but not mine though she’s not quite three years older than I am,
but because she no longer wears a short skirt she gives herself the airs
of a grown-up _lady_. Such airs, and then she sneaks a great spoonful of
jam so that her mouth is stuffed with it and she can’t speak. Whenever
I see her do this, I make a point of speaking to her so that she has to
answer. She does get in such a wax.

October 9th. I know all about it now. . . That’s how babies come. And
_that_ is what Robert really meant. Not for me, thank you, I simply
won’t marry. For if one marries one has to do it; it hurts frightfully
and yet one has to. What a good thing that I know it in time. But I wish
I knew exactly how, Hella says she doesn’t know exactly herself. But
perhaps her cousin who knows everything about it will tell her. It
lasts nine months till the baby comes and then a lot of women die. It’s
horrible. Hella has known it for a long time but she didn’t like to tell
me. A girl told her last summer in the country. She wanted to talk about
it to Lizzi her sister, really she only wanted to ask if it was all true
and Lizzi ran off to her mother to tell her what Hella had said And her
mother said; “These children are awful, a corrupt generation, don’t you
dare to repeat it to any other girl, to Grete Lainer, for instance,” and
she gave her a box on the ear. As if she could help it! That is why she
didn’t write to me for such a long time. Poor thing, poor thing, but now
she can tell me all about it and we won’t betray one another. And that
deceitful cat Inspee has known all about it for ages and has never told
me. But I don’t understand why that time at the swing Robert said: You
little fool, you wont get a baby simply from that. Perhaps Hella knows.
When I go to the gymnastic lesson to-morrow I shall talk to her first
and ask her about it. My goodness how curious I am to know.

October 10th. I’m in a great funk, I missed my gymnastic lesson
yesterday. I was upstairs at Hella’s and without meaning it I was so
late I did not dare to go. And Hella said I had better stay with her
that we would say that our sum was so difficult that we had not got it
finished in time. Luckily we really had a sum to do. But I said nothing
about it at home, for to-morrow Oswald is going to G. to Herr S’s. I
thought that I knew all about it but only now has Hella really told me
everything. It’s a horrible business this . . . I really can’t write it.
She says that of course Inspee has it already, had it when I wrote
that Inspee wouldn’t bathe, did not want to bathe; really she had it.
Whatever happens one must always be anxious about it. _Streams of blood_
says Hella. But then everything gets all bl . . . That’s why in the
country Inspee always switched off the light before she was quite
undressed, so that I couldn’t see. Ugh! Catch me looking! It begins at
14 and goes on for 20 years or more. Hella says that Berta Franke in our
class knows all about it. In the arithmetic lesson she wrote a note: Do
you know what being un . . . is? Hella wrote back, of course I’ve known
it for a long time. Berta waited for her after class when the Catholics
were having their religion lesson and they went home together. I
remember quite well that I was very angry, for they’re not chums. On
Tuesday Berta came with us, for Hella had sent her a note in class
saying that I knew _everything_ and she needn’t bother about me. Inspee
suspects something, she’s always spying about and sneering, perhaps she
thinks that she’s the only person who ought to know anything.

October 16th. To-morrow is Father’s and Dora’s birthday. Every year it
annoys me that Dora should have her birthday on the same day as Father;
What annoys me most of all is that she is so cocky about it, for, as
Father always says, it’s a mere chance. Besides, I don’t think he really
likes it. Everyone wants to have their own birthday on their own day,
not to share it with someone else. And it’s always nasty to be stuck up
about a thing like that. Besides, it’s not going to be a real birthday
because of the row about Oswald. Father is still furious and had to stay
away from the office for 2 days because he had to go to G. to see about
Oswald going there.

October 17th. It was much jollier to-day than I had expected. All the
Bruckners came, so of course there was not much said about Oswald only
that he has sprained his ankle, (I know quite well now that that’s not
true) and that he is probably going to G. Colonel B. said: The best
thing for a boy is to send him to a military academy, that keeps him
in order. In the evening Oswald said: That was awful rot what Hella’s
father said, for you can be expelled from a military academy just as
easily as from the Gymnasium. That’s what happened to Edgar Groller.
Oswald gave himself away and Dora promptly said: Ah, so you have been
expelled, and we believed you had sprained your ankle. Then he got in
an awful wax and said: O you wretched flappers, I’ve gone and blabbed it
all now, and he went away slamming the door, for Mother wasn’t there.

October 19th. If we could only find out what Oswald really did. It must
have been something with a girl. But we can’t think what Father meant
about a married woman. Perhaps a married woman complained of him to the
head master or to the school committee and that’s how it all came out. I
feel awfully sorry for him, for I think how I should have felt myself if
everything had come out about Robert and me. Of course I don’t care now.
But in the summer it would have been awful. Oswald hardly says a word,
except that he has talks with Mother sometimes. He always pretends that
he wants to read, but it’s absurd, for with such a love trouble one
can’t really read. I have not told Berta Franke all about it, but only
that my brother has had an unhappy love affair and that is why he is
back in Vienna. Then she told us that this summer a cousin of hers shot
himself because of her. They said in the newspapers that it was because
of an actress, but really it was because of her. She is 14 already.

October 20th. We spend most of our time now with Berta Franke. She says
she has had a tremendous lot of experience, but she can’t tell us yet
because we are not intimate enough. By and by she says. Perhaps she
is afraid we shall give her away. She wants to marry when she is 16 at
latest. That’s in 2 years. Of course she won’t have finished school by
then, but she will have left the third class. She has three admirers,
but she has not yet made up her mind which to choose. Hella says I
mustn’t believe all this, that the story about the three admirers at
once is certainly a cram.

October 21st. Berta Franke says that when one is dark under the eyes one
has it and that when one gets a baby then one doesn’t have it any more
until one gets another. She told us too how one gets it, but I didn’t
really believe what she said, for I thought she did not know herself
exactly. Then she got very cross and said: “All right, I won’t tell you
any more. If I don’t know myself.” But I can’t believe what she said
about husband and wife. She said it must happen every night, for if not
they don’t have a baby; if they miss a single night they don’t have a
baby. That’s why they have their beds so close together. People call
them _marriage beds!!!_ And it hurts so frightfully that one can hardly
bear it. But one has to for a husband can make his wife do it. I should
like to know how he can make her. But I didn’t dare to ask for I was
afraid she would think I was making fun of her. Men have it too, but
very seldom. We see a lot of Berta Franke now, she is an awfully nice
girl, perhaps Mother will let me invite her here next Sunday.

October 23rd. Father took Oswald away to-day. Mother cried such a lot.
When Oswald was leaving I whispered to him: I know what’s the matter
with you. But he did not understand me for he said: Silly duffer.
Perhaps he only said that because of Father who was looking on with a
fearful scowl.

October 27th. Everything seems to have gone wrong. Yesterday I got
unsatisfactory in history, and in arithmetic to-day I couldn’t get a
single sum right. I’m frightfully worried about missing that gymnastic
lesson. It will be all right if Mother gives me the money to-morrow, for
if she goes herself she will certainly find out about it.

October 28th. To-day the head mistress was present at our French lesson
and said awfully nice things about me. She said I was good enough in
French to be in the Third and then she asked me whether I was as good in
the other subjects. I didn’t want to say either Yes or No, and all the
other girls said Yes, she’s good at everything. The head patted me on
the shoulder and said: I’m glad to hear that. When she had gone I cried
like anything and Madame Arnau asked: Why, what’s the matter? and the
other girls said: In arithmetic she had Unsatisfactory but she can
really do her sums awfully well. Then Madame said: “You’ll soon wipe off
that Unsatisfactory.”

October 30th. To-day I had a frightful bother with Fraulein Vischer in
the history lesson. Yesterday when I got into the tram with Mother there
was Fraulein V. I looked the other way so that Mother shouldn’t see her
and so that she should not tell Mother about me. When she came in to-day
she said: Lainer, do you know the rules? I knew directly what she meant
and said “I did bow to you in the tram but you didn’t see me.” “That’s a
fine thing to do, first you do wrong and then try to excuse yourself by
telling a lie. Sit down!” I felt awful for all the girls looked at me.
In the 11 interval Berta Franke said to me: Don’t worry, she’s got her
knife into you and will always find something to complain of. She must
have spoken to Frau Doktor M., for in the German lesson the subject for
viva voce composition was Good Manners. And all the girls looked at me
again. She didn’t say anything more. She’s a perfect angel, my darling
E. M., her name is Elisabeth; but she does not keep her name-day because
she’s a Protestant; that’s an awful shame because November 19th is
coming soon.

October 31st. I’ve been so lucky. Nothing’s come out about the gymnastic
lesson though Mother was there herself. And in mental arithmetic to-day
I got a One. Fraulein Steiner is awfully nice too and she said: Why, L.
what was the matter with you in your sums the other day, for you’re so
good at arithmetic? I didn’t know what to do so I said: Oh I had such a
headache the other day. Then Berta Franke nearly burst out laughing,
it was horrid of her; I don’t think she’s quite to be trusted; I think
she’s rather a sneak. When the lesson was over she said she had laughed
because “headache” means something quite different.

November 1st. To-day we began to work at the tablecloth for Father’s
Christmas present. Of course Inspee bagged the right side because that’s
easier to work at and I had to take the left side and then one has
the whole caboodle on one’s hand. For Mother I’m making an embroidered
leather book cover, embroidered with silk and with a painted design;
I can do the painting part at school in Fraulein H.’s lesson, she’s
awfully nice too. But I like Frau Doktor M. best of all. I’m _not_ going
to invite Berta Franke because of the way she laughed yesterday, and
besides Mother doesn’t like having strange girls to the house. November
2nd. I don’t know all about things yet. Hella knows a lot more. We said
we were going to go over our natural history lesson together and we went
in to the drawing-room, and there she told me a lot more. Then Mali,
our new servant, came in, and she told us something horrid. Resi is in a
hospital because she’s ill. Mali told us that all the Jews when they
are quite little have to go through a very dangerous operation; it hurts
frightfully and that’s why they are so cruel. It’s done so that they can
have more children; but only little boys, not little girls. It’s horrid,
and I should not like to marry a Jew. Then we asked Mali whether it is
true that it hurts so frightfully and she laughed and said: It can’t be
so bad as all that, for if it were you wouldn’t find everyone doing it.
Then Hella asked her: But have you done it already, you haven’t got a
husband? She said: Go on, Miss! One mustn’t ask such questions it’s not
ladylike. We were in an awful funk, and begged her not to tell Mother.
She promised not to.

November 5th. Everything has come out through that stupid waist band.
Yesterday when I was tidying my drawers Mali came in to make the beds
and saw my fringed waistband. “I say, she said, that is pretty!” You
can have it if you like, I said, for I’ve given up wearing it. At dinner
yesterday I noticed that Mother was looking at Mali and I blushed
all over. After dinner Mother said, Gretel, did you give Mali that
waistband? Yes, I said, she asked me for it. She came in at that moment
to clear away and said: “No, I never asked for it, Fraulein Grete gave
it to me herself.” I don’t know what happened after that, I’d gone back
to my room when Mother came in and said: A fine lot of satisfaction one
gets out of one’s children. Mali has told me the sort of things you and
Hella talk about. I ran straight off to the kitchen and said to Mali:
How could you tell such tales of us? It was you who chipped in when we
were talking. It was frightfully mean of you. In the evening _she_ must
needs go and complain of me to Father and he scolded me like anything
and said: You’re a fine lot, you children, I must say. You are not to
see so much of Hella now, do you understand?

November 6th. A fine thing this, that I’m a silly fool now. When I gave
Hella a nudge so that she should not go on talking before Mali, she
laughed and said: What does it matter, Mali knows all about it, probably
a great deal more than we do. It was only after that that Mali told us
about the Jews. Now, if you please, I am a silly fool. All right, now
that I know what I am, a silly fool. And that’s what one’s best friend
calls one!

November 7th. Hella and I are very stand-offish. We walk together, but
we only talk of everyday things, school and lessons, nothing else. We
went skating to-day for the first time and we shall go whenever we have
time, which is not very often. Mother is working at the table cloth.
It’s very hard work but she has not got as much to do as we have.

November 8th. There was such a lovely young lady skating to-day, and
she skates so beautifully, inside and outside edge and figures of 8. I
skated along behind her. When she went to the cloak room there was such
a lovely scent. I wonder if she is going to be married soon and whether
_she_ knows all about everything. She is so lovely and she pushes back
the hair from her forehead so prettily. I wish I were as pretty as she
is. But I am dark and she is fair. I wish I could find out her name and
where she lives. I must go skating again to-morrow; do my lessons in the
evening.

November 9th. I’m so upset; _she_ didn’t come to skate. I’m afraid she
may be ill.

November 10th. She didn’t come to-day either. I waited two hours, but it
was no good.

November 11th. She came to-day, at last! Oh how pretty she is.

November 12th. She has spoken to me. I was standing near the entrance
gate and suddenly I heard some one laughing behind me and I knew
directly: That is _she!_ So it was. She came up and said: Shall we skate
together? Please, if I may, said I, and we went off together crossing
arms. My heart was beating furiously, and I wanted to say something,
but couldn’t think of anything sensible to say. When we came back to the
entrance a gentleman stood there and took off his hat and she bowed, and
she said to me: Till next time. I said quickly: When? Tomorrow?
Perhaps, she called back. . . . Only perhaps, perhaps, oh I wish it were
to-morrow already.

November 13th. Inspee declares that her name is Anastasia Klastoschek.
I’m sure it can’t be true that she has such a name, she might be called
Eugenie or Seraphine or Laura, but Anastasia, impossible. Why are there
such horrid names? Fancy if she is really called that. Klastoschek,
too, a Czech name, and she is supposed to come from Moravia and to be 26
already; 26, absurd, she’s 18 at most. I’m sure she’s not so much as
18. Dora says she lives in Phorusgasse, and that she doesn’t think her
particularly pretty. Of course that’s rank jealousy; Dora thinks no one
pretty except herself.

November 14th. I asked the woman at the pay box, her name really is
Anastasia Klastoschek and she lives in the Phorusgasse; but the woman
didn’t know how old she is. She would not tell me at first but asked why
I wanted to know and who had sent me to enquire. She wouldn’t look into
the book until I told her that it was _only for myself_ that I wanted to
know. Then she looked, for I knew the number of the cloak room locker:
36, a lovely number, I like it so much. I don’t really know why, but
when I hear anyone say that number it sounds to me like a squirrel
jumping about in the wood.

November 20th. It’s really impossible to write every day. Mother is ill
in bed and the doctor comes every day, but I don’t really know what’s
the matter with her. I’m not sure whether the doctor knows exactly.
When Mother is ill everything at home is so uncomfortable and she always
says: Whatever you do don’t get ill, for it’s such a nuisance. But
I don’t mind being ill; indeed I rather like being ill, for then
everyone’s so nice, when Father comes home he comes and sits by my bed
and even _Dora_ is rather nice and does things for me; that is she _has_
to. Besides, when she had diptheria two years ago I did everything
I could for her, she nearly died, her temperature went up to 107 and
Mother was sick with crying. Father never cries. It must look funny when
a man cries. When there was all that row about Oswald he cried, I think
Father had given him a box on the ear. He said he hadn’t but I think
he had; certainly he cried, though he said he didn’t. After all, why
shouldn’t he for he’s not really grown up yet. I cry myself when I get
frightfully annoyed. Still I shouldn’t cry for a box on the ear.

November 21st. In the religion lesson to-day Lisel Schrotter who is the
Herr Catechist’s favourite, no we’ve got to call him Herr Professor,
as she is the Herr Professor’s favourite, well she went to him with the
Bible and asked him what _with child_ meant. That’s what they say of
Mary in the Bible. The Schrotter girl does not know anything yet and the
other girls egged her on till she went and asked. The Herr Professor got
quite red and said: If you don’t know yet it does not matter. We shall
come to that later, we’re still in the Old Testament. I was so glad
that Hella does not sit next me in the religion lesson, because she’s
a Protestant; we should certainly have both burst out laughing. Some
of the girls giggled frightfully and the Herr Professor said to Lisel:
You’re a good girl, don’t bother about the others. But Lisel positively
howled. I would not have asked, even if I hadn’t really known. _With
child_ is a stupid word anyhow, it doesn’t mean anything really; only if
one knows.

November 22nd. When I was coming away from the religion lesson with
Berta Franke the other day, of course we began talking about _it_. She
says that’s why people marry, only because of _it_. I said I could not
believe that people marry only for _that_. Lots of people marry and then
have no children. That’s all right said Berta, but it’s quite true what
I tell you. Then she told me a lot more but I really can’t write it
all down. It is too horrid, but I shan’t forget. When I was sitting
on Mother’s bed to-day I suddenly realised that Father’s bed is really
quite close to Mother’s. I had never thought about it before. But it’s
not really necessary now for we are all quite big. Still I suppose
they’ve just left things as they were. Well dear, said Mother, what are
you looking round so for? Of course I didn’t let on, but said: I was
only looking round and thinking that if your bed was where the washstand
is you could see to read better when you are lying in bed. That would
not do because the wall’s all wrong said Mother. I said nothing more and
she didn’t either. I like much better to sleep on a sofa than in a bed,
because I like to snuggle up against the back. I’m so glad Mother
didn’t notice anything. One has to be so frightfully careful not to give
oneself away when one knows everything.

November 25th. I have just been reading a lovely story; it is called
_A True Heart_ and is about a girl whose betrothed has had to leave her
because he has shot a man who was spying on him. But Rosa remains true
to him till he comes back after 10 years and then they marry. It’s
simply splendid and frightfully sad at first. I do love these library
books, but when we were at the elementary school I knew all the books
they had and the mistress never knew what to give me and Hella. In the
high school we get only one book a month, for the Frau Doktor says we
have plenty of work to do, and that when we are not at work we ought to
be out in the fresh air. I can’t manage to go skating every day. I do
love the Gold Fairy, that is my name for _her_, for I hate her real
name. Inspee declares that they call her Stasi for short, but I don’t
believe that; most likely they call her Anna, but that’s so common.
Thank goodness Hella always calls me Rita, so at school I’m known as
Rita. It’s only at home that they will call me Gretl. The other day I
said to Inspee: If you want me to call you Thea you must call me Rita;
and anyhow I won’t let you call me Gretl, that’s what they call a little
girl or a peasant girl. She said: I don’t care tuppence what _you_ call
me. All right, then, she shall be Dora till the end of time.

November 27th. Father has been made Appeal Court Judge. He is awfully
glad and so is Mother. The news came yesterday evening. Now he can
become President of the Supreme Court, not directly, but in a few years.
We shall probably move to a larger house in May. Inspee said to Mother
that she hoped she would have her _own_ room where she would not be
_disturbed_. How absurd, who disturbs her, I suppose I do? Much more
like she disturbs me, always watching while I’m writing my diary. Hella
always says: “There really ought not to be any elder sisters;” she’s
jolly well right. It’s a pity we can’t alter things. Mother says we are
really too big to keep St. Nicholas, but I don’t see why one should ever
be too big for that. Last year Inspee got something from St. Nicholas
when she was 13 and I’m not 12 yet. All we get are chocolates and sweets
and dates and that sort of thing, not proper presents. The girls want to
give the Frau Doktor a great Krampus * to leave it on her desk. I think
that’s silly. It’s not a proper present for a teacher one is really fond
of, one doesn’t want to waste sweets on a teacher one doesn’t like, and
to give an empty Krampus would be rude. Mother is really right and a
Krampus is only suitable for children.

     * Krampus=Ruprechtsknecht, i.e. a little Demon, who serves
     St. Nicholas, and is a bogey man to carry off naughty children
     An image of this Demon filled with sweets, is given as a present
     on the feast of St. Nicholas which inaugurates the Christmas
     season.--Translators’ Note.

December 1st. We are giving everyone of the staff a Krampus, each of
us is to subscribe a crown, I hope Father will give me the crown extra.
Perhaps he’ll give us more pocket money now, at least another crown,
that would be splendid. We are going to give big Krampuses to the ones
we like best, and: small ones to those we are not so fond of. We’re
afraid to give one to Professor J. But if he doesn’t get one perhaps
he’ll be offended.

December 2nd. To-day we went to buy Krampuses for the staff. The one for
Frau Doktor M. is the finest. When you open it the first thing you see
is little books with Schiller, Goethe, and Fairy Tales written on the
backs, and then underneath these are the sweets. That’s exactly suited
for her, for the Frau Doktor teaches German and in the Fourth in German
they are reading these poets. Last month in the Fourth they had a
Schiller festival and Frau Doktor made a splendid speech and some of
the girls gave recitations. Besides Hella has shown me an awful poem by
Schiller. There you can read: if only I could catch her in the bath, she
would cry for mercy, for I would soon show the girl that I am a man. And
then in another place: “To my mate in God’s likeness I can show _that_
which is the source of life.” But you can only find that in the _large_
editions of Schiller. I believe we’ve got some books of that sort in
our bookcase, for when Inspee was rummaging there the other day Mother
called from the next room: “Dora, what are you hunting for in the
bookcase? I can tell you where it is.” And she said: Oh, it’s nothing, I
was just looking for something, and shut the door quickly.

December 4th. The girls are so tiresome and have made such a muddle
about the Krampuses for the staff. The money didn’t come out right and
Keller said that Markus had taken some but Markus said not taken only
kept. Of course Markus complained to Frau Doktor and her father went to
the head and complained too. Frau Doktor said we know quite well that
collections are not allowed and that we must not give any one a Krampus.
Now Keller has the five Krampuses and we don’t know what to do about it.
Mother says that sort of thing never turns out well but always ends in a
quarrel.

December 5th. We are in such a funk: Hella and I and Edith Bergler have
taken the Krampus which we bought for Frau Doktor M. and put it on her
doorstep. Edith Bergler knew where she lived for she comes by there
every day on her way to school. I wonder if she’ll guess where the
Krampus comes from. I did not know that Edith Bergler was such a
nice girl, I always thought she must be deceitful because she wears
spectacles. But now I’m quite certain she is not deceitful, so one sees
how easy it is to make a mistake. To-morrow’s our German lesson.

December 6th. Frau Doktor did not say anything at first. Then she gave
out the subject for the essay: “Why once I could not go to sleep at
night.” The girls were all taken aback, and then Frau Doktor said:
Now girls that’s not so very difficult. One person cannot go to sleep
because he’s just going to be ill, another because he is excited by joy
or fear. Another has an uneasy conscience because he has done something
which he has been forbidden to do; have not all of you experienced
something of the kind? Then she looked frightfully hard at Edith Bergler
and us two. She did not say anything more, so we don’t really know if
she suspects. I couldn’t go to the ice carnival yesterday because I
had such a bad cough, and Dora couldn’t go either because she had a
headache; I don’t know whether it was a real headache or _that kind_ of
headache; but I expect it was that kind.

December 17th. I haven’t managed to write anything for a whole week.
The day before yesterday we had our Christmas reports: In history I had
satisfactory, in Natural History good, in everything else very good. In
diligence because of that stupid Vischer I had only a 2. Father was very
angry; he says everyone can get a 1 in diligence. That’s true enough,
but if one has satisfactory in anything then one can’t get a 1 for
diligence. Inspee of course had only 1’s, except a 2 in English. But
then she’s a frightful swot. Verbenowitsch is the best in our class, but
we can’t any of us bear her, she’s so frantically conceited and Berta
Franke says she’s _not to be trusted_. Berta walks to school with her
cousin who’s in the seventh; she’s nearly 14, and is awfully pretty. She
didn’t say what sort of a report she had, but I believe it was a very
bad one.

December 18th. To-day at supper Dora fainted because she found a little
chicken in her egg, not really a chicken yet, but one could make out
the wings and the head, just a sketch of a chicken Father said. Still,
I really can’t see what there was to faint about. Afterwards she said it
had made her feel quite creepy. And she’ll never be able to eat another
egg. At first Father was quite frightened and so was Mother, but then he
laughed and said: What a fuss about nothing! She had to go and lie down
at once and I stayed downstairs for a long time. When I came up to our
room she was reading, that is I saw the light through the crack in the
door; but when I opened the door it was all dark and when I asked: Ah so
you’re still reading she didn’t answer and she pretended to wake up when
I switched on the light and said: What’s the matter? I can’t stand such
humbug so I said: Shut up, you know quite well it’s 9 o-clock. That’s
all. On our way to school to-day we didn’t Speak a word to one another.
Luckily after awhile we met a girl belonging to her class.

December 19th. I’m frightfully excited to know what I’m going to get for
Christmas. What I’ve wished for is: A set of white furs, boa, muff,
and velvet cap trimmed with the same fur, acme skates because mine are
always working loose, _German_ sagas, not Greek; no thank you, hair
ribbons, openwork stockings, and if possible a gold pin like the one
Hella got for a birthday present. But Father says that our Christ Child
would find that rather too expensive. Inspee wants a corset. But I don’t
think she’ll get one because it’s unhealthy. The tablecloth for Father
is finished and is being trimmed, but Mother’s book cover is not quite
ready yet. I’m giving Dora a little manicure case. Oh, and I’d nearly
forgotten what I want more than anything else, a lock-up box in which to
keep my diary. Dora wants some openwork stockings too and three books. A
frightful thing happened to me the other day. I left one of the pages
of my diary lying about or lost one somehow or other. When I came home
Inspee said: “you’ve lost _this_, haven’t you? School notes I suppose?”
 I didn’t notice what it was for a moment, but then I saw by the look
of it and said: Yes, those are school notes. Hm-m-m, said Inspee, not
exactly that are they? You can thank your stars that I’ve not shown them
to Mother. Besides people who can’t spell yet really ought not to keep
diaries. It’s not suitable for children. I was in a wax. In the closet
I took a squint to see what mistakes I had made. There was only _wenn_
with one _n_ instead of double _n_ and _dass_ with short _ss’s_, that’s
all. I was jolly glad that there was nothing about _her_ on the page.
She’d underlined the _n_ and the short _ss’s_ with red, just as if she
was a schoolmistress, infernal cheek! The best would be to have a book
with a lock to it, which one could alway keep locked, then no one could
read any of it and underline one’s mistakes in red. I often write so
fast that it’s easy to make a slip now and again. As if she never made a
mistake. The whole thing made me furious. But I can’t say anything about
it because of Mother, at least on the way to school; but no, if I say
nothing at all then she always gets more waxy than ever. If I were to
say much about it Mother might remember those 5 pages I lost in the
country and I’d rather not thank you.

December 22nd. Aunt Dora came to-day. She’s going to stay with us for a
time till Mother is quite well again. I didn’t remember her at all, for
I was only four or five when she went away from Vienna. You dear little
black beetle she said to me and gave me a kiss. I didn’t like the
_black_ much, but Hella says that suits me, that it’s _piquant_.
_Piquant_ is what the officers always say of her cousin in Krems, Father
says she is a beauty, and she’s dark like me. But I’d rather be fair,
fair with brown eyes or better still with violet eyes. Shall I grow up a
beauty? Oh I do hope I shall!

December 23rd. I am frightfully excited about to-morrow. I wonder what
I shall get? Now I must go and decorate the Christmas tree. Inspee said:
Hullo, is _Gretl_ going to help decorate this year? She’s never done it
before! I should like to know why not. But Aunt Dora took my side. “Of
course she’ll help decorate too; but please don’t stuff yourselves
with sweets.” “If Dora doesn’t eat anything I shan’t either,” said I
promptly.

Evening. Yesterday was our last day at school. The holidays are from the
23rd to January 2nd. It’s glorious. I shall be able to go skating every
day. Of course I had no time to-day and shan’t have to--morrow. I wonder
whether I should send the Gold Fairy a Christmas card. I wish she had a
prettier name. Anastasia Klastoschek; it is so ugly. All Czech names
are so ugly. Father knows a Count Wilczek, but a still worse name is
Schafgotsch. Nothing would induce me to marry anyone called Schafgotsch
or Wilczek even if he were a count and a millionaire. Yesterday we
paid our respects to the staff, Verbenowitsch and I went to Frau Doktor
because she is fondest of us, or is _said_ to be. Nobody wanted to go to
Professor Rigl, Igel, we always say Nikel, for when he has respects paid
to him he always says: “Aw ri’.” But it would have been rude to leave
him out and so the monitors had to go. When Christmas was drawing near
Frau Doktor told us that we were none of us to give presents to the
staff. “I beg you, girls, to bear in mind what I am saying, for if you
do not there will only be trouble. You remember what happened on St.
Nicholas’ day. And you must not send anything to the homes of the staff,
nor must the Christ Child leave anything on any one’s doorstep.” As she
said this she looked hard at me and Edith Bergler, so she knows who left
the Krampus. I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. Hurrah, to-morrow
is Christmas Eve!!!

December 24th. Christmas Eve afternoon is horrid. One does not know what
to be at. I’m not allowed to go skating so the best thing is to write.
Oswald came home yesterday. Everyone says he’s looking splendid; I think
he’s awfully pale and he snorted when everyone said he had such a fine
colour; of course, how can he look well when he has such a _heartache_.
I wish I could tell him that I understand what he feels, but he’s too
proud to accept sympathy from me. He has wished for an army revolver for
Christmas, but I don’t think he’ll get one for boys at the middle school
are not allowed to have any firearms. Not long ago at a Gymnasium in
Galicia one of the boys shot a master out of revenge; they said it was
because the boy was getting on badly with his work, but really it was
about a girl, although the master was 36 years old. This morg. I was
in town with Oswald shopping; we met the Warths, Elli and . . . Robert.
Oswald said that Elli was quite nice-looking but that Robert was an ugly
beast. Besides, he can’t stand him he said, because he glared at me so.
If only he knew what happened in the summer! I was awfully condescending
to Robert and that made him furious. If one could only save you girls
from all the troubles which the world calls “Love,” said Oswald on the
way home. I was just going to say “I know that you’re unhappy in love
and I can feel for you,” when Inspee came round the corner of the
Bognergasse with her chum and 2 officers were following them, so none
of them saw us. “Great Scott, Frieda’s full-fledged now,” said Oswald,
“she’s a little tart.” I can’t stand that sort of vulgarity so I did
not say another word all the way home. He noticed and said to Mother:
“Gretl’s mouth has been frozen up from envy.” That’s all. But it was
really disgusting of him and now I know what line to take.

Just a moment for a word or two. The whole Christmas Eve has gone to
pot. A commissionaire came with a bouquet for Dora and Father is fuming.
I wish I knew who sent it. I wonder if it was one of those 2 officers?
Of course Inspee says she has not the ghost of an idea. What surprises
me is that Oswald has not given her away. All he said was: I say, what
a lark! But Father was down on him like anything, “You hold your jaw
and think of your own beastly conduct.” I didn’t envy him; I don’t think
much of Dora’s looks myself, but apparently she pleases _someone_. In
the bouquet there was a poem and Dora got hold of it quickly before
Father had seen it. It was awfully pretty, and it was signed: One for
whom you have made Christmas beautiful! The heading is: “The Magic
Season.” I think Dora’s splendid not to give herself away; even to me
she declares she does not know who sent it; but of course that may be
all humbug. I think it really comes from young Perathoner, with whom
she’s always skating.

December 28th. I’ve had absolutely no time to write. I got everything I
wanted. Aunt Dora gave both of us an opera glass in mother-of-pearl in
a plush case. We are going to all the school performances, Father’s
arranged it; he has subscribed to _all_ the performances during the
school year 19-- to 19--. I am so delighted for Frau Doktor M. will come
too. I do hope I shall sit next to her.

December 31st. To-day I wanted to read through all I have written, but I
could not manage it but in the new year I really must write every day.

January 1st, 19--. I must write a few sentences at least. For the
afternoon we had been invited to the Rydberg’s the Warths were there and
Edle von Wernhoff!! I was just the same as usual with Lisel but I would
not say a word to R. They left before us, and then Heddy asked me what
was wrong between me and R. He had said of me: Any one can have the
_black goose for me_. Then he said that any one could take me in. I was
so stupid that I would believe anything. I can’t think what he meant,
for he never took me in about anything. Anyhow I would not let _him_
spoil new year’s day for me. But Hella is quite right for if the
first person one meets on January 1st is a common person that’s a bad
beginning. The first thing this morning when I went out I met our old
postman who’s always so grumpy if he’s kept waiting at the door.
I looked the other way directly and across the street a fine young
gentleman was passing, but it was no good for the common postman had
really been the first.

January 12th. I am so angry. _We_ mayn’t go skating any more because
Inspee has begun to complain again of her silly old ears and Mother
imagines that she got her earache last year skating. It’s all right to
keep _her_ at home; but why shouldn’t _I_ go? How can _I_ help it when
_she_ gets a chill so easily? In most things Father is justice itself,
but I really can’t understand him this time. It’s simply absurd, only
it’s too miserable to call it absurd. I’m in a perfect fury. Still, I
don’t say anything.

February 12th. I have not written for a whole month, I’ve been working
so hard. To-day we got our reports. Although I’ve been working so
frightfully hard, again I only got a 2 in Diligence. Frau Doktor M. made
a splendid speech and said: As you sow, so you shall reap. But that’s
not always true. In Natural History I did not know my lesson twice but
I got a 1, and in History I only did not know my lesson once and I got
Satisfactory. Anyhow Fraulein V. does not like me because of that time
when I did not bow to her in the tram. That is why in January, when
Mother asked about me, she said: “She does not really put her back
into her work.” I overheard Father say: After all she’s only a kid, but
to-day he made a frightful row about the 2 in Diligence. He might have
known why she gave me that. Dora, _so she says_, has only ones, but
she has not shown me the report. I don’t believe what I don’t see. And
Mother never gives her away to me.

February 15th. Father is furious because Oswald has an Unsatisfactory in
Greek. Greek is really no use; for no one uses Greek, except the people
who live in Greece and Oswald will never go there, if he is going to be
a judge like Father. _Of course_ Dora learns Latin; but not for me thank
you. Hella’s report is not particularly good and her father was in a
_perfect fury!!!_ He says she ought to have a better report than any one
else. She does not bother much and says: One can’t have everything. But
if she doesn’t get nothing but ones in the summer term she is not
to stay at the high school and will have to go to the middle school.
That’ll make her sit up. Father’s awfully funny too: What have you got
history books for, if you don’t read them? Yesterday when I was reading
my album of stories, Father came in and said: You like a story book
better than a history book, and shut the book up and took it away from
me. I was in such a temper that I went to bed at 7 o’clock without any
supper.

February 20th. I met the Gold Fairy to-day. She spoke to me and asked
why I did not come skating any more. The fancy dress Ice Carnival on the
24th was splendid she said. I said: Would you believe it, a year ago my
_sister_ had an earache, and _for that reason_ they won’t allow
_either_ of us to skate this year. She laughed like anything and said so
exquisitely: Oh, what a wicked sister. She looked perfectly ravishing:
A red-brown coat and skirt trimmed with fur, sable I believe, and a huge
brown beaver hat with crepe-de-chine ribbons, lovely. And her eyes and
mouth. I believe she will marry the man who is always going about with
her. Next autumn, when we get new winter clothes, I shall have a fur
trimmed red-brown. We must not always be dressed alike. Hella and Lizzi
are never dressed alike.

March 8th. I shall never say another word to Berta Franker she’s utterly
false. I’ve such a frightful headache because I cried all through
the lesson. She wrote to Hella and me in the arithmetic lesson: A
_Verhaltnis_ ** means something quite different. Just at that moment the
mistress looked across and said: To whom were you nodding? She said: To
Lainer. Because she laughed at the word “Verhaltnis.” It was not true.
I had not thought about the word at all. It wasn’t till I had read the
note that it occurred to Hella and me what _Verhaltnis_ means. After the
lesson Fraulein St. called us down into the teachers’ room and told
Frau Doktor M. that Franke and I had laughed at the use of the word
“Verhaltnis.” Frau Doktor said: What was there to laugh at? Why did you
not just do your sums? Fraulein St. said: You ought to be ashamed of
yourselves, young girls in the first class shouldn’t know anything about
such things. I shall have to speak to your mothers. In the German lesson
Frau Doktor M. told us to write an essay on the proverb: Pure the
heart and true the word, clear the brow and free the eye, these are our
safeguards, or something of that sort; I must get Hella to write it for
me, for I was crying all through the lesson.

     ** The German word Verhaltnis as used in the arithmetic lesson
     means ratio, proportion. The word is in common use in
     Germany for a love intimacy or liaison.--Translators’ Note.

March 10th. To-day Berta Franke wanted to talk things out with us; but
Hella and I told her we would not speak to her again. We told her to
remember _what sort_ of things she had said to us. She denied it all
already. We shouldn’t be such humbugs. It was mean of her. Really we
didn’t know anything and _she_ told us all about it. Hella has told
me again and again she wished we didn’t know anything. She says she’s
always afraid of giving herself away and that she often thinks about
that sort of thing when she ought to be learning her lessons. So do
I. And one often dreams about such things at night when one has been
talking about them in the afternoon. Still, it’s better to know all
about it.

March 22nd. I so seldom manage to write anything, first of all our
lessons take such a lot of time, and second because I don’t care about
it any more since what Father said the other day. The last time I wrote
was on Saturday afternoon, and Father came in and said: Come along
children, we’ll go to Schonbrunn. That will do you more good than
scribbling diaries which you only go and lose when you’ve written them.
So Mother told Father all about it in the holidays. I couldn’t have
believed it of Mother for I begged her to promise not to tell anyone.
And she said: One doesn’t promise about a thing like that; but I won’t
tell anyone. And now she must have told about it, although she said she
wouldn’t. Even Franke’s deceitfulness was nothing to that for after all
we’ve only known her since last autumn, but I could never have believed
that Mother would do such a thing. I told Hella when we were having tea
at the Tivoli and she said she would not altogether trust her mother,
she’d rather trust her father. But if that had happened to _her_, her
father would have boxed her ears with the diary. I did not want to show
anything, but in the evening I only gave Mother quite a little kiss. And
she said, what’s the matter, dear? has anything happened? Then I could
not keep it in and I cried like anything and said: You’ve betrayed me.
And Mother said: “I?” Yes, you; you told Father about the diary though
you promised me you wouldn’t. At first Mother didn’t remember anything
about it, but soon she remembered and said: “But, little one, I tell
Father everything. All you meant was that Dora was not to know.” That’s
quite true, it’s all right that Dora wasn’t told; but still Father need
not have been told either. And Mother was awfully sweet and nice and I
didn’t go to bed till 10 o’clock. But whatever happens I shan’t tell
her anything again and I don’t care about the old diary any more. Hella
says: Don’t be stupid; I ought just to go on writing; but another time
I should be careful not to lose anything, and besides I should not blab
everything to Mother and Father. She says she no longer tells her mother
anything since that time in the summer when her mother gave her a box on
the ear because that other girl had told her all about everything. It’s
quite true, Hella is right, I’m just a child still in the way I run to
Mother and tell her everything. And it’s not nice of Father to tease me
about my diary; I suppose he never kept one himself.

March 27th. Hurrah we’re going to Hainfeld for Easter; I am so
delighted. Mother has a friend there whose husband is doctor there, so
she has to live there all the year round. Last year in the winter she
and Ada stayed three days with us because her eyes were bad. Ada is
really nearly as old as Dora, but Dora said, like her cheek: “Her
intellectual level makes her much more suitable company for you than for
me.” Dora thinks herself cleverer than anyone else. They have 2 boys,
but I don’t know them very well for they are only 8 and 9. Mother’s
friend was in an asylum once, for she went off her head when her 2 year
old baby died. I remember it quite well. It must have been more than 2
years ago when Father and Mother were always talking of poor Anna who
had lost her child within 3 days. And I believed she had really lost it,
and once I asked whether they had found it yet. I thought it had been
lost in the forest, because there’s such a great forest at Hainfeld. And
since then I can’t bear to hear people say lost when they mean dead, for
it is so difficult to know which they really mean.

On the 8th of April the Easter holidays will begin and we shall go on
the 11th, on Maundy Thursday.

April 6th. I don’t know what to do about writing my diary. I don’t want
to take it with me and as for remembering everything and writing it down
afterwards I know quite well I should never do that. Hella says I should
only jot it down in outline, that’s what Frau Doktor M. always says, and
write it out properly after I come back from Hainfeld. That’s what she
does. They are going to the Brioni Islands. I’ve never seen the sea.
Hella says there’s nothing so wonderful about it. She’s been there four
times. Anyway she does not think so much of it as most people do. So it
can’t be anything so frightfully grand. Rather stupid I dare say.

April 12th. We got here yesterday. Ada is a darling but the two boys
are awfully vulgar. Ernstl said to Ada: I shall give you a smack on the
a---- if you don’t give me my pistol directly. Ada is as tall as her
mother. Their speech is rather countrified Even the doctor’s. He drinks
a frightful lot of beer; quarts I believe.

April 14th. Father came to-day. He’s awfully fond of the doctor. They
kissed one another. It did make me laugh. In the morning we were in
the forest; but there are no violets yet, only a few snowdrops, but a
tremendous lot of hellebores quite red.

April 15th. We got up at 4 yesterday morning. We did not go into the
church for Mother was afraid that the smell of incense and boots would
make Dora feel bad. What rot! It was lovely. This afternoon we are going
to Ramsau, it’s lovely there.

April 16th. Father went home to-day. We go home to-morrow. At
Whitsuntide Ada’s mother is going to bring her to be confirmed. They
are all coming to stay with us. I got stuck in a bog on the bank of the
Ramsau. It was awful. But the doctor pulled me out and then we did all
laugh so when we saw what my shoes and stockings were like. Luckily I
was able to catch hold of a tree stump or I should have sunk right in.

April 18th. Hella says it was splendid at the Brioni Islands. She is
frightfully sunburned. I don’t like that, so I shall _never_ go to the
_south_. Hella says that if one marries in winter one _must_ spend one’s
honeymoon in the south. That would not suit me, I should just put off my
marriage till the summer.

Ada is only 13 not 14 like Dora, and the parish priest makes a
tremendous fuss because she’s not confirmed yet. Her mother is going to
bring her to be confirmed soon. We are not going to be confirmed because
Father and Mother don’t want to be bothered with it. Still I should like
to be confirmed, for then one _has_ to have a watch, and one can ask for
something else at Christmas.

April 21st. Our lessons are something frightful just now. The school
inspector is coming soon. It’s always very disagreeable. Mme A. says:
The inspection is for the staff not for the pupils. Still, it’s horrid
for the pupils too first of all because we get blamed at the time
and secondly because the staff makes such a frightful row about it
afterwards. Dora says that a bad inspection can make one’s report 2
degrees worse. By the way, that reminds me that I have not yet written
why Oswald did not come home at Easter. _Although his reports were not
at all good_, he was allowed to go to Aunt Alma’s at Pola, because this
year Richard comes home for the holidays for the last time. After that
he’s going away for three years in the steamship “Ozean” to the East or
Turkey or Persia, I don’t quite know where. If Oswald likes he can go
into the Navy too in two years.

May 9th. The school inspector came to-day, first of all in natural
history, thank goodness I wasn’t in for it that time, and then in
German; I was in that, reading and in the table of contents of the
Wandering Bells. Thank goodness I got through all right.

May 14th. It’s Mother’s birthday to-day. We’ve had simply no time to
work anything for her, so we got a wonderful electric lamp for her bed
table, the switch is a bunch of grapes and the stand is made of brass.
She was so pleased with it. Yesterday Frau v. R. was here. She’s a
friend of Mother’s and of Hella’s mother. I should like to have music
lessons from Frau v. R., she gives lessons since her husband who was a
major died though she is quite well off.

May 15th. That must have been true about the inspection; in the interval
to-day Professor Igel-Nikel said to the Herr Religionsprofessor: Well,
he will go on coming all through the week and then we shall be all right
for this year. _We_, of course that means the staff. But really the
staff can’t help it if the pupils are no good. Though Oswald says it’s
all the fault of the staff. I shall be glad too when the inspection is
over. The staff is always quite different when the inspector is there,
some are better, some are stricter, and Mme. A. says: I always feel
quite ill with anxiety.

May 29th. At Whitsuntide Frau Doctor Haslinger came from Hainfeld with
Ada and the two boys for the confirmation. On Whitsunday the doctor came
too and in the evening they all went home again. Ada is very pretty, but
she looks countrified. I’m not going to be confirmed anyhow. We had to
wait 3 hours, though the Friday before Whitsunday was a very fine day.
Dora did not come; only Mother and I and Ada and her mother. The
women who were selling white favours all thought that I was one of the
candidates because I wore a white dress too. Ada was rather put out
about it. On Saturday we were in town in the morning and afternoon
because Ada liked that better than the Kahlenberg; on Sunday morning we
went to Schonbrunn and in the afternoon they went home. The watch they
gave to Ada was a lovely one and Dora and I gave her a gold chain for a
locket. She enjoyed herself immensely, except that on Sunday she had a
frightful headache. Because she is not used to town noises.

May 31st. Ada knows a good deal already, but not everything. I told her
a few things. In H. last winter a girl drowned herself because she was
going to have a baby. It made a great sensation and her mother told her
a little, but not everything. Ada once saw a bitch having her pups, but
she didn’t tell her mother about it; she thought that her mother might
be very angry. Still, she could not help it, the dog belonged to their
next door neighbour and she happened to see it in the out-house. Ada
is expecting _it_ to begin every day for she is nearly 14. In H. every
grown-up girl has an admirer. Ada says she will have one as soon as she
is 14; she knows who it will be.

June 3rd. Ada wrote to-day to thank Mother about the confirmation and
she wrote to me as well. It is strange that she did not make friends
with Dora but with me. I think that Dora won’t talk about _those_
things, at least only with her friends in the high school, especially
with Frieda Ertl. That is why Ada made friends with me, though I am 2
years younger. She is really an awfully nice girl.

June 19th. One thing after another goes missing in our class, first
it was Fleischer’s galoshes, then my new gloves, three times money was
missing, and today Fraulein Steiner’s new vanity bag. There was a great
enquiry. But nothing was found out. We all think it is Schmolka. But
no one will tell. To-day we could none of us attend to our lessons
especially when Sch. left the room at half past 11.

June 20th. In our closet the school servant found some beads on the
floor but since she did not know anything she threw them into the
dustbin. Was it really Sch.? It would be a dirty trick. Frl. St. is
frightfully upset because her betrothed gave her the vanity bag for a
birthday present and his photo was in it. But I’m really sorry for
Sch. Nobody will speak to her although nothing is proved yet. She is
frightfully pale and her eyes are always full of tears. Hella thinks too
that perhaps she didn’t do it, for she is one of Frl. St.’s favourites
and she is very fond of her herself. She always carries the copybooks
home for her.

June 22nd. Our closet was stopped up and when the porter came to see
what was the matter he found the vanity bag. But what use is it to Frl.
now; she can’t possibly use it any more. We giggled all through lessons
whenever we caught one another’s eye and the staff was in a frightful
rage. Only Frau Doktor M. said: “Now please get through with your
laughing over this extremely unsavoury affair, and then have done with
it.”

June 23rd. There was a frightful row to-day. Verbenowitsch was
collecting the German copybooks and when Sch. wanted to hand up her
copybook she said: Please give up your copybook yourself; I won’t have
anything to do with (then there was a long pause) you. We were all
apalled and Sch. went as white as a sheet. At 10 o’clock she begged
permission to leave the room because she felt bad. I’m sure her mother
will come to speak about it to-morrow.

June 24th. Sch.’s mother did not come after all. Verbenowitsch said:
Of course not! Sch. did not come either. Hella says she couldn’t stand
anything like that, she would rather drown herself. I don’t know, one
wants _other_ reasons for drowning oneself. Still, I should tell Father
so that he could speak about it at school. Franke said: Yes, that’s
all very well, because _you_ didn’t do it; but _if_ one had done it one
would not dare to say anything at home. Besides, Sch.’s father is an
invalid, he’s quite paralysed, has been bedridden for two years and
can’t speak.

June 27th. To-day Hella and I walked home with Frau Doktor M. Really she
always goes home alone but Hella suddenly left me and went up to
Frau Doktor in the street and said: Please excuse me Frau Doktor for
bothering you in the street, we _must_ speak to you. She got quite red.
Then Frau Doktor said: “What’s the matter?” And Hella said: “Isn’t it
possible to find out who took the vanity bag? If it wasn’t Sch. the
way the other girls treat her will make her quite ill, and if it was we
can’t stand having her among us any longer.” Hella was really splendid
and Frau Doktor M. made us tell her everything that had happened,
including about Verbenowitsch and the copybooks; and we saw quite
clearly she had tears in her eyes and she said: “The poor child!
Children I promise I will do what I can for her.” We both kissed her
hand and my heart beat furiously. And Hella said: “You are an angel.” I
could never have managed to say a thing like that.

June 28th. To-day Sch. was there again, but Frau Doktor M. did not
say anything. Hella and I kept on looking at her and Hella cleared her
throat three times and Frau Doktor said: Bruckner, do stop clearing your
throat; it will only make your sore throat worse: But it seemed to me
her eyes twinkled as she said it. So she hasn’t forgotten. I wanted to
speak to Sch., but Hella said: Wait a bit, we must give the Frau Doktor
a chance. She’s taken the matter in hand. To-morrow before 9 we’ll walk
up and down in front of her house till she comes out.

June 30th. Unluckily yesterday was a holiday and to-day Frau Doktor’s
first lesson began at 11. But she has already had a talk with Sch. only
we don’t know when and where; certainly it was not in the interval and
she did not send for Sch. during lessons.

July 1st. To-day we walked to school with her She _is_ such a dear.
Children, she said, this is such a painful matter, and it is difficult
to find a way out. Sch. insists that she did not do it, and whether she
did it or not these days are burning themselves into her soul and Hella
asked: “Please, Frau Doktor advise us what to do, speak to her or not?”
 Then she said: Children I think that after this affair she won’t come
back to us next year; you will be doing a good work if you make these
last days bearable to her. You were never intimate with her, but to give
her a friendly word or two will do you no harm and may help her. You 2
have a high standing in the class; your example will do good. We walked
with her till we reached the school, and because we were there we could
not kiss her hand but Hella said out loud: How sweet you are! She must
have heard it. But Sch. was not at school. Father says he’s glad that
the term is nearly over, for I have been quite crazy about this affair.
Still, he thinks that Hella and I should talk to Sch. So does Mother.
But Dora said: Yes that’s all right but you must not go too far.

July 5th. Sch. was not at school to-day. To-morrow we are to get our
reports.

July 6th. We cried like anything I and Hella and Verbenowitsch because
we shan’t see Frau Doktor M. any more for nearly 3 months. I only had 2
in History and Natural History, but 1 in everything else. Franke says:
Anyone who is not in Professor Igel-Nigl’s good books can find out that
he’s cranky and stupid and _he_ could never get a one. Father is quite
pleased. Of course Dora has got only ones and Hella has three twos.
Lizzi, I think, has 3 or 4. Father has given each of us a 2 crown piece,
we can blow it, he says and Mother has given us a lace collar.

July 9th. We are going to Hainfeld this summer, its jolly, I’m awfully
pleased; but not until the 20th because Father can’t get away till
then and Mother won’t leave Father so long alone. It is only a few days
anyhow. It’s a pity Hella’s gone already, she left early this morning
for Parsch near Salzburg, what a horrid name and Hella too doesn’t like
saying it; I can’t think how anyone can give a place such a nasty name.
They have rented a house.

July 12th. It’s shockingly dull. Nearly every day I have a quarrel
with Dora because she’s so conceited Oswald came home yesterday. He’s
fearfully smart nearly as tall as Father only about a quarter head
shorter, but then Father’s tremendously tall. And his voice is quite
deep, it was not before. And he has parted his hair on one side, it
suits him very well. He says his moustache is growing already but it
isn’t; one could see it if it were; five hairs don’t make a moustache.

July 19th. Thank goodness we’re going at last the day after to-morrow.
Father wanted Mother to go away with us earlier, but she would not. It
would have been nicer if she had.

July 24th. Our house is only 3 doors away from the Hs. Ada and I spend
the whole day together. There happens to be a schoolfellow of Dora’s
here, one she gets on with quite well, Rosa Tilofsky Oswald says that
Hainfeld bores him to death and that he shall get a friend to invite him
somewhere. Nothing will induce him to spend the whole holidays here.
His name for Ada is: “Country Simplicity.” If he only knew how much she
knows. Rosa T. he calls a “Pimple Complex” because she has two or three
pimples. Oswald has some fault to find with every girl he comes across.
He says of Dora: She is a green frog, for she always looks so pale and
has cold hands, and he says of me: You can’t say anything about her yet:
“_She_ is still nothing but an unripe embryo.” Thank goodness I know
from the natural history lessons what an embryo is, a little frog; “I
got in a frightful wax and Father said: Don’t you worry, he’s still a
long way from being a man or he would be more polite to his sisters and
their lady friends.” This annoyed him frightfully, and since then he
never says a word when Ada and Rosa are with us. My birthday is coming
soon, thank goodness I shall be 12 then, only 2 years more and I shall
be 14; I am so glad. Hella wrote to me to-day for the second time. In
August she is going to Hungary to stay with her uncle, he has a great
estate and she will learn to ride there.




SECOND YEAR, AGE TWELVE TO THIRTEEN


SECOND YEAR

August 1st. It was awfully jolly on my birthday. We drove to Glashutte
where it is lovely; there we cooked our own dinner in the inn for the
landlady was ill and so was the cook. On one’s birthday everyone
is always so nice to one. What I like most of all is the Ebeseder
paint-box, and the book too. But I never have any time to read. Hella
sent me a lovely picture: Maternal Happiness, a dachshund with two
puppies, simply sweet. When I go home I shall hang it up near the door
over the bookcase. Ada gave me a silk purse which she had worked for me
herself. Aunt Dora gave me a diary, but I can’t use it because I prefer
to write upon loose sheets. Grandfather and Grandmother at B. sent me a
great piece of marzipan, splendid. Ada thinks it lovely; she didn’t know
marzipan before.

August 9th. When it’s not holidays Ada goes to school in St. Polten
staying there with her aunt and uncle, because the school in H. is
not so good as the school in St. P. Perhaps next term she is coming to
Vienna, for she has finished with the middle school and has to go on
learning. But she has no near relations in Vienna where she could stay.
She might come to live with us, Dora could have a room to herself as
she always wants, and Ada and I could share a room. I would much rather
share a room with her than with Dora who is always making such a fuss.

August 10th. I do really think! A boy can always get what he wants.
Oswald is really going for a fortnight to Znaim to stay with his chum;
only Oswald of course. I should like to see what would happen if Dora
or I wanted to go anywhere. A boy has a fine time. It’s the injustice of
the thing which makes me furious. For we know for certain that he’s had
a _bad_ report, even though he does not tell us anything about it. But
of course that doesn’t matter. They throw every 2 in our teeth and when
he gets several Satisfactories he can go wherever he likes. His chum
too; he only got to know Max Rozny this year and he’s a chum already.
Hella and I have been chums since we were in the second in the
elementary school and Dora and Frieda Ertl since they went to the
High School. We both gave him a piece of our mind about friendship. He
laughed scornfully and said: That’s all right, the friendships of _men_
become closer as the years pass, but the friendships of you girls go
up in smoke as soon as the first admirer turns up. What cheek. Whatever
happens Hella and I shall stick to one another till we’re married, for
we want to be married on the same day. Naturally she will probably
get engaged before me but she _must_ wait for me before she’s married.
That’s simply her duty as a friend.

August 12th. Oswald went away yesterday and we had another scene just
before he left because he wanted one of us to go with him to the station
and help carry his luggage. As if we were his servants. Ada wanted
to volunteer to carry it, but Dora gave her a nudge and luckily she
understood directly. Sometimes, but only sometimes, when Dora gets in
a wax she is rather like Hella. She thinks it’s better that Oswald has
gone away because otherwise there are always rows. That’s because she
always comes off second-best. For really he is cleverer than she is. And
when he wants to make her really angry he says something to her in Latin
which she can’t understand. I think that’s the real reason why she’s
learning Latin. I must say I would not bother myself so about a thing
like that. I really wouldn’t bother.

August 15th. To-day I posted the parcel to Hella, a silver-wire
watchchain; I made it in four days. I hope she’ll get it safely, one can
never be sure in Hungary.

August 17th. We are so frightfully busy with Japanese lanterns and fir
garlands. The people who have received birthday honours are illuminating
and decorating their houses. While we were at work Ada told me a _few
things_. She knows more than Hella and me, because her father is a
doctor. He tells her mother a good deal and Ada overhears a lot of
things though they generally stop talking when she comes in. Ada would
like awfully to be an actress. I never thought of such a thing though
I’ve been to the theatre often.

August 22nd. Hella is awfully pleased with the chain; she is wearing it.
She is really learning to ride at her cousin’s. It’s a pity he’s called
Lajos. But Ludwig is not any better. He seems to be awfully nice and
smart, but it’s a pity he’s 22 already.

August 25th. Ada is frightfully keen on the theatre. She has often been
to the theatre in St. Polten and she is in love with an actor with whom
all the ladies in St. Polten are in love. That is why she wants to be an
actress and so that she can live _free and unfettered_. That is why she
would like so much to come to Vienna. I wish she could come and live
with us. She says she is pining away in H. for it’s a dull hole. She
says she can’t stand these _cramping conditions_. In St. Polten she
spent all her pocket money upon flowers for _him_. She always said that
she had to buy such a lot of copybooks and things for school. That’s
where she’s lucky not to be at home, for I could not easily take in
Mother like that. It would not work. One always has too little pocket
money anyhow, and when one lives at home one’s parents know just what
copybooks one has. I should like to go away from home for a few months.
Ada says it is very good for one, for then one learns to know the world;
at home, she says, one only grows _musty_ and _fusty_. When she talks
like that she really looks like an actress and she certainly has talent;
her German master at school says so too. She can recite long poems and
the girls are always asking the master to let her recite.

August 30th. To-day Ada recited Geibel’s poem, The Death of Tiberius, it
was splendid; she is a born actress and it’s a horrid shame she can’t go
on the stage; she is to teach French or sewing. But she says she’s going
on the stage; I expect she will get her way somehow.

August 31st. Oswald’s having a fine long fortnight; he’s still there
and can stay till September 4th!! If it had been Dora or me. There would
have been a frightful hulabaloo. But Oswald may do _anything_. Ada says:
We girls must take for ourselves what the world won’t give us of its own
free will.

September 5th. In the forest the other day I promised Ada to ask Mother
to let her come and stay with us so that she could be trained for the
stage. I asked Mother to-day, but she said it was quite out of the
question. Ada’s parents simply could not afford it. If she has talent,
the thing comes of itself and she need only go to a school of Dramatic
Art so that she could more easily get a good Theatre says Ada. So I
don’t see why it should be so frightfully expensive. I’m awfully sorry
for Ada.

September 10th. Oh we have all been so excited. I’ve got to pack up my
diary because we’re going home to-morrow. I must write as quickly as I
can. There have been some gypsies here for three days, and yesterday one
of the women came into the garden through the back gate and looked at
our hands and told our fortunes, mine and Ada’s and Dora’s. Of course we
don’t believe it, but she told Ada that she would have a great but short
career after many difficult struggles. That fits in perfectly. But she
made a frightful mess of it with me: Great happiness awaits me when I am
_as old again as I am now_; a great passion and great wealth. Of course
that must mean that I am to marry at 24. At 24! How absurd! Dora says
that I look much younger than 12 so that she meant 20 or even 18. But
that’s just as silly, for Dr. H., who is a doctor and knows so many
girls, says I look _older_ than my age. So that it’s impossible that
the old gypsy woman could have thought I was only 10 or even 9. Dora’s
fortune was that in a _few_ years she was to have much trouble and then
happiness. And she told Ada that her line of life was broken!!

September 14th. Oswald left early this morning, Father kissed him on
both cheeks and said: For God’s sake be a good chap this last year at
school. He has to matriculate this year, it’s frightfully difficult. But
he says that anyone who has cheek enough can get through all right. He
says that cheek is often more help than a lot of swoting and grinding.
I know he’s right; but unfortunately at the moment it never occurs to
me what I ought to do. I often think afterwards, you ought to have said
this or that. Hella is really wonderful; and Franke too, though she’s
not particularly clever, can always make a smart answer. If only half
of what Oswald says he says to the professors is true, then I can’t
understand why he is not expelled from every Gym. says Mother. Oswald
says: If one only puts it in the right way no one can say anything. But
that doesn’t hold always.

September 16th. Hella is coming back to-day. That’s why I’m writing in
the morning, because she’s coming here in the afternoon. I’m awfully
glad. I have begged Mother to buy a lovely cake, one of the kind Hella
and I are both so fond of.

September 20th. Only a word or two. School began again to-day. Thank
goodness Frau Doktor M. still takes our class. Frl. Steiner took her
doctor’s degree at the end of the school year. In history we have a new
Frau Doktor, but we don’t know her name yet. The Vischer woman has been
_married_ in the holidays!!! It’s enough to make one split with laughing
that anyone should marry _her!!!_ Dora says she wouldn’t like to be her
husband; but most likely he will soon get a divorce. Besides, spectacles
in a woman are awful. I can put up with a pincenez for one does not
wear them all the time. But spectacles! Dora says too that she can’t
understand how a man can marry a woman with spectacles. Hella often
says it makes her feel quite sick when Vischer glares at her through her
spectacles. We have a new natural history professor. I’m awfully glad
that three of our mistresses have doctors degrees and that we have one
or really 2 professors, for we have the Religionsprofessor too. In the
Third they are frightfully annoyed because only one of their mistresses
has a doctor’s degree. Dora has 2 doctors and three professors.

September 25th. All the girls are madly in love with Professor Wilke the
natural history professor. Hella and I walked behind him to-day all the
way home. He is a splendid looking man, so tall that his head nearly
touches the lamp when he stands up quickly, and a splendid fair beard
like fire when the sun shines on it; a Sun God! we call him S. G., but
no one knows what it means and who we are talking about.

September 29th. Schmolka has left, I suppose because of Frl. St.’s
vanity bag. Two other girls have left and three new one’s have come, but
neither I nor Hella like them.

October 1st. It was my turn in Natural History to-day I worked
frightfully hard and _He_ was splendid. We are to look after the
pictures and the animals _all through the term_. How jolly. Hella and I
always wear the same coloured hair ribbons and in the Nat. Hist. lesson
we always put tissue paper of the same colour on the desk. He wants us
to keep notebooks, observations on Nature. We have bound ours in lilac
paper, exactly the same shade as his necktie. On Tuesdays and Fridays we
have to come to school at half past 8 to get things ready. Oh how happy
I am.

October 9th. _He_ is a cousin of our gymnastic master, splendid! This
is how we found it out. We, Hella and I, are always going past the Cafe
Sick because he always has his afternoon coffee there. And on Thursday
when we passed by there before the gymnastic lesson there was the
gymnastic master sitting with him. Of course we bowed to them as we
passed and in the gymnastic lesson Herr Baar said to us: So you two are
tormented and pestered by my cousin in natural history? “Pestered” we
said, o no, it’s the most delightful lesson in the whole week. “Is that
so?” said he, “I won’t forget to let him know.” Of course we begged and
prayed him not to give us away, saying it would be awful. But we do hope
he will.

October 20th. Frau Doktor Steiner’s mother is dead. We are so sorry for
her. Some of us are going to the funeral, I mayn’t go, Mother says it
is not suitable, and Hella is not allowed to go either, I wonder if _He_
will go? I’m sure he will, for really he _has_ to.

October 23rd. Frau Doktor St. looks frightfully pale. Franke says she
will certainly get married soon now that both her parents are dead. Her
fiance often fetches her from the Lyz, I mean he waits for her in L.
Street. Hella thinks an awful lot of him of course, because he’s an
officer. I don’t think much of him myself, he’s too short and too fat.
He’s only a very little taller than Frl. St. I think a husband should be
nearly a head taller than his wife, or at least half a head taller, like
our Father and Mother.

October 29th. We have such a frightful lot of work to do that we’re not
taking season tickets this winter, but are going to pay each time when
we go skating. I wish we knew whether _He_ skates, and where. Hella
thinks that with great caution we might find out from his cousin during
the gymnastic lesson. They are often together in the Cafe. I should
like to know what they talk about, they are always laughing such a lot,
especially when we go by.

October 31st. Ada has written to me. She is _awfully_ unhappy. She is
back in St. P., in a continuation school. But the actor is not there any
more. She writes that she yearns to throw off her chains which lie heavy
on her soul. Poor darling. No one can help her. That is, her Mother
could help her but she won’t. It must be awful. Hella thinks that her
parents will not allow her to go on the stage until she has tried to do
herself a mischief; then things may be better. It’s quite true, what can
her mother be thinking of when she knows how fearfully unhappy Ada is.
After all, why on earth shouldn’t she go on the stage when she has so
much talent? All her mistresses and masters at the middle school praised
her reciting tremendously and one of them said in so many words that she
had _great dramatic talent_. Masters don’t flatter one; except . . .;
first of all _He_ is not just an ordinary master but a professor, and
secondly _He_ is quite, quite different from all others When he strokes
his beard I become quite hot and cold with extasy. And the way he lifts
up his coat tails as he sits down. It’s lovely, I do want to kiss him.
Hella and I take turns to put our penholder on his desk so that _he_
can hallow it with his hand as he writes. Afterwards in the arithmetic
lesson when I write with it, I keep looking at Hella and she looks back
at me and we both know what the other is thinking of.

November 15th. It’s a holiday to-day so at last I can write once more.
We have such a frightful lot to do that I simply can’t manage to write.
Besides Mother is often ill. She has been laid up again for the last 4
days. It’s awfully dull and dreary. Of course I had time to write those
days, but then I didn’t want to write. As soon as Mother is well again
she’s going to the Lyz to ask how we are getting on I’m awfully glad
because of S.G.

November 28th. Mother came to school to-day and saw him too. I took
her to him and he was heavenly. He said: I am very pleased with your
daughter; she’s very keen and clever. Then he turned over the pages of
his notebook as if to look at his notes. But really he knows by heart
how we all work. That is not _all_ of course. That would be impossible
with so many girls; and he teaches in the science school as well where
there are even more boys than we are.

December 5th. Skating to-day I saw the Gold Fairy. She is awfully
pretty, but I really don’t think her so lovely as I did last year. Hella
says she never could think what had happened to my eyes. “You were madly
in love with her and you never noticed that she has a typical Bohemian
nose,” said Hella. Of course that’s not true, but now my taste is _quite
different_. Still, I said how d’you do to her and she was very
nice. When she speaks she is really charming, and I do love her gold
stoppings. Frau Doktor M. has two too and when she laughs its heavenly.

December 8th. I do wish Dora would keep her silly jokes to herself. When
the Trobisch’s were all here to-day they were talking about the school
and she said: “Gretl has a fresh enthusiasm each year; last year it
was Frau Doktor Malburg and this year it’s Professor Wilke. Frau Doktor
Malburg has fallen from grace now.” If I had wanted to I could have
begun about the two students on the ice. But I’m not like that so I
merely looked at her with contempt and gave her a kick under the table.
And she had the cheek to say: “What’s the matter? Oh, of course these
tender secrets of the heart must not be disclosed. Never mind Gretl,
it does not matter at your age, for things don’t cut deep.” But she was
rightly paid out: Frau von Tr. and Father roared with laughter and Frau
v. Tr. said: “Why, grandmother, have you been looking at your white hair
in the glass?” Oh, how I did laugh, and she was so frightfully put out
that she blushed like fire, and in the evening _she_ said to _me_ that
I was an ill-mannered pig. That’s why I did not tell her that she’d left
her composition book on the table and to-morrow she has to give it in.
It’s all the same to _me_, for I’m an ill-mannered pig.

December 9th. It’s awful. At 2 o’clock this afternoon Hella was taken to
the Low sanatorium and was operated on at once. Appendicitis. Her mother
has just telephoned that the operation has been successful. But the
doctors said that 2 hours later it would have been too late. My knees
are trembling and my hand shakes as I write. She has not slept off the
anisthetic yet.

December 10th. Hella is frightfully weak; no one can see her except her
father and mother, not even Lizzi. On St. Nicholas Day we had such a
jolly time and ate such a lot of sweets that we almost made ourselves
sick. But its impossible that she got appendicitis from that. On Monday
evening, when we were going home after the gym lesson, she said she
did not feel at all well. The night before last she had a rigor and the
first thing in the morning the doctor said that she must go to hospital
at once for an operation.

December 11th. All the girls at school are frightfully excited about
Hella, and Frau Dr. St. was awfully nice and put off mathematics till
next Tuesday. On Sunday I am going to see Hella. She does want to see me
so and so do I want to see her.

December 12th. She is still very weak and doesn’t care about anything; I
got her mother to take some roses and violets from me, she did like them
so much.

December 14th. This afternoon I was with Hella from two until a quarter
to 4. She is so pale and when I came in we both cried such a lot. I
brought her some more flowers and I told her directly that when he sees
me Prof. W. always asks after her. So do the other members of the staff
especially Frau Doktor M. The girls want to visit her but her mother
won’t let them. When anyone is lying in bed they look quite different,
like strangers. I said so to Hella, and she said: We can never be
strangers to one another, not even in death. Then I burst out crying
again and both our mothers said I must go away because it was too
exciting for Hella.

December 15th. I was with Hella again to-day. She passed me a little
note asking me to get from her locker the parcel with the blotting-book
for her father and the key basket for her mother and bring it to her
because the things are not ready yet for Christmas.

December 16th. Hella’s better to-day. I’ve got to paint the
blotting-book for her father. Thank goodness I can. She’ll be able to
finish the key basket herself, that’s nothing.

December 18th. The Bruckners are all frightfully unhappy for it won’t
be a real Christmas if Hella has to stay in hospital over Christmas.
But perhaps she will for since yesterday she has not been so well, the
doctors can’t make out why she suddenly had fever once more. For she
didn’t let on that I had brought her some burnt almonds because she’s
so awfully fond of them. But now I’m so terribly frightened that she’ll
have to have another operation.

December 19th. Directly after school I went to see Hella again for I
had been so anxious I could not sleep all night. Thank goodness she’s
better. One of the doctors said that if she’d been in a private house
he would have felt sure it was an error in diet, but since she was in
hospital that could be excluded. So it was from the burnt almonds and
the two sticks of marzipan. Hella thinks it was the marzipan, for
they were large ones at 20 hellers each because nuts lie heavy on
the stomach. She had a pain already while I was still there, but she
wouldn’t say anything about it because it was her fault that I’d brought
her the sweets. She can beg as much as she likes now, I shan’t bring her
anything but flowers, and they can’t make her ill. Of course it would be
different if it were true about the “Vengeance of Flowers.” But that’s
all nonsense, and besides I don’t bring any strong-scented flowers.

December 20th. I am so glad, to-morrow or Tuesday Hella can come home,
in time for the Christmas tree. Now I know what to give her, a long
chair, Father will let me, for I have not enough money myself but Father
will give me as much as I want. Oh there’s no one like Father! To-morrow
he’s going to take me to the Wahringerstrasse to buy one.

December 21st. I was only a very short time with Hella to-day because
Father came to fetch me soon. At first she was a little hurt, but then
she saw that we had important business so she said: All right as long as
it is not anything made of marzipan. That nearly gave us both away. For
when we were in the street Father asked me: Why did Hella say that about
marzipan? So I said quickly: Since she’s been ill she has a perfect
loathing for sweets. Thank goodness Father didn’t notice anything. But
I do hate having to tell fibs to Father. First of all I always feel that
he’ll see through it, and secondly anyhow I don’t like telling fibs to
him. The couch is lovely, a Turkish pattern with long tassels on the
round bolster. Father wanted to pay for it altogether, but I said: No,
then it would not be my present, and so I paid five crowns and Father
37. To-morrow early it will be sent to the Bruckners.

December 22nd. Hella is going home to-morrow. She has already been up
a little, but she is still so weak that she has to lean on someone when
she walks. She is awfully glad she is going home, for she says in a
hospital one always feels as if one was going to die. She’s quite
right. The first time I went to see her I nearly burst out crying on the
stairs. And afterwards we both really did cry frightfully. Her mother
knows about the couch, but it has not been sent yet. I do hope they
won’t forget about it at the shop.

December 23rd. Hella went home to-day. Her father carried her upstairs
while I held her hand. The two tenants in the mezzanin came out to
congratulate her and the old privy councillor on the second story and
his wife sent down a great pot of lilac. She was so tired that I came
away at 5 o’clock so that she could rest. To-morrow I’m going to their
Christmas tree first and then to ours. Because of Hella the Br’s are
going to have the present giving at 5 o’clock, we shall have ours as
usual at 7.

December 26th. Yesterday and the day before I simply could not write
a word. It was lovely here and at Hella’s. I shan’t write down all the
things I got, because I’ve no time, and besides I know anyhow. Hella was
awfully pleased with the couch, her father carried her into the room and
laid her on the sofa. Her mother cried. It was touching. It’s certainly
awfully nice to have got through a bad illness, when everyone takes care
of one, and when no one denies you the first place. I don’t grudge it
to Hella. She’s such a darling. Yesterday I was there all day, and after
dinner, when she had to go to sleep, she said: Open the drawer of my
writing-table, the lowest one on the right, and you’ll find my diary
there if you want to read it. I shall never forget it! It’s true that we
agreed we would let one another read our diaries, but we’ve never done
it yet; after all we’re a little shy of one another, and besides after
a long time one can’t remember exactly what one has written. What she
writes is always quite short, never more than half a page, but what she
writes is always important. Of course she couldn’t sleep but instead
I had to read her a lot of things out of her diary, especially the
holidays when she was in Hungary. She was made much of there. By two
cadets and her two cousins. We laughed so madly over some things that it
hurt Hella’s wound and I had to stop reading.

December 29th. We were put in such a frightful rage yesterday. This is
how it happened. It is a long time since we both gave up playing with
dolls and things of that sort but when I was rummaging in Hella’s box I
came across the dolls’ things; they were quite at the bottom where Hella
never looked at them. I took out the little Paris model and she said:
Give it here and bring all the things that belong to it. I arranged them
all on her bed and we were trying all sorts of things. Then Mother and
Dora came. When they came in Dora gave such a spiteful look and said:
Ah, at their favourite occupation: look, Lizzi, their cheeks are quite
red with excitement over their play. Wasn’t it impertinent. We playing
with dolls! Even if we had been, what business was it of hers to make
fun of us? Hella was in a frightful rage and to-day she said: “One is
never safe from spies; please put all those things away in the box
so that I shan’t see them any more.” It really is too stupid that
one should always be reproached about dolls as if it was something
disgraceful. After all, one doesn’t really understand until later how
all the things are made; when one is 7 or 8 or still more when one is
quite a little girl and one first gets dolls, one does not understand
whether they are pretty and nicely dressed or not. Still, to-day we’ve
done with dolls for ever. A good day to turn over a new leaf, for the
day after to-morrow is New Year’s Day.

But what annoys me most of all was this piece of cheek of Dora’s; she
says that Lizzi said: “We used to delight in those things at one time,”
 but I was in such a rage that I did not hear it. But to eat all the best
things off the Christmas tree on the sly!!! I saw it myself, _that_ is
nothing. _That’s_ quite fit and proper for a girl of 15. After supper
yesterday I asked: But what’s become of the second marzipan sandwich,
I’m sure there were two on the tree. And I looked at her steadily till
she got quite red. And after a time I said: the big basket of vegetables
is gone too. Then she said. Yes, I took it, I don’t need to ask your
permission. As for the sandwich, Oswald took that. I was in such a
temper, and then Father said: Come, come, you little witch, cool your
wrath with the second sandwich and wash it down with a sip of liqueur.
For Grandfather sent Father a bottle of liqueur.

December 30th. This is a fine ending to the year. I’ve no interest in
the school any longer. We’re silly little fools, love-sick and forward
minxes. That’s all the thanks we get for having gone every Tuesday
and Friday to the school at half past 8 to arrange everything and dust
everything and then he can say a thing like that. I shall never write
_he_ with a big h again; he is not worthy of it. And I had to swallow
it all, choke it down, for I simply must not excite Hella. It made me
frightfully angry when Mother told me, but still I’m glad for I know
what line to take now. Mother was paying a call yesterday and the sister
of our gymnastic master, who is at the ---- High School, happened to
be there, and she told Mother that her cousin Dr. W. is so much annoyed
because the girls in the high school are so forward. Such silly little
fools, and the little minxes begin it already in the First Class. _For
that reason he prefers to teach_ boys, they are fond of him too but they
don’t make themselves such an _infernal nuisance_. Well, now that I know
_I_ shant make myself a nuisance to him any more. On Friday, when the
next lesson is, I shall go there 2 minutes before nine and take the
things into the class-room without saying a word. And I shall tell
Kalinsky too that we’re such an _infernal nuisance_ to him. Just fancy,
as if _we_ were in the First Class!

January 1st, 19--. This business with Prof. W. makes me perfectly
furious. Hella kept on asking yesterday what was the matter, said I
seemed different somehow. But thank goodness I was able to keep it in.
I must keep it in for the sake of her health, even if it makes me ill.
Anyway what use is life now. Since people are so falsehearted. He always
looked so awfully nice and charming; when I think of the way in which
he asked how Hella was and all the time he was so false!!! If Hella only
knew. Aha, to-morrow!

January 2nd. I treated him _abominably_. Knocked at the
door--Good-morning, Herr Prof. please what do we want for the lesson
to-day? He very civilly: Nothing particular to-day. Well, what sort of
a Christmas did you have--I: Thank you, much as usual.--He turned round
and stared at me: It does not seem to have been; to judge from your
manner. --I: There are quite other reasons for that. He: O-o-h? He may
well say O-o-h! For he has not the least idea that I know the way in
which he speaks of us.

January 6th. To-day Hella was able to go out for her first drive. She’s
much better now and will come back to school by the middle of the month.
I _must_ tell her before that or she’ll get a shock. Yesterday she
asked: Does not S. C. ask about me any more?--Oh yes, I fibbed, but not
so often as before. And she said: That’s the way it goes, out of sight
out of mind. What will happen when she learns the truth. Anyhow I shan’t
tell her until she’s quite strong.

January 10th. I’ve had to tell Hella already. She was talking so
enthusiastically about S. G. At first I said nothing. And then she said:
What are you making such a face for? Are not you allowed to arrange the
things any more?--I: _Allowed_? Of course I’m _allowed_, but I don’t
_want_ to any more. I did not tell Hella _how_ bad I feel about it; for
I really _was_ madly in love with him.

January 12th. Hella must have been madly in love with him too or rather
must be in love with him still. On Sunday evening she was so much upset
that her mother believed she was going to have a relapse. She had pains
and diarrea at the same time. Thank goodness she’s got over it like
me. She said to-day: Don’t let’s bother ourselves about it any more. We
wasted our feelings (not love!!) on an unworthy object. At such moments
she is magnificent, especially now when she is still so pale. Besides in
the holidays and now since she has been ill she has grown tremendously.
Before I was a little taller and now she is a quarter head taller than
me. Dora is frightfully annoyed because I am nearly as tall as she is.
Thank goodness it makes me look older than 12 1/2.

Hella is not to come to school on January 15th, for her mother is going
to take her to Tyrol for 2 or 3 weeks.

January 18th. It’s horridly dull with Hella away. Only now do I realise,
since her illness. I am always feeling as if she had fallen ill again.
Her mother has taken her to Meran, they are coming back in the beginning
of February.

January 24th. Since Hella has been ill, that is really since, she went
away, I spend most of my time with Fritzi Hubner. She’s awfully nice,
though I did not know it last year. Till Hella comes back she and I sit
together. For it’s horrid to sit alone on a bench Fritzi knows a good
deal already. She would not talk about it at first because it so often
leads to trouble. Her brother has told her everything. He’s rather a
swell and is called Paul.

January 29th. Yesterday was the ice carnival and Dora and I were allowed
to go. I skated with Fritzi and Paul most of the time and won 2 prizes,
one of them with Paul. And one of them skating in a race with 5 other
girls. Paul is awfully clever, he says he’s going into the army, the
flying corps. That’s even more select than being on the general staff.
Her father is a major and he, I mean Paul, ought to have gone to the
military academy, but his grandfather would not allow it. He is to
choose for himself. But of course he will become an officer. Most boys
want to be what their father is. But Oswald is perhaps going into the
Navy. I wish I knew what Father meant once when he said to Mother: Good
God, I’m not doing it on my own account. I’m only doing it because of
Oswald. The two girls won’t get much out of it.

February 3rd. I’ve just been reading what I wrote about Father. I am
wondering what it can be. I think that Father either wants to win the
great prize in the lottery or is perhaps going to buy a house. But Dora
and I would get something out of that, for it would not belong to Oswald
only.

February 4th. Yesterday I asked Mother about it. But she said she didn’t
know; if it was anything which concerned us, Father would tell us.
But it must be something, or Mother would not have told Father in the
evening that I had asked. I can’t endure these secrets. Why shouldn’t
we know that Father’s going to buy a house. Fritzi’s grandfather has a
house in Brunn and another in Iglau. But Fritzi is very simply dressed
and her mother too.

February 9th. Thank goodness Hella is coming back to-morrow, just before
her birthday. Luckily she can eat everything again so I am giving her a
huge bag of Viktor Schmid’s sweets with a silver sugar tongs. Mother and
I are going to meet Hella at the station. They are coming by the 8.20.

February 10th. I am so glad Hella is coming to-day. I nearly could not
meet her because Mother is not very well to-day. But Father’s going to
take me. Fritzi wanted to come and see Hella to-morrow afternoon, but
she can’t. She’s an awfully nice girl and her brother is too, but on the
first day Hella is back we must be alone together. She said so too in
the last letter she wrote me. She’s been away more than 3 weeks. It’s a
frightfully long time when you are fond of one another.

February 15th. I simply can’t write my diary because Hella and I spend
all our free time together. Yesterday we got our reports. Of course
Hella has not got one. Except in Geography and History I have nothing
but Ones, even in Natural History although since New Year I have not
done any work in that subject. I detest Natural History. When Hella
comes back to school we are going to ask the _sometime_ S. G. to relieve
us from the labours of looking after the things. Hella is still too
weak to do it. Hella is 13 already and Father says she is going to
be wonderfully pretty. _Going to be_, Father says; but she’s lovely
already. She’s been burned as brown as a berry by the warm southern sun,
and it really suits _her_, though only her. I can’t stand other people
when they are sun-burned. But really everything suits Hella; when she
was so pale in hospital, she was lovely; and now she is just as lovely,
only in quite a different way. Oswald is quite right when he says:
You can measure a girl’s beauty by the degree in which she bears being
sunburned without losing her good looks. He really used to say that in
the holidays simply to annoy Dora and me, but he’s quite right all the
same.

February 20th. The second half-year began yesterday. They were all
awfully nice to Hella, and Frau Doktor M. stroked her cheeks and put her
arm round her so affectionately. Now for the chief thing. Today was the
Natural History lesson. We knocked at the door and when we went in Prof.
W. said: Ah I’m glad to see you Bruckner; take care that you don’t give
us all another fright. How are you? Hella said: “Quite well, thank you,
Herr Prof.” And as I looked at her she put on a frightfully serious
face and he said: It seems to me that you’ve caught your friend’s ill
humour.--Hella: “Herr Prof., you are really too kind, but we don’t want
to trouble you. What things have we to take to the class-room? And then
we beg leave to resign our posts, for I don’t feel strong enough for the
work.” She said this in quite a soldierly way, the way she is used to
hear her father speak. It sounded most distinguished. He looked at us
and said: “All right, two of the other pupils will take it over.” We
don’t know whether he really noticed nothing or simply did not wish
to show that he had noticed. But as we shut the door I felt so awfully
sorry; for it was the last time, the very last time.

February 27th. In Natural History to-day I got _Unsatisfactory_. I
was not being questioned, but when Klaiber could not answer anything I
laughed, and he said: Very well, Lainer, you correct her mistake. But
since I had been thinking of something quite different I did not know
what it was all about, and so I got an Unsatisfactory. _Before_ of
course that would not have mattered; but now since . . . Hella and
Franke did all they could to console me and said: “That does not matter,
it wasn’t an examination; he’ll _have_ to examine you properly later.”
 Anyhow Franke thinks that however hard I learn, I shall be well off if
he gives me a Satisfactory. She says no professor can forget _such a
defeat_. For we told her about the silly little fools. She said, indeed,
that we had made it too obvious. That’s not really true. But now she
takes our side, for she sees that we were in the right. Verbenowitsch
and Bennari bring in the things now. They are much better suited for it.
Hella’s father did not like her doing it anyhow; he says: The porter
or the maidservant are there for that--we never see them all the year
round, that’s a fine thing.

March 8th. Easter does not come this year until April 16th. I am going
with the Bruckners to Cilli, outside the town there they have a vineyard
with a country house. Hella needs a change. I am awfully glad. All the
flowers begin to come out there at the end of March or beginning of
April.

March 12th. Hella is not straightforward. We met a gentleman to-day,
very fashionably dressed with gold-rimmed eyeglasses and a fair
moustache. Hella blushed furiously, and the gentleman took off his hat
and said: Ah, Fraulein Helenchen, you are looking very well. How are
you? He never looked at me, and when he had gone she said: “That was Dr.
Fekete, who assisted at my operation.”--“And you tell me _that_ now for
the first time?” Then she put on an innocent air and said: “Of course,
we’ve never met him before,” but I said: “I don’t mean _that_. If you
knew how red you got you would not tell me a lie.” Then she said: “What
am I telling you a lie about? Do you think I’m in love with him? Not in
the very least.”--But when one is _not_ in love one does not blush like
that. Anyhow I shan’t tell everything now either; I can hold my tongue
too.

March 14th. Yesterday we did not talk to one another so much as usual; I
especially was very silent. When the bell rang at 5 and I had just been
doing the translation Hella came and begged my pardon and brought me
some lovely violets, so of course I forgave her. This is really the
first time we’ve ever quarrelled. First she wanted to bring me some
sweets, but then she decided upon violets, and I think that was much
more graceful. One gives sweets to a little child when it has hurt
itself or been in a temper. But flowers are not for a child.

March 19th. Frieda Belay is dead. We are all terribly upset. None of us
were very intimate with her, but now that she is dead we all remember
that she was a schoolfellow. She died of heart failure following
rheumatic fever. We all attended her funeral, except Hella who was not
allowed to come. Her mother cried like anything and her grandmother
still more; her father cried too. We sent a wreath of white roses with
a lovely inscription: Death has snatched you away in the flower of your
youth--Your Schoolfellows.

I have no pleasure in anything to-day. I did not see Frieda Belay after
she was dead, but Franke was there yesterday and saw her in her coffin.
She says she will never forget it, it gave her such a pang. In the
church Lampl had a fit of hysterics, for her mother was buried only a
month ago and now she was reminded of it all and was frightfully upset.
I cried a lot too when I was with Hella. She fancied it was because I
was thinking she might have died last Dec. But that wasn’t it, I don’t
think about that sort of thing. But when anyone dies it is so awfully
sad.

March 24th. I never heard of such a thing. I can’t go to Cilli with
Hella. Her mother was at her cousin’s, and when she heard that she was
going to Cilli at Easter she asked her to take Melanie with her. That
is, she didn’t ask straight out, but kept on hinting until Hella’s
mother said: Let Melanie come with us, it will help to set her up after
her illness. In the winter she had congestion of the lung. Hella and
I can’t bear her because she’s always spying on us and is so utterly
false. So of course I can’t go. Hella says too she’s frightfully sorry,
but when _she_ is about we could never say a word about anything, it
would drive us crazy. She quite agrees that I had better not come. But
oh I’m so annoyed for first of all I do so like going away with Hella
and secondly I should like to go away in the holidays anyhow for nearly
all the girls in our class are going away. Still, there’s nothing to be
done. Hella’s mother says she can’t see why we can’t all 3 go though
it simply would not work. But we can’t explain it to her. Hella is so
poetical and she says “A beautiful dream vanished.”

In Hella’s mouth such fine words sound magnificent, but when Dora uses
such expressions they annoy me frightfully because they don’t come from
her heart.

March 26th. The school performances finish today with Waves of the Sea
and Waves of Love. I’m awfully fond of the theatre, but I never write
anything about that. For anyhow the play is written by a poet and one
can read it if one wants to, and one just sees the rest anyhow. I can’t
make out what Dora finds such a lot to scribble about always the day
after we’ve been to the theatre. I expect she’s in love with one of the
actors and that’s why she writes such a lot. Besides we in the second
class did not get tickets for all the performances, but only the girls
from the Fourth upwards. Still, it did not matter much to me anyhow for
we often go in the evening and on Sunday afternoons. But unfortunately I
mayn’t go in the evening as a rule.

March 29th. To-day something horrible happened to Dora and me. I simply
can’t write it down. She was awfully nice and said: Two years ago on the
Metropolitan Railway the same thing had happened when she was travelling
with Mother on February 15th, she can never forget the date, to Hietzing
to see Frau v. Martini. Besides her and Mother there was only one
gentleman in the carriage, Mother always travels second class. She and
Mother were sitting together and the gentleman was standing farther down
the carriage where Mother could not see him but Dora could. And as Dora
was looking he opened his cloak and -- -- --! just what the man did
to-day at the house door. And when they got out of the train Dora’s boa
got stuck in the door and she had to turn round though she did not want
to, and then she saw again -- -- --! She simply could not sleep for a
whole month afterwards. I remember that time when she could not sleep
but I did not know why it was. She never told anyone except Erika and
the same thing happened to her once. Dora says that happens at least
once to nearly every girl; and that such men are “_abnormal_.” I don’t
really know what that means, but I did not like to ask. Perhaps Hella
will know. Of course I did not really look, but Dora shivered and said:
“And _that_ is what one has to endure.” And then, when we were talking it
over she said to me that _that_ was why Mother was ill and because she
has had five children; Then I was very silly and said: “But how from
_that_? one does not get children from that?” “Of course,” she said,
“I thought you knew that already. That time there was such a row with
Mali about the waistband, I thought you and Hella had heard all about
everything.” Then I was silly again, really frightfully stupid; for
instead of telling her what I really knew I said: “Oh, yes, I knew all
about it except just that.” Then she burst out laughing and said: “After
all, what you and Hella know doesn’t amount to much.” And in the end she
told me a _little_. If it’s really as Dora says, then she is right when
she says it is better not to marry. One can fall in love, one must fall
in love, but one can just break off the engagement. Well, that’s the
best way out of the difficulty for then no one can say that you’ve never
had a man in love with you. We walked up and down in front of the school
for such a long time that we were very nearly late and only got in just
as the bell rang. On the way home I told Hella the awful thing we’d seen
the man do. She does not know either what “abnormal” really means _as
far as this is concerned_. But now we shall use it as an expression for
something horrible. Of course no one will understand us. And then Hella
told me about a drunken man who in Nagy K. . . . was walking through the
streets _like that_ and was arrested. She says _too_ that one can never
forget seeing anything like _that_. Perhaps the man this morning was
drunk too. But he didn’t look as if he were drunk. And if he hadn’t done
_that_ one would really have taken him for a fine gentleman. Hella knows
too that it is from _that_ that one gets children. She explained it
all to me and now I can quite understand that _that_ must make one ill.
Yesterday it was after 11 at night and so I’m finishing to-day. Hella
says: _That_ is the original sin, and _that_ is the sin which Adam
and Eve committed. Before I had always believed the original sin was
something quite different. But that--that. Since yesterday I’ve been so
upset I always seem to be seeing _that_; really I did not look at all,
but I must have seen it all the same.

March 30th. I don’t know why, but in the history lesson to-day it all
came into my head once more what Dora had said of Father. But I really
can’t believe it. Because of Father I’m really sorry that I know it.
Perhaps it does not all happen the way Dora and Hella say. Generally I
can trust Hella, but of course she may be mistaken.

April 1st. To-day Dora told me a lot more. She is quite different now
from what she used to be. One does not say P[eriod], but M[enstruation].
Only common people say P--. Or one can say one’s _like that_. Dora
has had M-- since August before last, and it is horribly disagreeable,
because men always know. That is why at the High School we have only
three men professors and all the other teachers are women. Now Dora
often does not have M-- and then sometimes it’s awfully bad, and that’s
why she’s anemic. That men always know, that’s frightfully interesting.

April 4th. We talk a lot about such things now. Dora certainly knows
more than I do, that is not more but better. But she isn’t quite
straightforward all the same. When I asked her how she got to know about
it all, whether Erika told her or Frieda, she said: “Oh, I don’t know;
one finds it all out somehow; one need only use one’s eyes and one’s
ears, and then one can reason things out a little.” But seeing and
hearing don’t take one very far. I’ve always kept my eyes open and I’m
not so stupid as all that. One must be told by some one, one _can’t_
just happen upon it by oneself.

April 6th. I don’t care about paying visits now. We used always to like
going to see the Richters, but to-day I found it dull. Now I know why
Dora hates going second class on the Metropolitan. I always thought it
was only to spite me because I like travelling second. She never likes
going second since _that_ happened. It seems one is often unjust to
people who never meant what one thought. But why did she not tell me the
truth? She says because I was still a child then. That’s all right, but
what about this winter when I was cross because we went Third class to
Schonbrunn; I really believed she did it to annoy me, for I could not
believe she was afraid that in the second class, where one is often
alone, somebody would suddenly attack her with a knife. But now I
understand quite well, for of course she could not tell Mother the truth
and Father still less. And in winter and spring there are really often
no passengers to speak of on the Metropolitan, especially on the Outer
Circle.

April 7th. Mother said to-day that at the Richters yesterday we,
especially I, had been frightfully dull and stupid. Why had we kept on
exchanging glances? We had been most unmannerly. If she had only known
what we were thinking of when Frau Richter said, the weather to-day is
_certainly quite abnormal_; we have not had such _abnormal_ heat for
years. And then when Herr Richter came home and spoke about his brother
who had spent the whole winter at Hochschneeberg and said: Oh, my
brother is a little _abnormal_, I think he’s got a tile loose in the
upper storey, I really thought I should burst. Luckily Frau R. helped
us once more to a tremendous lot of cake and I was able to lean well
forward over my plate. And Mother said that I ate like a little glutton
and just as if I never had any cake at home. So Mother was _very_ unjust
to me, for the cake had nothing at all to do with it. Dora says too that
I must learn to control myself better, that if I only watch her I’ll
soon learn. That’s all very well, but why should one have to bother? If
people did not use words that really mean something quite different then
other people would not have to control themselves. Still, I must learn
to do it somehow.

April 8th. We were terribly alarmed to-day; quite early, at half past 8,
they telephoned from the school that Dora had suddenly been taken ill
in the Latin lesson and must be fetched in a carriage. Mother drove down
directly in a taxi and I went with her because anyhow my lessons began
at 9 and we found Dora on the sofa in the office with the head sitting
by her and the head’s friend, Frau Doktor Preisky, who is a medical
doctor, and they had loosened her dress and put a cold compress on her
head for she had suddenly fainted in the Latin lesson. That’s the third
time this year, so she must really have anemia. I wanted to drive home
with her, but Mother and Frau Dr. P. said I’d better just go to my
lessons. And as I went out I heard Frau Dr. P. say: “That’s a fine
healthy girl, a jolly little fellow.” Really one should only use that
word of boys and men, but I suppose she has got into the way of using it
through being with men so much. If one studies medicine one has to learn
all about _that_ and to look at everything. It must be really horrid.

Dora is kept in bed to-day and our Doctor says too that she’s anemic.
To-morrow or the day after Mother is going to take her to see a
specialist. Dora says it’s a lovely feeling to faint. Suddenly one can’t
hear what people are saying and one feels quite weak and then one does
not know anything more. I wonder if I shall ever faint? Very likely when
-- -- -- We talked a lot about everything we are interested in. In the
afternoon Hella came to ask after Dora, and she thinks she looks
awfully pretty in bed, an interesting invalid and at the same time so
distinguished looking. It’s quite true, we all look distinguished.

April 9th. To-day is Father and Mother’s _wedding day_. Now I know
_what_ that really means. Dora says it can’t really be true that it is
the most lovely day in one’s life, as everyone says it is, especially
the poets. She thinks that one must feel frightfully embarrassed because
after all everyone knows. . . . That’s quite true, but after all one
need not tell anyone which one’s wedding day is. Dora says she will
never tell her children which her wedding day is. But it would be a
great pity if parents always did that for then in every family there
would be one anniversary the less. And the more anniversaries there are,
the jollier it is.

April 10th. To-morrow I’m going with Father to Salzburg. Dora can’t
come, for they think she might faint in the train. I’m rather glad
really, though I’ve nothing against her and I’m sorry for her, but it’s
much nicer to go with Father alone. It’s a long time since I was in
Salzburg. I’m so awfully glad to go. Our spring coats and skirts are so
pretty, dark green with a silk lining striped green and gold-brown, and
light brown straw hats with daisies for the spring and later we
shall have cherries or roses. I’m taking my diary so that I can write
everything which _interests_ me.

April 12th. I slept all the way in the train. Father says I ground my
teeth frightfully and was very restless: but I did not know anything
about it. We had a compartment by ourselves, except just at first when
there was a gentleman there. Hella did not come with us, because her
aunt, who has just been married, is coming to visit them. Really I’m
quite glad, for I like so much being with Father quite alone. This
afternoon we were in Hellbrunn and at the Rock Theatre. It is wonderful.

April 13th. Father always calls me: Little Witch! But I don’t much like
it when other people are there. To-day we went up the Gaisberg. The
weather was lovely and the view magnificent. When I see so extensive a
view it always makes me feel sad. Because there are so many people one
does not know who perhaps are very nice. I should like to be always
travelling. It would be splendid.

April 14th. I nearly got lost to-day. Father was writing a letter to
Mother and he let me go to see the salt works; I don’t know how it
happened, but suddenly I found myself a long way from anywhere, in a
place I did not know. Then an old gentleman asked me what I was looking
for; because I had walked past the same place 3 times and I said we were
staying in the “Zur Post Hotel” and I did not know how to find my way
back. So he came with me to show me and as we were talking it came out
that he had known Father at the university. So he came in with me and
Father was awfully glad to see him. He is a barrister in Salzburg but he
has a grey beard already. As he was going away he said in an undertone
to Father: “I congratulate you old chap on your daughter; she’ll be
something quite out of the ordinary!” He whispered it really, but
I heard all the same. We spent all the afternoon with him at the
Kapuzinerberg. There was a splendid military band; two young officers
in the Yagers who were sitting at the next table to ours kept on looking
our way; one was particularly handsome. My new summer coat and skirt is
awfully becoming everyone says. Father says too: “I say, you’ll soon be
a young lady! But don’t grow up too quickly!” I can’t make out why he
said that; I should like to be quite grown up; but it will be a long
time yet.

April 14th. It’s been raining all day. How horrid. One can’t go
anywhere. All the morning we were walking about the town and saw several
churches. Then we were at the pastrycook’s, where I ate 4 chocolate
eclairs and 2 tartlets. So I had no appetite for dinner.

April 15th. Just as I was writing yesterday Dr. Gratzl sent up the hotel
clerk to ask us to dinner. We went, they live in the Hellbrunnerstrasse.
He has 4 daughters and 2 sons and the mother died three years ago. One
of the sons is a student in Graz and the other is a lieutenant in the
army; he is engaged to be married. The daughters are quite old already;
one of them is 27 and is engaged. I think that is horrid. The youngest
(!!!) is 24. It is so funny to say “the youngest” and then she is 24.
Father says she is very pretty and will certainly get married At 24!!
when she’s not even engaged yet; I don’t believe she will. They have a
large garden, 3 dogs and 2 cats, which get on very well together. There
are steps leading up and down from room to room, it is lovely, and all
the windows are bow-windows. Everything is so old-fashioned, even
the furniture I do think it’s all so pretty. The hall is round like a
church. After tea we had candied fruits, stewed fruit, and pastries. I
had a huge go of stewed fruit. They have a gramaphone and then Leni and
I played the piano. Just as we were going away Fritz, the student, came
in; he got quite red and in the hall Dr. Gratzl said to me: “You’ve made
a conquest to-day.” I don’t really believe I have, but I do like hearing
it said. I’m sorry to say we are going away to-morrow, for we are going
to stay 2 days in Linz with Uncle Theodor whom I don’t know.

April 17th. Uncle Theodor is 60 already and Aunt Lina is old too. Still,
they are both awfully nice. I did not know them before. We are staying
with them. In the evening their son and his wife came. They are my
cousins, and they brought their little girl with them; I am really a
sort of aunt of hers. It’s awfully funny to be an aunt when one is only
12 and 3/4 and when one’s niece is 9. To-day we went walking along the
Danube. It only rained very gently and not all the time.

April 18th. We are going home to-day. Of course we have sent a lot of
picture postcards to Mother and Dora and Hella; we sent one to Oswald
too. He came home for Easter. I don’t know whether he will still be
there to-morrow.

April 22nd. We’ve begun school again. Dora and I generally walk to
school together since she does not go to the Latin lesson now because
it was too great a strain for her. The specialist Mother took her to see
wanted her to give up studying altogether, but she absolutely refuses to
do that. But I’m very furious with her; she’s learning Latin in secret.
When I came into the room the day before yesterday she was writing
out words and she shut her book quickly instead of saying openly and
honestly: Rita, don’t tell Father and Mother that I’m still studying
in the evening: “I trust your word.” She could trust me perfectly well.
There are plenty of things I could tell if I liked! Perhaps she fancies
that I don’t see that the tall fair man always follows us to school in
the morning. Hella has noticed him too, besides he is frightfully bald
and must be at least 30. And I’m certain she would not talk as much as
she does to Hella and me if it were not that she wants to talk about
_that_. But this deceitfulness annoys me frightfully. Otherwise we are
now quite intimate with one another.

April 24th. We went to confession and communion to-day. I do hate
confession; though it’s never happened to me what many girls have told
me, even girls in the Fifth. No priest has ever asked me about the 6th
commandment; all they’ve asked is: In thought, word, or deed? Still, I
do hate going to confession, and so does Dora. It’s much nicer for Hella
as a Protestant for they have no confession. And at communion I’m always
terrified that the host might drop out of my mouth. That would be awful.
I expect one would be immediately excommunicated as a heretic. Dora was
not allowed to come to confession and com., Father would not let her.
She must not go out without her breakfast.

April 26th. In the Third there really is a girl who dropped the host out
of her mouth. There was a frightful row about it. She said it was not
her fault the priest’s hand shook so. It’s quite true, he was very old,
and that is why I’m always afraid it will happen to me. It’s much better
when the priest is young, because then that can never happen. Father
says that the girl won’t be excommunicated for this, and luckily one of
her uncles is a distinguished prelate. He is her guardian too. That will
help her out.

April 27th. To-day we got to know this girl in the interval. She is
awfully nice and she says she really did not do it on purpose for she is
frightfully pious and perhaps she’s going to be a nun. I am pious too,
we go to church nearly every Sunday, but I would not go into a convent,
not I. Dora says people generally do that when they’ve been crossed
in love, because then the world seems empty and hateful. She looked so
frightfully sentimental that I said: Seems to me you’ve a fancy that way
yourself? Then she said: “No, thank goodness, I’ve no reason for that.”
 Of course what she meant was that she was not crossed in love but the
other way. No doubt the tall man in the mornings. I looked hard at her
for a long time and said: “I congratulate you on your good fortune. But
Hella and I wish he was not bald,” then she said with an astonished air:
“Bald? What are you talking about, he has the lofty brow of a thinker.”

27th. To-day Mademoiselle came for the first time. I have forgotten to
say that Dora has to go out every day for two hours to sit and walk in
the sunshine. Since Mother is not very well and can’t walk much, we’ve
engaged the Mad. Father says that when I have time I must go too “as
a precautionary measure.” I don’t like the idea at all, it’s much too
dull; besides I have simply no time. Mad. is coming 3 times a week,
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and on Mondays, Thursdays, and
Saturdays I have my music lesson, so I can’t go; so Finis and
Jubilation! That’s what Oswald always says at the end of the year and
at the end of term. Still, she’s very pretty, has fair curly hair, huge
grey eyes with black lashes and eyebrows, but she speaks so fast that I
can’t understand all she says. On the other 3 days an Englishwoman is
to come, but we have not got one yet, they are all so expensive. It does
seem funny to me to get a salary for going out with _grown up girls_,
that’s only an amusement. With regular tomboys, such as we saw last year
in Rathaus Park, it would be different. As for the French or English
conversation! If they did not want to talk what would it matter? And
besides why should one want to talk either French or English, it’s so
stupid.

April 28th. The Richters were here to-day, and the eldest son came too,
the lieutenant from Lemberg; he is awfully handsome and made hot love
to Dora; Walter is very nice too, he is at the School of Forestry
in Modling; to-morrow the lieutenant is going to bring Dora one of
Tolstoi’s books to read. Then they will do some music together, she
piano and he violin; it’s a pity I can’t play as well as Dora yet. At
Whitsuntide Walter is coming too and Viktor (that means conqueror) is
on furlough for 6 months, because he’s ill, or because he is said to be
ill; for one does not look like _that_ when one is really ill.

May 4th. Lieutenant R. is always coming here, he must be frightfully
smitten with Dora. But Father won’t have it at any price. He said to
Dora to-day:

“You get this gay young spark out of your head; he is no good. But at
sight of a uniform there is no holding you girls. I’ve no objection to
you doing music together for an hour or two; but this perpetual running
to and fro with books and notes is all humbug.”

May 6th. Lieutenant R. walks with us, that is with Dora, to school every
day. He is supposed to lie in bed late every morning, for he is really
ill but for Dora’s sake he gets up frightfully early and comes over from
Heitzing and waits in ---- Street. Of course I go on alone with Hella
and we all meet In ---- Street, so that no one shall notice anything at
school.

May 13th. To-morrow is Mother’s birthday and Viktor (when I am talking
about him to Dora I always speak of him as V.) brought her some lovely
roses and invited us all to go there next Sunday. In the hall he called
me “the Guardian Angel of our Love.” Yes, that is what I am and always
shall be; for he really deserves it and Dora too is quite different
from what she used to be. Hella says one can see for oneself that love
ennobles; up till now she has always thought that to be mere poetical
fiction.

May 15th. Father said: I don’t care much about these visits to the
Richters as long as that _young jackanapes_ is still there, but Mother
can’t very well refuse. We shall wear our green coats and skirts with
the white blouses with the little green silk leaves for Dora does not
like to wear all white except in summer. And because the leaves on the
blouses are _clover leaves_, that is because of their meaning. We are
looking forward to it tremendously. I do hope Mother will be all right,
for she is in bed to-day. It’s horrid being ill anyhow, but when being
ill interferes with other people’s pleasure it’s simply frightful.

May 16th. The day before yesterday was Mother’s birthday; but it was not
so jolly as usual because Mother is so often ill; for a birthday present
I painted her a box with a spray of clematis, which looks awfully
chic. Dora gave her a book cover embroidered with a spray of Japanese
cherries, I don’t know what Father gave her, money I think, because on
her birthday and name day he always hands her an envelope. But since
Mother is not well we were not very cheerful, and when we drank her
health at dinner she wiped her eyes when she thought we were not
looking. Still, it’s not so dangerous as all that; she is able to go out
and doesn’t look bad. I think Mother’s awfully smart, she looks just as
well in her dressing gown as when she’s dressed up to go out. Dora says
that if she had been made ill by her husband she would hate him and
would never let her daughters marry. That’s all very well, but one ought
to be quite _sure_ that _that_ is why one has become ill. They say that
is why Aunt Dora doesn’t like Father. Certainly Father is not so nice to
her as to other relations or to the ladies who some to see Mother. But
after all, Aunt Dora has no right to make _scenes_ about it to Father,
as Dora says she does. Mother’s the only person with any right to do
that. Dora says she is afraid that it will come to Mother’s having to
have an operation. Nothing would ever induce me to undergo an operation,
it must be horrible, I know because of Hella and the appendicitis. But
Dora says: “Anyone who’s had five children must be used to that sort
of thing.” I shall pray every night that Mother may get well without an
operation. I expect we shan’t all go away together at Whitsuntide this
year, for Mother and Dora are to go to a health resort, most likely to
Franzensbad.

May 18th. It was lovely at the Richters; Walter was there from Modling,
he was awfully nice, and said I was so like my sister that it was
difficult to tell us apart. That’s a frightful cram, but I know what
he really meant. He plays the flute splendidly, and the three played
a trio, so that I was frightfully annoyed with myself for not having
worked harder at my music. From to-morrow on I shall practice 2 hours
every day, if I can possibly find time. Next winter Viktor is going to
found a private dramatic club, so he must be going to stay more than six
months in Vienna. Walter thinks Dora awfully charming, and when I said:
“The great pity is that she’s got such frightful anemia,” he said: In a
man’s eyes that is no drawback whatever, as you can see in my brother.
Moreover, that illness is not a real illness, but often makes a girl
more charming than ever, as you can see in your sister.

Day before yesterday Miss Maggie Lundy came for the first time; anybody
can have her for me. She wears false hair, flaxen. She says she is
engaged, but Dora says, has been. I simply don’t believe it. V. says
Mad. is awfully pretty. When I asked Dora if she was not jealous, she
said she didn’t care, she was quite sure of his love. He means to leave
the army and go into the civil service, and then he will be able
to marry. But Dora said, there’s plenty of time for that, a secret
engagement is much nicer. Then she noticed she’d given herself away, and
she blushed like anything and said: You naturally must be engaged before
you are married, mustn’t you?--of course she _is_ secretly engaged, but
she won’t tell me about it. What’s the good of my being the “Guardian
Angel of their Love?” If he only knew.

May 19th. I really ought to practice to-day, but I simply have no
time, first of all I had my lesson anyhow, and secondly something awful
happened to Dora. She left her diary lying about in the school; and
because we have our religion lesson in the Fifth I saw a green bound
book lying under the third bench. Great Scott, I thought, that looks
like Dora’s diary. I went up as quickly as I could and put my satchel
over it. Later in the lesson I picked it up. When I got home
at 1 o’clock I did not say anything at first. After dinner
she began rummaging all over the place, but without saying
anything to me, and then I said quite quietly: “Do you hap--pen
to be look--ing for your di--ar--y? Here it is; you--left--it
in--the--fifth--class--un--der--the--third--bench.” (I kept her on
tenter hooks that way.) She got as white as a sheet and said: “You _are_
an angel. If any one else had found it, I should have been expelled
and Mad. would have had to drown herself.” “Oh, it can’t be as bad as all
that,” I said, for what she said about Mad. was frightfully exciting. In
class I had looked chiefly at what she had written about V. But I could
not read it there, because it was written very small and close together
and was several pages, but I had not looked much at what she had written
about Mad. “Did you read it?” “No, only where it happened to come open
because there’s a page torn out.” “About V. or about Mad?” “A little about
Mad; but tell me all about it; I shan’t tell anyone. For if I’d wanted
to betray you, you know quite well. . . .” And then she told me all
about Mad. But first I had to promise that I would not even tell Hella.
Mad. is secretly engaged to a man to whom she has given “the utmost
gifts of love,” that is to say she has . . . . She is madly in love with
him, and they would marry directly but he is a lieutenant too, and they
have not enough money for the security. She says that when one really
loves a man one can bear everything for his sake. She has often been to
his rooms, but she has to be frightfully careful for her father would
kill her if he found out. Dora has seen the lieutenant and says he is
very handsome, but that V. is much handsomer. Mad. says that you can’t
trust men as a rule, but that her lover is quite different, that he is
true as steel. I am sure V. is too.

May 21st. When Mad. came to-day I simply could not look at her while
Mother was there and Dora says I made an awful fool of myself. For
I went out walking with them to-day, and when we met a smart-looking
officer I hemmed and looked at Dora. But she didn’t know why. Mad. is
the daughter of a high official in the French military service and she
only took her teacher’s degree in order to get free from her Mother’s
“_tyranny_;” she nagged at her frightfully and until she began to give
lessons she was never allowed to go out alone. Dora says she is very
refined in her speech, especially when she is talking about _these_
things. Of course about _them_ she always speaks German, for it’s
much more difficult to say it in French, and probably Dora would not
understand it and then Mad. would only have to translate it. She is
called Sylvia and he calls her Sylvette. Mad. says that if one is madly
in love with a man one does whatever he asks. But I don’t see that one
need do that, for he might ask the most idiotic things; he might ask you
to get the moon out of the skies, or to pull out a tooth for his sake.
Dora says she can understand it quite well; that I still lack _the true
inwardness of thought and feeling_. It looks like utter nonsense. But
since it sounds fine I’ve written it down, and perhaps I shall find
a use for it some day when I’m talking to Walter. Mad. is always
frightfully anxious lest she should get a baby. If she did she’s sure
her father would kill her. The lieutenant is in the flying corps. He
hopes he’s going to invent a new aeroplane, and that he will make a lot
of money out of it. Then he will be able to marry Mad. But it would be
awful if _something happened_ and she got a baby already.

May 22nd. Dora asked me to-day how it was I knew all about these things,
whether Hella had told me. I did not want to give Hella away, so I said
quite casually: “Oh, one can read all about that in the encyclopedia.”
 But Dora laughed and said: “You are quite on the wrong scent; you can’t
find a tenth of all those things in the encyclopedia, and what you do
find is no good. In _these_ matters it is _absolutely no good_ depending
on books.” First of all she would not tell me any more, but after a
time she told me a good deal, especially the names of certain parts, and
about _fertilisation_, and about the microscopic baby which really comes
from the husband, and not as Hella and I had thought, from the wife.
And how one knows whether a woman is _fruitful_. That is really an awful
word. In fact almost every word has a second meaning of _that_ sort, and
what Dora says is quite true, one must be fearfully careful when one is
talking. Dora thinks it would be best to make a list of all such words,
but there are such a frightful lot of them that one never could. The
only thing one can do is to be awfully careful; but one soon gets used
to it. Still it happened to Dora the other day that she said to V.: I
don’t want any _intercourse_. And that really means “the utmost gifts
of love,” so Mad. told her. But V. was so well-mannered that he did
not show that he noticed anything; and it did not occur to Dora until
afterwards what she had said. It’s really awfully stupid that every
ordinary word should have such a meaning. I shall be so frightfully
careful what I say now, so that I shan’t use any word with two meanings.
Mad. says it’s just the same in French. We don’t know whether it is the
same in English and we could never dream of asking that awful fright,
Miss Lundy. Very likely she does not know the first thing about it
anyhow. I know a great deal more than Hella now, but I can’t tell her
because of betraying Dora and Mad. Perhaps I can give her a hint to
be more careful in what she says, so as not to use any word with two
meanings. That is really my duty as a friend.

May 23rd. I quite forgot. Last week Oswald had his written matriculation
exam, he wrote a postcard every day and Mother was frightfully annoyed
because he made such silly jokes all the time that we could not really
tell how he got on. Dora and I are awfully excited because next Monday
we are going to the aerodome with Frau Richter and her niece who is at
the conservatoire. Lieutenant Streinz is going to fly too. Of course
we’ll motor out because the railway is not convenient. Of course Viktor
will be there, but he is motoring over with some other officers. It’s
a great pity, for it would have been lovely if he’d been in our car. By
the way, I saved the class to-day, the school inspector has been this
week and examined our class first in History and then in German, and I
was the only one who knew all that Frau Doktor M. had told us about the
Origin of Fable. The insp. was very complimentary and afterwards Frau
Doktor M. said: its quite true one can always depend upon Lainer; she’s
got a trustworthy memory. When we were walking home she was awfully
nice: “Do you know, Lainer, I feel that I really must ask your pardon.”
 I was quite puzzled and Hella asked: But why? She said: “It seemed to me
this year that you were not taking quite so much interest in your German
lessons as you did last year; but now you’ve _reinstated_ yourself in my
good opinion.” Afterwards Hella said: I say you know, Frau Doktor M. is
not so far wrong when I think of all that we used to read last year so
that we might know everything when the lesson came, and when I think of
what we do this year!!! You know very well -- -- -- --. Hella is quite
right, but still one can learn in spite of _those things_, one can’t be
_always_ talking about them. And then it’s quite easy to learn for such
an angel as Frau Doktor M. Hella says that I got as red as a turkey cock
from pride because I could say it all in the very words of Frau Doktor
M., but it was not so, for first of all I was not a bit puffed up about
it, and secondly I really don’t know myself how I managed to say it
all. I only felt that Frau Doktor M. is so annoyed when no one offers to
answer a question, and so I took it on.

May 25th. Confound it, I could slap myself a hundred times. How could I
be so stupid! Now we’re not allowed to go to the aerodome. Father only
let us go because Viktor is in Linz and Father believed he was going
to stay there another fortnight. And at dinner to-day I made a slip and
said: “It is a pity there’s no room for five in our car. If Fraulein
Else were not coming Lieutenant Richter could come with us.” Dora kicked
me under the table and I tried to brazen it out, but Father was so angry
and said. “Hullo, is the flying man coming? No, no, children, nothing
doing. I shall make your excuses to Frau Richter directly. I’m not
having any, did not I tell you you weren’t to see the fellow any more?”
 Of course this last was to Dora. Dora did not say anything but she did
not eat any pudding or fruit, and as soon as we were back in our room
she gave it me hot, saying: You did that on purpose, you little beast,
but really you are only a child whom I never ought to have trusted, and
so on. It’s really too bad to say I did it _on purpose_, as if I envied
her. Besides it’s bad for me as well as for her, for I like him very
much too, for he makes no difference between us and treats me exactly
like Dora. Of course we are not on speaking terms now, and what
infuriated me more than anything was that she said she grudged every
word she had said to me in _this_ connection: “Pearls before Swine.”
 What a rude thing to say. So I am an S. But I should like to know who
told most. I forsooth? Anyhow I’m quite sure that I shall never talk to
her again about _anything of that sort_. Thank goodness I have a friend
in Hella. She would never say or think anything of the kind of me.

May 26th. Neither of us could sleep a wink all night; Dora cried
frightfully, I heard her though she tried to stifle it, and I cried too,
for I was thinking all the time what I could do to prevent Viktor
from thinking unkindly of me. That would be awful. Then I thought of
something, and chance or I ought to say luck helped me. Viktor does not
walk to school with us any longer, because the girls of the Fifth have
seen us several times, but he comes to meet Dora when she comes away at
1 o’clock. So quite early I telephoned to him at a public telephone call
office, for I did not dare to do it at home. Dora was so bad that she
could not go to school so I was going alone with Hella. I telephoned
saying a friend was ringing him up, that was when the maid answered the
telephone, and then she called him. I told him: that whatever happened
he was not to think unkindly of me and I must see him at 1 o’clock
because Dora was ill. He must wait at the corner of ---- Street. All
through lessons I was so upset that I don’t in the least know what we
did. And at 1 o’clock he was there all right, and I told him all about
it and he was so awfully kind and he consoled me; _he_ consoled _me_.
That’s quite different from the way Dora behaved. I was so much upset
that I nearly cried, and then he drew me into a doorway and _put his arm
round me_ and with his _own_ handkerchief wiped away my tears. I shall
never tell Dora about that. Then he asked me to be awfully kind to Dora
because she had such a _lot_ to bear. I don’t really know _what_ she has
to bear, but still, for his sake, because it’s really worth doing it for
that, after dinner I put a note upon her desk, saying: V. sends oceans
of love to you and hopes you will be all right again by Monday. At the
same time his best thanks for the book. I put the note in Heidepeter’s
Gabriel, which she had lent to me to read and put it down very
significantly. When she read it she flushed up, swallowed a few times
and said: “Have you seen him? Where was it and when?” Then I told her
all about it and she was frightfully touched and said: “You really are
a good girl, only frightfully undependable.” What do you mean,
undependable? She said: Yes undependable, for one simply must not blurt
out things in that way; never mind, I will try to forget. Have you
finished Heidepeter’s Gabriel yet? “No,” I said, “I’m not going to read
anyone’s book with whom I’m angry.” In the end we made it up, but of
course we did not talk any more about it and I did not say a word about
that business with the handkerchief.

May 29th. On June 10th or 12th, Mother and Dora are going to Frazensbad,
because they both have to take mud baths. Besides, Father says that a
change will give Dora new thoughts, so that she won’t go about hanging
her head like a sick chicken. To-day Dora told me something very
interesting. Unmarried men have little books and with these they can go
to visit women “of a certain kind” in Graben and in the Karntnerstrasse.
There, Dora says, they have to pay 10 florins or 10 crowns. In Dora’s
class there is a girl whose father is police surgeon, and they have all
to be examined every month to see if they are healthy, and if not they
can’t visit these “ladies,” and that’s why the Preusses can never keep a
servant. In my bath yesterday I noticed that I had a certain line, so
I must be fr--. But I shan’t have more than 1 or 2 children at most for
the line is very faint. When I’m studying I often think of such things,
and then I read a whole page and turn over and have not the remotest
idea what I’ve been reading. It’s very tiresome, for soon the other
school insp. for maths. and the other subjects is coming, and I should
not like to make a fool of myself; especially not because perhaps the
inspectors talk us over with one another about who is clever and who
stupid.

May 30th. The concert was glorious. When I hear such grand music I
always have to keep myself well in hand for I fear I should cry. It’s
very stupid, of course, but at such times I can only think of sad
things, even if it’s just a small piece. Dora can play Brahms’ Hungarian
Dances, too, but that never makes me want to cry. I only get annoyed
because I can’t play them myself. I could all right, but I have not got
patience to practice long enough. I never tell anyone that I want to
cry when I am listening to music, not even Hella, though I tell her
everything, except of course about Mad. Yesterday I made a fool of
myself; at least so Dora says. I don’t know how it happened, we were
talking about books at supper, and I said: “What’s the use of books,
one can’t learn anything out of them; everything is quite different from
what they say in books.” Then Father got in a wax and said: “You little
duffer, you can thank your stars there are books from which you can
learn something. Anyone who can’t understand a book always says it is no
good.” Dora gave me a look, but I didn’t know what she meant, and I
went on: “Yes, but there’s an awful lot that the encyclopedia puts all
wrong.” “What have you been ferreting in the encyclopedia for; we shall
have to keep the key of the bookcase in a safer place.” Thank goodness
Dora came to my help and said: “Gretel wanted to look up something
about the age of elephants and mammoths, but it’s quite different in the
encyclopedia from what Prof. Rigl told her last year.” I was saved. Dora
can act splendidly; I’ve noticed it before. In the evening she rowed me,
and said: “You little goose, will you never learn caution; first that
stupidity about Viktor and to-day this new blunder! I’ve helped you out
of a hole once but I shan’t do it again.” And then she spent all the
time writing a letter, to him of course--! Hella and I have just been
reading a lot of things in the encycl., about _Birth_ and _Pregnancy_,
and I on my own about abor--; we came across the words Embyro
and Foetus, and I said nothing at the time but tied 2 knots in my
handkerchief to remind me, and yesterday I looked them up. Mad. need
not be anxious even if she _really_ did get like that. But every doctor
knows about it and one often dies of it. I wonder if Mad. knows anything
about it. We were talking about the _differences_ between men and women,
and it came out that when Hella has her bath she is still washed by Anna
who has been with them for 12 years. Nothing would induce me to allow
that, I would not let anyone wash me, except Mother; certainly not Dora,
for I don’t want her to know what _I_ look like. The nurse in the hosp.
told Hella that she is developed just like a little nymph, so lovely and
symetrical. Hella says that is nothing unusual, that every girl looks
like that, that the female body is _Nature’s Work of Art_. Of course
she’s read that somewhere, for it does not really mean anything.
_Nature’s_ work of art; it ought to be: a work of art made by husband
and wife!!!

May 30th. Dora and Mother are going to Franzensbad on June 6th, directly
after Whitsuntide. Dora has got another new coat and skirt, grey with
blue stripes; yesterday our white straw hats came, it suits me very well
says Hella and everyone, with white ribbons and wild roses. There might
have been a fearful row about what’s just happened. When I went to
telephone I had my Christmas umbrella with the rose-quartz handle and
I left it in the telephone box; the girl in the tobacco shop found it
there, and as she knows me she brought it here and gave it to the porter
who brought it upstairs. Thank goodness it occurred to me at once to say
that I went into the tobacco shop to buy stamps and I must have left it
in the _shop_. No one noticed anything.

May 31st. They wanted me to go and stay with Hella for the month when
Mother and Dora are away. It would be awfully nice, but I’m not going
to, for I want to stay with Father. What would he do all alone at meal
times, and whom would he have to talk to in the evenings? Father was
really quite touched when I said this and he stroked my hair as he can
and no one else, not even Mother. So I’m going to stay at home whatever
happens. Flowers are very cheap now, so I shall put _different_ flowers
on the table every day, I shall go to the Market every day to buy a
little posy, so that they can always be fresh. It would be stupid for me
to go to the Brs., why should I, Resi has been with us for such a long
time, she knows how to do everything even if Mother is not there and
everything else I can arrange. Father won’t want for anything.

June 1st. We’ve had such an experience to-day! It’s awful; it’s quite
true then that one takes off _every stitch_ when one is madly fond of
anyone. I never really believed it, and I’m sure Dora did not, although
Mad. hinted it to her; but _it’s true_. We’ve seen it _with our own
eyes_. I was just sitting and reading Storm’s The Rider of the Grey
Horse and Dora was arranging some writing paper to take to Franzensbad
when Resi came and said: Fraulein Dora, please come here a moment, I
want you to look at something! From the tone of her voice I saw there
was something up so I went too. At first Resi would not say what it
was but Dora was generous and said: “It’s all right, you can say
_everything_ before her.” Then we went into Resi’s room and from behind
the curtain peeped into the mezzanin. A young _married couple_ live
there!!! At least Resi says people say they are _not_ really married,
but simply live together!!!! And what we saw was awful. She was
absolutely naked lying in bed without any of the clothes on, and he
was kneeling by the bedside quite n-- too, and he kissed her all over,
_everywhere!!!_ Dora said afterwards it made her feel quite sick. And
then he stood up--no, I can’t write it, it’s too awful, I shall never
forget it. So _that’s_ the way of it, it’s simply frightful. I could
never have believed it. Dora went as white as a sheet and trembled so
that Resi was terribly frightened. I nearly cried with horror, and yet
I could not help laughing too. I was really afraid he would stifle her
because he’s so big and she’s so small. And Resi says he is certainly
much too big for her, and that he nearly tears her. I don’t know why
he should tear her but certainly he might have crushed her. Dora was
so terrified she had to sit down and Resi hurried to get her a glass of
water, because she believed she was going to faint. I had not imagined
it was anything like _that_, and Dora certainly had not either. Or she
would never have trembled so. Still I really don’t see why she should
tremble like that. There is no reason to be frightened, one simply need
not marry, and then one need never strip off every stitch, and oh dear,
poor Mademoiselle who is so small and the lieutenant is very tall.
But just think if anyone is as fat as Herr Richter or our landlord. Of
course Herr Richter is at least 50, but last January the landlord had
another little girl, so something _must have happened_. No, I’m sure
it’s best not to marry, for _it_ is really too awful. We did not look
any more for then came the worst, suddenly Dora began to be actually
sick, so that she could hardly get back to our room. If she had not
been able to, everything would have come out. Mother sent for the doctor
directly and he said that Dora was very much overworked; that it was a
good thing she was going away from Vienna in a few days. No girl ought
to study, it does not pay. Then he said to me: “You don’t look up to
much either. What are you so hollow-eyed for?” “I’m so frightened about
Dora,” I said. “Fiddlededee,” said the doctor, “that does not give
anyone black rings round the eyes.” So it must be true that one gets to
look ill when one always has to think about _such_ things. But how can
one help it, and Hella says: It’s awfully interesting to have black
rings under the eyes and men _like_ it.

We were going to make an excursion to-morrow to Kahlenberg and
Hermannskogel, but probably it won’t come off. Its 11 already and I’m
fearfully tired from writing so much; I must go to bed. I do hope I
Shall be able to sleep, but -- -- -- --

June 3rd. Father took Hella and me to Kahlenberg; we enjoyed ourselves
tremendously. After dinner, when Father was reading the paper in the
hotel, we went to pick flowers, and I told Hella all about what we’d
seen on Friday. She was simply speechless, all the more since she had
never heard what Mad. told us about taking off everything. She won’t
marry either, for it’s too disagreeable, indeed too horrid.--The doctor
said too: This perpetual learning is poisonous for young girls _in the
years of development_. If he only knew _what_ we had seen. Hella is
frightfully annoyed that she was not there. She can be jolly glad, I
don’t want to see it a second time, and I shall never forget it all my
life long; what I saw at the front door was nothing to this. Then
Hella went on making jokes and said: “I say, just think if it had
been Viktor.” “Oh, do shut up,” I screamed, and Father thought we were
quarrelling and called out: “You two seem to be having a dispute in the
grand style.” If he’d only known what we were talking about!!! Oswald
has been home since Friday evening; he did not arrive till half past 10.
But he did not come on the excursion with us yesterday, although Father
would have liked him to; he said he would find it much too dull to spend
the day with two “flappers;” that means that we’re not grown up enough
for him and is a piece of infernal cheek especially as regards Hella.
She says she will simply ignore him in future. Since I am his sister
I can’t very well do that, but I shan’t fetch and carry for him as he
would like me to. He’s no right to insult even his sister.

Dora has just said to me: It’s horrible that one has to endure that (you
know what!!! -- -- -- --) when one is married. Resi had told her about
those two before, and that only the Jews do it just like _that_. She
said that other people did not strip quite naked and that perhaps it’s
different in some other ways!! -- -- -- But Mad. implied that it was
just _that_ way, only she did not say anything about the crushing; but
I suppose that’s because of the cruelty of the Jews -- -- --. I’m afraid
every night that I’m going to dream about it, and Dora has dreamed about
it already. She says that whenever she closes her eyes she sees it all
as if it were actually before her.

June 4th. We understand now _what_ Father meant the other day when he
was speaking about Dr. Diller and his wife and said: “But they don’t
suit one another at all.” I thought at the time he only meant that it
looks so absurd for so tiny a woman to go about with a big strong
man. But that’s only a minor thing; the main point is something quite
different!!!! Hella and I look at all couples now who go by arm in arm,
thinking about them from _that_ point of view, and it amuses us so much
as we are going home that we can hardly keep from laughing. But really
it’s no laughing matter, especially for the woman.

June 5th. This morning Mother took Dora with her to pay a farewell call
at the Richter’s. But there was no one at home, that is Frau R. was
certainly at home, but said she was not because they are very much
offended with Father. In the afternoon Dora and I had a lot of things to
get, and we met Viktor, by arrangement of course. Dora cried a lot; they
went into the Minorite church while I went for a walk in Kohlmarkt and
Herrengasse. He is going to America in the beginning of July, before
Dora comes home. He has given her some exquisite notepaper stamped with
his regimental arms, specially for her to write to him on, and a locket
with his portrait. To-morrow she is going to send him her photo, through
me, I shall be awfully glad to take it. Dora has been much nicer to me
lately.

June 6th. Mother and Dora left early this morning. Mother has never gone
away from us before for long at a time, so I cried a lot and so did she.
Dora cried too, but I know on whose account. Father and I are alone now.
At dinner he said to me: “My little housewife.” It was so lovely. But
it’s frightfully quiet in the house, for 2 people don’t talk so much as
4. It made me feel quite uncomfortable. To-day I talked several things
over with Resi. What I think worst of all is that one saw the whole
of his behind, it was really disgusting. Dora said the other day she
thought it was positively infamous. Resi said they might at least
have pulled down the blind so that nobody could see in, that’s what
respectable people would do. But _respectable_ people simply would
not strip, or at least they’d cover themselves respectably with the
bedclothes. Then Resi told me some more about the bank clerk and his
wife, that is _not_-wife. She does not know if her parents know about
it, and what excuse she makes for not living at home. She is not a
Jewess, though he is a Jew. Resi absolutely curled up with laughing
because I said: “Ah, that is why he insists that they shall _both_ strip
though ordinarily only the wife has to strip.” But she herself said a
little while ago that only Jews do it _that way_, and to-day she laughed
as if I were talking utter nonsense. Really she does not know exactly
herself, and she cloaks it with laughter because she’s annoyed, first
because _she_ does not know, and then also I’m sure because she really
began to talk about the matter. One thing that puzzles me is that I
never dream about _it_. I should like to know whether perhaps Dora never
really dreamed of it, though she pretended she did. As for Hella saying
she dreamed of it the day before yesterday, I’m sure that was pure
invention, for she was not there at all. She says it’s a good thing she
was not for if she had been she would have burst out laughing. But I
fancy if she’d seen what we saw she would have found there was nothing
to laugh at.

June 7th. It’s frightfully dull after dinner and in the evening before
bed time, especially because this year, since the affair at the front
door, Dora and I have always had plenty to talk about. I miss it. I wish
Hella would come and stay with us for the 4 weeks. But she does not want
to. Father had work to do to-day, so I’m quite alone and feel as if I’d
like to cry.

June 9th. Yesterday, when I was feeling so melancholy, Resi came to make
my bed, and we talked about the married couple opposite, and then she
told me awful things about a young married couple where she was once.
She left because they always went into the bath together; she says she’s
certain that _something happened_ there. And then she told me about an
old gentleman who made _advances_ to her; but of course she would not
have anything to do with him; besides he was married, and anyhow he
would never have married a servant for he was a privy councillor.
Yesterday Father said: Poor little witch, it’s very lonely for you now;
but look here, Resi is no fit company for you; when your little tongue
wants to wag, come to my room. And I was awfully stupid, I began to cry
like anything and said. “Father, please don’t be angry, I’ll never think
and never talk of such things any more.” Father did not know at first
what I meant, but afterwards it must have struck him, for he was so kind
and gentle, and said: “No, no, Gretel, don’t corrupt your youth with
such matters, and when there’s anything that bothers you, ask Mother,
but not the servants. A girl of good family must not be too familiar
with servants. Promise me.” And then, though I’m so big he took me on
his knee like a child and petted me because I was crying so. “It’s all
right, little Mouse, don’t worry, you must not get so nervous as Dora.
Give me a nice kiss, and then I’ll come with you to your room and stay
with you till you go to sleep.” Of course I stayed awake on purpose as
long as I could, till a quarter to 11.

And then I dreamed that Father was lying in Dora’s bed so that when I
woke up early in the morning I really looked across to see if he had not
gone to bed there. But of course I’d only dreamed it.

June 12th. To-morrow there’s a great school excursion; I am so glad, a
whole day with Frau Doktor M. and without any lessons. We are going up
Eisernes Tor. Last year there was no outing, because the Fourth did not
want to go to the Anninger, but to the Hochschneeberg, and the Head did
not want to go there.

June 13th. We had a lovely outing. Hella and I spent the whole day with
Frau Doktor M.; in the afternoon Franke said: “I say, why do you stick
to Frau Doktor like that? One can’t get a word with you.” So then we went
for a good walk through the forest with Franke and she told us about a
student who is in the Eighth now and who is madly in love with her.
For all students are in love with her, _so she says_. We were not much
interested in that, but then she told us that Frau Doktor M. is secretly
engaged to a professor in Leipzig or some other town in Germany. Her
cousin is Frau Doktor’s dressmaker, and she is quite certain of it. Her
parents are opposed to it because he is a _Jew_ but they are frantically
in love with one another and they intend to marry. And then we asked
Franke, since she is a Jewess too whether it was all true what Mali,
who was here when Resi was in hospital, had told us about the Jews. And
Franke said: “Oh yes, it is true I can confirm it in every point. But
it’s not so bad about the cruelty, every man is cruel, especially in
this matter.” No doubt she’s right, but it’s horrible to think that our
lovely and refined Frau Doktor M is going to have a cruel husband. Hella
says that if _she_ is satisfied, I don’t need to get excited about it.
But perhaps she does not know that -- -- --. When we came out of the
wood the Herr Religionsprofessor who is awfully fond of Frau Doktor
M. called out: “Frau Doktor, you have lost your two satellites!” And
everybody laughed because we’d come back. Father came to fetch Hella and
me, and since it was nearly 11 o’clock Hella stayed the night with us.
It was awfully nice, but at the same time I was sorry because I could
not have any more talk with Father. When we were getting up in the
morning we splashed one another and played the fool generally, so that
we were nearly late for school. The staff was still in high spirits,
including Professor Wilke, about whom we had not bothered ourselves all
day; that is he did not come until the afternoon when he came to meet
us on our way. We believe he is in love with Frau Doktor M. too, for
he went about with her all the time, and it was probably on her account
that he came. None of the other professors were there, for they were all
taking their classes in the different Gymnasiums.

June 14th. I am so excited. We were going to school to-day at 9 and
suddenly we heard a tremendous rattling with a sword; that is Hella
heard it, for she always notices that sort of thing before I do, and she
said: “Hullo, that’s an o-- in a frightful hurry,” and looked round; “I
say, there’s Viktor behind us” and he really was, he was saluting us and
he said: Fraulein Rita, can you give me a moment; you’ll excuse me won’t
you, Fraulein Hella? He always calls me Rita, and it shows what a nice
refined kind of a man he is that he should know my friend’s name. Hella
said directly: “Don’t mention it, Herr Oberleutenant, don’t let me be
in your way if it’s anything important,” and she went over to the
other side of the street. He looked after her and said: “What a lovely,
well-mannered young lady your friend is.” Then he came back to the main
point He has already had 2 letters from Dora, but not an answer to
his letter, because she can’t fetch it from the post office, _poste
restante_. Then he implored me to enclose a letter from him in mine to
Dora. But since Mother naturally reads my letters, I told him it was
not so simple as all that; but I knew of a splendid way out of the
difficulty; I would write to Mother and Dora _at the same time_, so
that Dora could get hold of _his letter_ while Mother was not noticing.
Viktor was awfully pleased and said: “You’re a genius and a first-class
little schemer,” and kissed my hand. Still, he might have left out the
“little.” If one’s is so _little_, one can’t very well be a schemer.
From the other side of the street Hella saw him kiss my hand. She says
I did not try to draw it away, but held it out to him like a grand lady
and even dropped it at the wrist. She says we girls of good family do
that sort of thing by instinct. It may be so, for I certainly did not
do it intentionally. In the afternoon I wrote the two letters, just the
ordinary one to Mother and a short one to Dora with the enclosure, and
took it to the post _myself_.

June 16th. I’ve already got so used to being alone with Father that I
take it as a matter of course. We often drive in the Prater, or go in
the evening to have supper in one of the parks, and of course Hella
comes with us. I am frightfully excited to know what Dora will write. I
forgot to write in my diary the other day that I asked Viktor if he was
really going to New York. He said he had no idea of doing anything of
the kind, that had only been a false alarm on the part of the Old Man.
That’s what he calls his father. I don’t think it’s very nice of him, a
little vulgar, and perhaps that is why Father can’t stand him. In fact
Father does not like any officers very much, except Hella’s father, but
then he’s fairly old already. I say, Hella mustn’t read that, it would
put her in an awful wax; but her father really is at least 4 or 5 years
older than Father.

June 17th. Frau Doktor M. is ill, but we don’t know what’s the matter
with her. We were all frightfuly dull at school. The head took her
classes and we were left to ourselves in the interval. I do hope she has
not got appendicitis, that would be awful.

June 18th. _She_ isn’t back yet. Frau Doktor Steiner says she has very
bad tonsillitis and won’t be able to come for at least a week.

June 19th. There was a letter from Dora to-day. I’m furious. Not a word
about my sisterly affection, but only: “Many thanks for your trouble.”
 It’s really too bad; _he_ is quite different!! I shan’t forget this in a
hurry. Hella says that she only hinted at it like that to be on the
safe side. But it’s not true, for she knows _perfectly well_ that Father
never reads our letters. She simply takes it as a matter of course.
Yesterday was the first time I stayed away from school since I went to
the High School. Early in the morning I had such a bad sore throat and
a headache, so Father would not let me go. I got better as the day went
on, but this morning I was worse again. Most likely I shall have to stay
at home for 2 or 3 days. Father wanted to send for the doctor, but it
really was not necessary.

June 20th. When Resi was doing our room to day she wanted to begin
talking once more about _various things_, but I said I did not
particularly care to hear about such matters, and then she implored me
never to tell Mother and Father anything about what she had said to us
about the young married couple; she said she would lose her place and
she would be awfully sorry to do that.

June 21st. My knees are still trembling; there might have been a
frightful row; luckily Father was out. At half past 6, when Hella and I
were having a talk, the telephone bell rang. Luckily Resi had gone out
too to fetch something so I answered the telephone, and it was Viktor!
“I must see you to-morrow morning early or at 1 o’clock; I waited for
you _in vain_ at 1 to-day.” Of course, for I was still ill, that is
still am ill. But well or ill I must go to school to-morrow. If Father
had been at home; or even Resi, she might have noticed something. It
would have been very disagreeable if I had had to ask her not to give me
away. Hella was frightfully cheeky, she took the receiver out of my hand
and said: “Please don’t do this again, it’s frightfully risky for my
friend.” I was rather annoyed with her, but Hella said he certainly
deserved a lecture.

To-morrow we are going to a concert and I shall wear my new white dress.
It does look rather nice after all for sisters to be dressed alike. I’ve
taken to wearing snails, *** Father calls them “cow-pats;” but everyone
else says it’s exceedingly becoming.

     *** Flat rolls of hair-plait covering the ears.--Translators’
     Note.

June 22nd. He was awfully charming when he came up to us and said: “Can
a repentant sinner be received back into grace?” And he gave each of us
a lovely rose. Then he handed me a letter and said: “I don’t think we
need make any secret before your energetic friend.” Really I did not
want to forward any more letters but I did not know how to say so
without offending him, for Dora’s cheek is not his fault, and I did not
want to say anything to-day, 1 because of the roses, and 2 because
Hella was there. There can’t be more than 2 or 3 times more, so I shan’t
bother. But _Dora_ doesn’t deserve it, really. Franke is a vulgar girl.
She saw us together the other day, and the next day she asked: Where did
you pick up that handsome son of Mars? Hella retorted: “Don’t use such
common expressions when you are speaking of Rita’s cousin.” “Oh, a
cousin, that’s why he kisses her hand I suppose?” Since then we only
speak to Franke when we are positively obliged. Not to speak to her at
all would be too dangerous, you never can tell; but if we speak only a
little, she can’t take offence.

June 23rd. The school insp. came yesterday, the old one who always
comes for Maths. He is so kind and gentle that all the girls can answer
everything; we like him better than the one who comes for languages.
Verbenowitsch was awfully puffed up because he praised her. Good Lord,
I’ve been praised often enough, but that does not make _me_ conceited.
Anyhow he did not call on me yesterday because I’d been absent 4 days.
Frau Doktor M. came back to-day. She looks awfully pale and wretched, I
don’t know why; it’s such a pity that she does not let us walk home with
her, except last year when there was all that fuss about Fraulein St.’s
bead bag. She bows to us all very politely when we salute her, but she
won’t walk with any of the pupils, though Verbenowitsch is horribly
pushing and is always hanging about on the chance.

June 26th. It’s really stupid how anxious I am now at Communion lest
the host should drop out of my mouth. I was so anxious I was very nearly
sick. Hella says there must be some reason for it, but I don’t know of
any, except that the accident which that girl Lutter in the Third had
made me even more anxious that I was before. Hella says I’d better turn
Protestant, but nothing would induce me to do that; for after Com. one
feels so pure and so much better than one was before. But I’m sorry to
say it does not last so long as it ought to.

June 27th. Mother is _really_ ill. Father told me about it. He was
awfully nice and said: If only your Mother is spared to us. She is far
from well. Then I asked: Father, what is really wrong with Mother? And
Father said: “Well, dear, it’s a hidden trouble, which has really been
going on for a long time and has now suddenly broken out.” “Will she
have to have an operation?” “We hope we shall be able to avoid that. But
it’s a terrible thing that Mother should be so ill.” Father looked so
miserable when he said this that I did my best to console him and said:
“But _surely_ the mud baths will make her all right, or why should she
take them?” And Father said: “Well, darling, we’ll hope for the best.”
 We went on talking for a long time, saying that Mother must take all
possible care of herself, and that perhaps in the autumn Aunt Dora would
come here to keep house. I asked Father, “Is it true that you don’t like
Aunt Dora?” Father said: “Not a bit of it, what put that idea into
your head?” So I said: “But you do like Mother much better, don’t you?”
 Father laughed and said: “You little goose, of course I do, or I should
have married Aunt Dora and not Mother.” I should have liked awfully
to ask Father a lot more, but I did not dare. I really do miss Dora,
especially in the evenings.

July 2nd. I was in a tremendous rage at school to-day. Professor W.,
the traitor, did not come because he had confession and communion in
the Gymnasium, and the matron did not know anything about the subject
so there was no one to take his class. Then the Herr Religionsprofessor
took it, he had come earlier than usual to write up the reports. But
since the Jewish girls were there too, of course there was no religion
lesson. But the H. Rel. Prof. had a chat with us. He asked each of us
where we were going to spend the summer, and when I said I was going
to Rodaun, Weinberger said: I say, _only_ to Rodaun! and several of the
other girls chimed in: _Only_ to Rodaun; why that’s only a drive on the
steam tram. I was frightfully annoyed, for we generally go to Tyrol
or Styria; I said so directly, and then Franke said: Last year too, I
think, you went somewhere quite close to Vienna, where was it, Hain--,
and then she stopped and made as if she had never heard of Hainfeld. Of
course that was all put on, but she’s very angry because we won’t speak
to her since that business about the _cousin!_ But now I was to learn
what true friendship is. While I was getting still more angry, Hella
said: Rita’s Mother is now in _Franzensbad, the world-famous health
resort_; she is ill, and Prof. Sch. has to go and see her at least
once a week. The Herr Rel. Prof. was awfully nice and said: Rodaun is
a lovely place. The air there is very fine and will certainly do your
Mother a lot of good. That’s the chief thing, isn’t it children? I hope
that God will spare all your parents for many years. When the Herr
Rel. Prof. said that, Lampel, whose Mother died last winter, burst
out crying, and I cried too, for I thought of my talk with Father.
Weinberger and Franke thought I was crying because I was annoyed because
we were only going to Rodaun. In the interval Franke said: After all,
there’s no harm in going to Rodaun, that’s no reason for crying. But
Hella said: “Excuse me, the Lainers can go anywhere they please, they
are so well off that many people might envy them. Besides, her Mother
and her sister are in Franzensbad now, where everything is frightfully
expensive, and in Rodaun they have rented a house all for themselves.
Rita is crying because she is anxious about her Mother, not because
of anything you said.” Of course we don’t speak a word to Franke now.
Mother does not want us to anyhow, she did not like her at all when she
met her last year. Mother has a fine instinct in such matters.

July 6th. We broke up to-day. I have nothing but Very Goods, except of
course in ---- Natural History! That was to be expected. What -- -- (I
can’t bring myself to write the name) said was perfectly right. Nearly
all the girls who were still there brought Frau Doktor M. and Frau
Doktor St. flowers as farewell tokens. This time, Hella and I were
allowed to go with Frau Doktor M. to the metropolitan. When we kiss her
hand she always blushes, and we love doing it. This summer holidays she
is going to -- -- -- _Germany_, of course; really Hella need not have
asked; it’s obvious!!!

July 8th. Mother and Dora are coming home today. We are going to meet
them at the station. By the way, I’d quite forgotten. The other day
Father hid a new 5 crown piece in my table napkin, and when I lifted up
my table napkin it fell out, and Father said: In part payment of your
outlay on flowers for the table. Father is such a darling, the flowers
did not cost anything like 5 crowns, 3 at most, for though they were
lovely ones, I only bought fresh ones every other day. Now I shall be
able to buy Mother lots of roses, and I shall either take them to the
station or put them on her table. On the one hand I’m awfully glad
Mother is coming home, but on the other hand I did like being alone with
Father for he always talked to me about everything just as he does to
Mother; that will come to an end now.

July 10th. Mother and Dora look splendid; I’m especially glad about
Mother; for one can see that she is quite well again. If we had not
taken the house in Rodaun, we might just as well go to Tyrol, for one
can’t deny it would be much nicer. Dora looks quite a stranger. It’s
absurd, for one can’t alter in 1 month, still, she really looks quite
different; she does her hair differently, parted over the ears. I have
had no chance yet to say anything about the “trouble,” and she has not
alluded to it. In the autumn she will have to have a special exam. for
the Sixth because she went away a month before the end of term. Father
says that is only pro forma and that she must not take any lesson books
to the country. Hella went away yesterday, she and her Mother and Lizzi
are going first to Gastein and then to stay with their uncle in Hungary.
Life is dull without Hella, much worse than without Dora; without her I
was simply bored sometimes in the evening, at bedtime. Dora gives it
out that in Franzensbad people treated her as a grown-up lady. I’m sure
that’s not true for anyone can see that she’s a long way from being a
grown-up lady yet.

July 11th. I can’t think what’s happened to Dora. When she goes out
she goes alone. She doesn’t tell me when she is going or where, and
she hasn’t said a word about Viktor. But he must know that she is back.
To-morrow we are going to Rodaun, by train of course, not by the steam
tram. The day after to-morrow, the 13th, Oswald has the viva voce exam
for his matriculation. He says that in every class there are at least
1 or several _swotters_, like Verbenowitsch in ours, he says they spoil
the pitch for the others, for, because of the swotters, the professors
expect so much more of the others and sit upon them. This may be so in
the Gymnasium, but certainly not at the High School. For though Verb. is
always sucking up to the staff, they can’t stand her; they give her good
reports, but none of them really like her. Mother says the 13th is an
unlucky day, and it makes her anxious about Oswald. Because of that she
went to High Mass yesterday instead of the 9 o’clock Mass as usual.
I never thought of praying for Oswald, and anyhow I think he’ll get
through all right.

July 13th. Thank goodness Oswald has wired he is through, that is he has
wired his favourite phrase: Finis with Jubilation. At any rate that did
not worry Mother as he did over the written exam., when he made
silly jokes all the time. He won’t be home until the 17th, for the
matriculation dinner is on the 15th. Father is awfully pleased too.
It’s lovely here; of course we have not really got a whole house to
ourselves, as Hella pretended at school, but a flat on the first story;
in the mezzanin a young married woman lives, that is to say a _newly
married couple!!_ Whenever I hear that phrase it makes me shake with
horror and laughter combined. Resi must have thought of it too, for
she looked hard at Dora and me when she told us. But they have a baby
already, so they are not really a newly married couple any more. The
landlord, who lives on the same floor as us, is having a swing put
up for me in the garden for it is horrid not to have a swing in the
country.

July 16th. At last Dora has said something to me about Viktor, but she
spoke very coldly; there must be something up; she might just as well
tell me; she really ought to seeing all that I’ve done. I have not seen
him since that last letter of June 27th; that time something must
have hap-- no that word means something quite different, there must be
something up, but I do wonder what. Hella is delighted with Gastein, she
writes that the only thing wanting is _me_. I can quite understand that,
for what I want here is _her_. Before the end of term Ada wrote to ask
whether we were not coming to H. this year; she said she had such a
frightful lot to tell me, and _she wants my advice_. I shall be very
glad to advise her, but I don’t know what it is about.

July 18th. Something splendid, we are -- -- -- But no, I must write it
all out in proper order. Oswald came home yesterday, he is in great form
and said jokingly to Dora that she is so pretty he thinks he would fall
in love with her if she were not his sister. Just before it was time to
go to supper, Mother called us in, and I was rather annoyed when I saw
that it was only a quarter to 8. Then Father came in with a paper in
his hand as he often does when he comes back from the office, and said:
“Dear Oswald and you two girls, I wanted to give you and especially
Oswald a little treat because of the matriculation.” Aha, I thought, the
great prize after all! Then Father opened the paper and said: “You have
often wondered as children why we have no title of nobility like the
other Lainers. My grandfather dropped it, but I have got it back again
for you Oswald, and also for you two girls. Henceforward we shall call
ourselves Lanier von Lainsheim like Aunt Anna and your uncles.” Oswald
was simply speechless and I was the first to pull myself together and
give Father a great hug. But first of all he said: “Do credit to the
name.” Oswald went on clearing his throat for a frightfully long time,
and then he said: Thank you, Father, I shall always hold the name in
trust, and then they kissed one another. We were on our best behaviour
all through the evening, although Mother had ordered roast chicken and
Father had provided a bottle of champagne. I am frightfully happy; it’s
so splendid and noble. Think of what the girls will say, and the staff!
I’m frantically delighted. To-morrow I must write and tell Hella all
about it.

July 19th. I’ve managed it beautifully. I did not want to write just: We
are now noble, so I put it all in the signature, simply writing Always
your loving friend Rita Lainer von Lainsheim. I told Resi about it first
thing this morning, but Father scolded me about that at dinner time and
said it was quite unnecessary; it seems the nobility has gone to your
head. Nothing of the sort, but it’s natural that I should be frightfully
glad and Dora too has covered a whole sheet of paper writing her new
name. Father says it does not really make us any different from what
we were before, but that is not true, for if it were he would not have
bothered to revive the title. He says it will make it easier for Oswald
to get on, but I’m sure there’s more in it than that. Resi told the
landlord about it and in the afternoon he and his wife called to
congratulate us.

July 20th. Oswald says he won’t stay here, it’s much too dull, he is
going for a walking tour through the Alps, to Grossglockner, and then to
the Karawanken. He will talk of Father as the “Old Man,” and I do think
it is so vulgar. Dora says it is absolutely _flippant_.

July 24th. Hella’s answer came to-day; she congratulates me most
heartily, and then goes on to write that at first she was struck dumb
and thought I’d gone crazy or was trying to take her in. But her mother
had already heard of it from her father for it had been published in the
Official Gazette. Now we are both noble, and that is awfully nice. For I
have often been annoyed that she was noble when I was not.

July 25th. Oswald left to-day. Father gave him 300 crowns for his
walking tour, because of the matriculation. I said: “In that case I
shall matriculate as soon as I can” and Oswald said: “For that one wants
rather more brains in one’s head than you girls have.” What cheek, Frau
Doktor M. passed the Gymnasium matriculation and Frau Doktor Steiner
passed it too as an extra. Dora said quietly: Maybe I shall show you
that your sister can matriculate too; anyhow you have always said
yourself that the chief thing you need to get through the matriculation
is cheek. Then I had a splendid idea and said: “But we girls have not
got cheek, we _study_ when we have to pass an examination!” Mother
wanted us to make it up with him, but we would not. In the evening Dora
said to me: Oswald is frantically arrogant, though he has had such a lot
of Satisfactories and has only just scraped through his exam. By the way
here’s another sample of Oswald’s stupidity; directly after the wire:
“Finis with Jubilation” came another which ought to have arrived first,
for it had been handed in 4 hours earlier, with nothing but the word
“Through” [Durch]. Mother was frightfully upset by it for she was afraid
it really meant _failed_ [durchgefallen], and that the other telegram
had been only an idiotic joke. Dora and I would never condescend to such
horseplay. Father always says Oswald will sow all his wild oats at the
university, but he said to-day that he was not going to the university,
but would study mining, and then perhaps law.

July 29th. It’s sickeningly dull here, I simply don’t know what to do;
I really can’t read and swing the whole day long, and Dora has become as
dull as she used to be; that is, even duller, for not only does she
not quarrel, but she won’t talk, that is she won’t talk about _certain
things_. She is perfectly crazy about the baby of the young couple
in the mezzanin; he’s 10 months old, and I can’t see what she sees to
please her in such a little pig; she’s always carrying him about and
yesterday he made her all wet, I wished her joy of it. It made her
pretty sick, and I hope it will cure her infatuation.

Thank goodness to-morrow is my birthday, that will be a bit of a change.
To-morrow we are going to the Parapluie Berg, but I hope we shan’t want
our umbrellas. Father is coming back at 1 so that we can get away at
2 or half past. Hella has sent me to-day a lock-up box for letters,
etc.!!! of course filled with sweets and a tremendously long letter to
tell me how _she_ is getting on in Gastein. But they are only going to
stay a month because it is frantically expensive, a roll 5 krenzer and
a bottle of beer 1 crown. And the rolls are so small that one simply has
to eat 3 for breakfast and for afternoon tea. But it’s awfully smart
in the hotel, several grooms; then there are masses of Americans and
English and even a consul’s family from Sydney in Australia.--I spend
most of the day playing with two dachshund puppies. They are called Max
and Moritz, though of course one of them is a bitch. That is really a
word which one ought not to write, for it means something, at least in
its other meaning.




THIRD YEAR, AGE THIRTEEN TO FOURTEEN


THIRD YEAR


July 31st. Yesterday was my birthday, the thirteenth. Mother gave me a
clock with a luminous dial which I wanted for my night-table. Of course
that is chiefly of use during the long winter nights; embroidered
collars; from Father, A Bad Boy’s Diary, which one of the nurses lent
Hella when she was in hospital; it’s such a delightfully funny book, but
Father says it’s stupid because no boy could have written all that, a
new racquet with a leather case, an awfully fine one, a Sirk, and tennis
balls from Dora. Correspondence cards, blue-grey with silver edge.
Grandfather and Grandmother sent a basket of cherries, red ones, and a
basket of currants and strawberries; the strawberries are only for me
for my birthday. Aunt Dora sent three neckties from Berlin for winter
blouses. In the afternoon we went to the Par.-Berg. It would have been
awfully jolly if only Mother could have gone too or if Hella had been
there.

August 1st. I got a letter from Ada to-day. She sends me many happy
returns, for she thinks it is on the 1st of August, and then comes the
chief thing. She is frightfully unhappy. She writes that she wants to
escape from the cramping environment of her family, she simply can’t
endure _the stifling atmosphere of home_. She has been to St. P. to
see the actor for whom she has such an admiration, he heard her recite
something and said she had real dramatic talent; he would be willing
to train her for the stage, but only with her parents’ consent. But of
course they will never give it. She writes that this has made her _so
nervous_ she feels like crying or raving all day long, in fact she can’t
stand so dismal a life any longer. _I_ am her last hope. She would like
me to come to stay with them, or still better if she could come and stay
with us for two or 3 weeks, then she would tell Mother about everything,
and perhaps it might be possible to arrange for her to live with us in
Vienna for a year; in the autumn Herr G., the actor, is coming to the
Raimund Theatre and she could begin her training there. At the end of
her letter she says that it rests with my discretion and my tact to make
her the happiest creature in the world! I don’t really know what I
shall be able to do. Still, I’ve made a beginning; I said I found it
so frightfully dull--if only Hella were here, or at least Ada, or
even Marina. Then Mother said: But Marina is away in the country, in
Carinthia, and it’s not likely that Ada will be able to come. Father,
too, is awfully sorry that I find it so dull, and so at supper he said:
Would you really like Ada to come here? Certainly her age makes her a
better companion for you than Dora. You seemed to get on better together
last year. And then he said to Mother: Do you think it would bother you,
Berta, to have Ada here? and Mother said, “Not a bit; if Gretel would
like it; it’s really her turn now, Dora came with me to Franzensbad,
Oswald is having his walking tour, and only our little pet has not had
anything for herself; would you like it Gretel?” “Oh yes, Mother, I
should like it awfully, I’ll write directly; it’s no fun to me to carry
about that little brat the way Dora does, and jolly as the Bad Boy’s
Diary is I can’t read it all day.” So I am writing to Ada directly,
just as if _I_ had thought of it and wanted her to come. I shall be so
frightfully happy if it all comes off and if Ada really becomes a great
actress, like Wolter whom Mother is always talking of, then I shall
have done something towards helping Vienna to have a great actress and
towards making Ada the happiest creature in the world instead of the
unhappiest.

August 2nd. In my letter I did not say anything to Ada about our having
been ennobled, or as Dora says _re-ennobled_, since the family has been
noble for generations; she will find out about it soon enough when she
comes here. Mother keeps on saying: Don’t put on such airs, especially
about a thing which we have not done anything particular to deserve. But
that’s not quite fair, for unless Father had done such splendid service
in connection with the laws or the constitution or something two years
ago, sometimes sitting up writing all night, perhaps he would never
have been re-ennobled. Besides, I really can’t see why Father and Mother
should have made such a secret about it last winter. They might just
as well have let us know. But I suppose Father wanted to give us a real
surprise. And he did too; Dora’s face and the way Oswald cleared his
throat!! As far as I can make out no one seems to have noticed what sort
of a face I was making.

August 3rd. I’ve found out now why Dora is so different, that is why she
is again just as she was some time ago, before last winter. During the
4 weeks in Fr. she has _found a real friend in Mother!_ To-day I turned
the conversation to Viktor, and all she said at first was: Oh, I don’t
correspond with him any more. And when I asked: “Have you had a quarrel,
and whose fault was it?” she said: “Oh, no, I just _bade him farewell_.”
 “What do you mean, bade him farewell; but he’s not really going to
America, is he?” And then she said: “My dear _Rita_, we had better clear
this matter up; I parted from him upon the well-justified wish of our
_dear Mother_.” I must say that though I’m _awfully, awfully_ fond of
Mother, I really can’t imagine having her as a _friend_. How can one
have a true friendship with one’s own mother? Dora really can’t have the
least idea _what_ a _true friendship_ means. There are some things it’s
impossible for a girl to speak about to her mother, I could not possibly
ask her: Do you know what, _something has happened_, really means?
Besides, I’m not quite sure if she does know, for when she was 13 or 15
or 16, people may have used quite different expressions, and the modern
phrases very likely did not then mean what they mean now. And what sort
of a friendship is it when Mother says to Dora: You must not go out now,
the storm may break at any moment, and just the other evening: Dora you
_must_ take your shawl with you. Friendship between mother and daughter
is just as impossible as friendship between father and son. For between
friends there can be no orders and forbiddings, and what’s even more
important is that one really can’t talk about all the things that one
would like to talk of. All I said last night was: “Of course Mother has
forbidden you to talk to me about _certain things_; do you call that
a friendship?” Then she said very gently: “No, Rita, Mother has not
forbidden me, but I recognise now that it was thoughtless of me to talk
to you about those things; one learns the seriousness of life quite soon
enough.” I burst out laughing and said: “Is _that_ what you call the
seriousness of life? Have you really forgotten how screamingly funny we
found it all? It seemed to me that your memory has been affected by the
mud baths.” She did not answer that. I do hope Ada will come. For _I_
need _her_ now just as much as _she_ needs _me_.

August 4th. Glory be to God, Ada’s coming, but not directly because they
begin their family washing on the 5th and no one can be spared to come
over with her till the 8th. I am so glad, the only thing I’m sorry about
is that _she_ will sleep in the dressing-room and not Dora. But Mother
says that Dora and I must stay together and that Ada can leave the door
into the dining-room open so that she won’t feel lonely.

August 7th. The days are so frightfully long. Dora is as mild and
gentle as a nun, but she talks to me just as little as a nun, and she’s
eternally with Mother. The two dachshunds have been sold to some one in
Neulengbach and so it is so horribly dull. Thank goodness Ada is coming
to-morrow. Father and I are going to meet her at the station at 6.

August 8th. Only time for a word or two. Ada is more than a head taller
than I am; Father said: “Hullo you longshanks, how you have shot up. I
suppose I must treat you as a grown-up young lady now? And Ada said:
Please, Herr Oberlandesgerichtsrat; please treat me just as you used to;
I am so happy to have come to stay with you.” And her mother said: “Yes,
unfortunately she is happy anywhere but at home; _that is the way with
young people to-day_.” Father helped Ada out and said: “Frau Haslinger,
the sap of life was rising in us once, but it’s so long ago that we have
forgotten.” And then Frau Dr. H. heaved a tremendous sigh as if she were
suffocating, and Ada took me by the arm and said under her breath: “Can
you imagine what my life is like _now_? Her mother is staying the night
here, and she spent the whole evening lamenting about everything under
the sun” (that’s what Ada told me just before we went to bed); but I did
not pay much attention to what Frau H. was doing, for I’m positively
burning with curiosity as to what Ada is going to talk to me about.
To-morrow morning, directly after breakfast!

August 12th. For 3 days I’ve had no time to write, Ada and I have had
such a lot to say to one another. She _can’t_ and _won’t_ live any
longer without art, she would _rather die than give up her plans_. She
still has to spend a year at a continuation school and must then either
take the French course for the state examination or else the needlecraft
course. But she wants to do all this in Vienna, so that in her spare
time she can study for the stage under Herr G. She says she is not in
love with him any longer, that he is only a _means to an end_. She would
sacrifice _anything_ to reach her goal. At first I did not understand
what she meant by anything, but she explained to me. She has read
Bartsch’s novel Elisabeth Kott, the book Mother has too, and a lot of
other novels about artistic life, and they all say the same thing, that
_a woman cannot become a true artist until she has experienced a great
love_. There may be something in it. For certainly a _great love_ does
make one _different_; I saw that clearly in Dora; when she was madly in
love with Viktor, and the way she’s relapsed now!! She is learning Latin
again, to make up for lost time! Ada does not speak to her about her
plans because Dora _lacks true insight!_ Only to-day she mentioned
before Dora that whatever happened she wanted to come to Vienna in the
autumn so that she could often go to the theatre. And Dora said: You are
making a mistake, even people who live in Vienna don’t go to the theatre
often; for first of all one has very little time to spare, and secondly
one often can’t get a seat; people who live in the country often fancy
that everything is much nicer in Vienna than it really is.

August 14th. Just a word, quickly. To-day when Ada was having a bath
Mother said to _us two_: “Girls, I’ve something to tell you; I don’t
want you to get a fright in the night. Ada’s mother told me that Ada is
very nervous, and often walks in her sleep.” “I say,” said I, “that’s
frightfully interesting, she must be _moonstruck_; I suppose it always
happens when the moon is full.” Then Mother said: “Tell me, Gretel, how
do you know about all these things? Has Ada talked to you about them?”
 “No,” said I, “but the Frankes had a maid who walked in her sleep and
Berta Franke told Hella and me about it.” It has just struck me that
Mother said: how do you know about all _these_ things? So it must have
something to do with _that_. I wonder whether I dare ask Ada, or whether
she would be offended. I’m frightfully curious to see whether she will
walk in her sleep while she is staying here.

August 15th. Hella’s answer came to-day to what I had written her about
the _friendship_ between Mother and Dora. Of course she does not believe
either that _that_ is why Dora _bade farewell_ to Viktor, for it is no
reason at all. Lizzi has never had any particular friendship with her
mother, and Hella could never dream of anything of the sort; she thinks
I’m perfectly right, one may be _awfully_ fond of one’s parents, but
there simply can’t be any question of a friendship. She would not stand
it if I were so changeable in my friendships. She thinks Dora can never
have had a true friendship, and that is why she has taken up with Mother
now. The Bruckners are coming back on the 19th because everything is so
frightfully expensive in Gastein. After that most likely they will go to
stay with their uncle in Hungary, or else to Fieberbrunn in Tyrol. For
Hella’s name day I have sent her A Bad Boy’s Diary because she wanted
to read it again. Now we have both got it, and can write to one another
which are the best bits so that we can read them at the same time.

August 20th. _Last night Ada really did walk in her sleep_, probably
we should never have noticed it, but she began to recite Joan of Arc’s
speech from The Maid of Orleans, and Dora recognised it at once and
said: “I say, _Rita_, Ada really is walking in her sleep.” We did not
stir, and she went into the dining-room, but the dining-room door was
locked and the key taken away, for it opens directly into the passage,
and then she knocked up against Mother’s sofa and that woke her up. It
was horrible. And then she lost her way and came into our room instead
of going into her own; but she was already awake and begged our pardon
and said she’d been looking for the W. Then she went back to her own
room. Dora said we had better pretend that we had not noticed it, for
otherwise we should upset Ada. Not a bit of it, after breakfast she
said: “I suppose I gave you an awful fright last night; don’t be vexed
with me, I often get up and walk about at night, I simply can’t stay in
bed. Mother says I always recite when I am walking like that; do I? Did
I say anything?” “Yes,” I said, “you recited Joan of Arc’s speech.” “Did
I really,” said she, “that is because they won’t let me go on the stage;
I’m certain I shall go off my head; if I do, you will know the real
reason at any rate.” This sleep-walking is certainly very interesting,
but it makes me feel a little creepy towards Ada, and it’s perfectly
true what Dora has always said: One never knows what Ada is really
looking at. It would be awful if she were really to go off her head.
I’ve just remembered that her mother was once in an asylum. I do hope
she won’t go mad while she is staying here.

August 21st. Mother heard it too the night before last. She is so glad
that she had warned us, and Dora says that if she had not known it
beforehand she would probably have had an attack of palpitation. Father
said: “Ada is thoroughly histerical, she has inherited it from her
mother.” In the autumn Lizzi is going to England to finish her education
and will stay there a whole year. Fond as I am of Ada and sorry as I am
for her, she makes me feel uneasy now, and I’m really glad that she’s
going home again on Tuesday. She told me something terrible to-day:
Alexander, he is the actor, has _venereal disease_, because he was
once an officer in the army; she says that all officers have venereal
disease, as a matter of course. At first I did not want to show that I
did not understand exactly what she meant, but then I asked her and
Ada told me that what was really amiss was that _that_ part of the body
either gets continually smaller and smaller and is quite eaten away, or
else gets continually larger because it is so frightfully swollen; the
last kind is much better than the other, for then an operation can
help; a retired colonel who lives in H. was operated upon in Vienna for
_this_; but it did not cure him. There is only one real cure for a man
with a venereal disease, that a young girl should _give herself_ to a
man suffering from it! (Mad. often said that too), then she gets the
disease and he is cured. That made Ada understand that she did not
really love A., but only wanted him to train her; for she could never
have done that for him, and she did not know how she could propose
_that_ to him even _if_ she had been willing to. Besides, it is
generally the man concerned who asks it of the girl. And when I said:
“But just imagine, what would you do if you got a baby that way,” and
she said: “That does not come into the question, for when a man has
venereal disease it is _impossible_ to have a child by him. But after
all, only a woman who has had a baby can become a true artist.” Franke,
who has a cousin on the stage said something of the same sort to Hella
and me; but we thought, Franke’s cousin is only in the Wiener Theatre,
and that might be true there; but it may be quite different in the Burg
Theatre and in the Opera and even in the People’s Theatre. I told Ada
about this, and she said: Oh, well, I’m only a girl from the provinces,
but I have known for ages that _every_ actress has a child.

23rd. Ada really is a born artist, to-day she read us a passage from a
splendid novel, but oh, how wonderfully, even Dora said: “Ada, you are
really phenominal!” Then she flung the book away and wept and sobbed
frightfully and said: “My parents are sinning against their own flesh
and blood; but they will rue it. Do you remember what the old gypsy
woman foretold of me last year: ‘A _great_ but _short_ career after
many difficult struggles; and my line of life is broken!’ That will
all happen as predicted, and my mother can recite that lovely poem of
Freiligrath’s or Anastasius Grun’s, or whosever it is ‘Love as long
as thou canst, love as long as thou mayst. The hour draws on, the hour
draws on, when thou shalt stand beside the grave and make thy moan.’”
 Then Ada recited the whole poem, and when I went to bed I kept on
thinking of it and could not go to sleep.

August 24th. To-day I ventured to ask Ada about the sleep-walking, and
she said that it was really so, when she walked in her sleep it was
always at _that time_ and when the moon is full. The first time, it was
last year, she did it on purpose in order to frighten her mother, when
her mother had first told her she would not be allowed to go on the
stage. It does not seem to me a very clever idea, or that she is likely
to gain anything by it. The day after to-morrow someone is coming to
fetch her home, and for that reason she was crying all the morning.

August 25th. Hella was here to-day with her mother and Lizzi. Hella had
a splendid time in Gastein. She wanted to have a private talk with me,
to tell me something important. That made it rather inconvenient that
Ada was still there. Hella never gets on with Ada, and she says too that
one never really knows what she is looking at, she always looks right
through one. We could not get a _single minute_ alone together for a
talk. I do hope Hella will be able to come over once more before she
goes to Hungary. Last week they went to Fieberbrunn in Tyrol because an
old friend of her mother’s from Berlin is staying there.

August 26th. Ada went home to-day, her father came to fetch her. He says
she has a screw loose, because she wants to go on the stage.

August 28th. Hella came over to-day; she was alone and I met her at
the steam tram. At first she did not want to tell me what the important
thing was because it was _not flattering_ to me, but at last she got
it out. The Warths were in Gastein, and since Hella knows Lisel because
they used to go to gym. together, they had a talk, and that cheeky
Robert said: Is your friend still such a baby as she was that time in
er . . . er . . ., and then he pretended he could not remember where it
was; and he spoke of _that time_ as if it had been 10 years ago. But the
most impudent thing of all was this; he said that I had not wanted to
call him Bob, because that always made me think of a certain part of
the body; I never said anything of the kind, but only that I thought
Bob silly and vulgar, and then he said (it was before we got intimate):
“Indeed, Fraulein Grete, I really prefer that you should use my full
name.” I remember it as well as if it had happened this morning, and I
know exactly where he said it, on the way to the Red Cross. Hella took
him up sharply: That may be all quite true, we have never discussed
such trifles, and, at that time we were “all, _every one of us_, still
nothing but children.” Of course she meant to include ----. I won’t even
write his name. Another thing that made me frightfully angry is that he
said: I dare say your friend is more like you now, but at that time she
was still quite undeveloped. Hella answered him curtly: “That’s not the
sort of phrase that it’s seemly to use to a young lady,” and she would
not speak to him any more. I never heard of such a thing, what business
is it of his whether I am _developed_ or not! Hella thinks that I was
not quite particular enough in my choice of companions. She says that
Bob is still nothing but a Bub [young cub]. That suits him perfectly,
Bob--Bub; now we shall never call him anything but Bub; that is if we
ever speak of him at all. When we don’t like some one we shall call him
simply Bob, or better still B., for we really find it disagreeable to
say Bob.

August 31st. The holidays are so dull this year, Hella has gone to
Hungary, and I hardly ever talk to Dora, at least about anything
_interesting_. Ada’s letters are full of nothing but my promises about
Vienna. It’s really too absurd, I never promised anything, I merely said
I would speak to Mother about it when I had a chance. I have done so
already, but Mother said: There can be no question of anything of the
kind.

September 1st. Hullo, Hurrah! To-morrow Hella’s father is going to take
me to K-- M--in Hungary to stay with Hella. I am so awfully delighted.
Hella is an angel. When she was ill last Christmas her father said: She
can ask for anything she likes. But she did not think of anything in
particular, and had her Christmas wishes anyhow, so she saved up this
wish. And after she had been here she wrote to her father in Cracow,
where he is at manoeuvres, saying that if he would like to grant her her
chief wish, then, when he came back to Vienna, he was to take me with
him to K-- M--; this was really the _greatest wish_ she had ever had
in her life! So Colonel Bruckner called at Father’s office to-day and
showed him Hella’s letter. To-morrow at 3 I must be at the State Railway
terminus. Unfortunately that’s a horrid railway. The Western Railway is
much nicer, and I like the Southern Railway better still.

September 2nd. I am awfully excited; I’m going to Vienna alone and I
have to change at Liesing, I do hope I shall get into the right train.
I got a letter from Hella first thing this morning, in which she wrote:
“Perhaps we shall be together again in a few days.” That’s all she said
about that; I suppose she did not know yet whether I was really coming.
Mother will have to send my white blouses after me, because all but one
are dirty. I’m going to wear my coat and skirt and the pink blouse. I’m
going to take twenty pages for my diary, that will be enough; for I’m
going to write whatever happens, in the mornings I expect, because in
the holidays I’m sure Hella will never get up before 9; on Sundays in
Vienna she would always like to lie in bed late, but her father won’t
let her.

But whatever happens I won’t learn to ride, for it must be awful to
tumble off before a strange man. It was different for Hella, for Jeno,
Lajos, and Erno are her cousins, and one of them always rode close
beside her with his arm round her waist: but that would not quite do in
my case.

September 6th. Oh it is so glorious here. I like Jeno best, he goes
about with me everywhere and shows me everything; Hella is fondest of
Lajos and of Erno next. But Erno has still a great deal to learn, for
he was nearly flunked in his exam. Next year Lajos will be a lieutenant,
and this autumn Jeno is going to the military academy, Erno has a slight
limp, nothing bad, but he can’t go into the army; he is going to be a
civil engineer, not here, he is to go to America some day.

I have time to write to-day, for all 4 of them have gone to S. on their
cycles and I have never learned.

It was lovely on the journey! It’s so splendid to travel with an
officer, and still more when he is a colonel. All the stationmasters
saluted him and the guards could not do enough to show their respect. Of
course everyone thought I was his daughter, for he has always said “Du”
 to me since I was quite a little girl. But to Ada Father always says
“Sie.” We left the train at Forgacs or Farkas, or whatever it is called,
and Hella’s father hired a carriage and it took us 2 hours to drive to
K-- M--. He was awfully jolly. We had our supper in F., though it was
only half past 6. It was a joke to see all the waiters tumbling over
each other to serve him. It s just the same with Father, except that the
stationmasters don’t all salute. Father looks frightfully distinguished
too, but he is not in uniform.

Here is something awfully interesting: Herr von Kraics came yesterday
from Radufalva, his best friend left him the Radufalva estate out of
gratitude, because 8 years ago he gave up his fiancee with whom the
friend was in love. It’s true, Colonel Bruckner says that K. is a
wretched milksop; but I don’t think so at all; he has such fiery eyes,
and looks a real Hungarian nobleman. Hella says that he used to run
himself frantically into debt, because every six months he had an
_intimacy_ with some new woman; and all the presents he gave _reduced
him almost to beggary_. Still, it’s difficult to believe that, for
however fond a woman may be of flowers and sweets, one does not quite
see why that should reduce anyone to beggary. Before we went to sleep
last night Hella told me that Lajos had already been “infected” more or
less; she says there is not an officer who has not got venereal disease
and that is really what makes them so frightfully interesting. Then I
told her what Ada had told me about the actor in St. P. But Hella said:
I doubt if that’s all true; of course it is more likely since he was
an actor, and especially since he was in the army at one time, but
generally speaking civilians are _wonderfully_ healthy!!! And she could
not stand that in her husband. Every officer has _lived_ frantically;
that’s a polite phrase for having had venereal disease, and she would
never marry a man who had not _lived_. Most girls, especially when
they get a little older; want the very opposite! and then it suddenly
occurred to me that _that_ was probably the _real_ reason why Dora _bade
farewell_ to _Lieutenant R_., and not the _friendship with Mother_;
it is really awfully funny, and no one would have thought it of her.
Hella’s father thinks me _charming_; he is really awfully nice. Hella’s
uncle hardly ever says anything, and when he does speak he is difficult
to understand; Hella’s father says that his sister-in-law wears the
breeches. That would never do for me; the man must be the _master_. “But
not too much so” says Hella. She always gets cross when her father says
that about wearing breeches. I got an awful start yesterday; we went
out on the veranda because we heard the boys talking, and found Hella’s
great uncle lying there on an invalid couch. She told me about him once,
that he’s quite off his head, not really paralysed but only pretends to
be. Hella is terribly afraid of him, because long ago, when she was only
9 or 10 years old, he wanted to give her a thrashing. But her uncle came
in, and then he let her go. She says he was only humbugging, but she is
awfully afraid of him all the same. He keeps his room, and he has a male
attendant, because no nurse can manage him. He ought really to be in an
asylum but there is no high class asylum in Hungary.

September 9th. There was a frightful rumpus this morning; the great
uncle, the people here call him “kutya mog” or however they spell it,
and it means _mad dog_, well, the great uncle _spied in on us_. He can
walk with a stick, our room is on the ground floor, and he came and
planted himself in front of the window when Hella was washing and I was
just getting out of bed. Then Hella’s father came and made a tremendous
row and the uncle swore horribly in Hungarian. Before dinner we
overheard Hella’s father say to Aunt Olga: “They would be dainty morsels
for that old swine, those innocent children.” We did laugh so, _we_
and _innocent children!!!_ What our fathers really think of us; we
innocent!!! At dinner we did not dare look at one another or we should
have exploded. Afterwards Hella said to me: “I say, do you know that we
have the same name day?” And when I said: “What do you mean, it seems to
me you must have gone dotty this morning,” she laughed like anything
and said: “Don’t you see, December 27th, Holy Innocents’ Day!” Oh it
did tickle me. She knew that date although she’s a Protestant because
December 27th is Marina’s birthday, and in our letters we used to speak
of that deceitful cat as “The Innocent.”

The three boys and I have begun to use “Du” to one another, at supper
yesterday Hella’s father said to Erno: “You seem frightfully ceremonious
still, can’t you make up your minds to drop the ‘Sie?’” So we clinked
glasses, and afterwards when Jeno and I were standing at the window
admiring the moon, he said: “You Margot, that was not a real pledge of
good-fellowship, we must kiss one another for that; hurry up, before
anyone comes,” and before I could say No he had given me a kiss. After
all it was all right as it was Jeno, but it would not have done with
Lajos, for it would have been horrid because of Hella, or Ilonka as they
call her here.

Hella has just told me that they saw us kissing one another, and Lajos
said: “Look Ilonka, they are setting us a good example.” We are so
awfully happy here. It’s such a pity that on the 16th Jeno and Lajos
have got to leave for the Academy, where Jeno is to enter and Lajos is
in his third year: Erno, the least interesting of the three, is staying
till October. But that is always the way of life, beautiful things pass
and the dull ones remain. We go out boating every day, yesterday and
to-day by moonlight. The boys make the boat rock so frightfully that we
are always terrified that it will upset. And then they say: “You have
your fate in your own hands; buy your freedom and you will be as safe as
in Abraham’s bosom.”

September 12th. The great uncle _hates us_ since what happened the other
day; whenever he sees us he threatens us with his stick, and though we
are not really afraid, because he can’t do anything to us, still it’s
rather creepy. One thinks of all sorts of things, stories and sagas one
has read. That is the only thing I don’t quite like here. But we are
leaving on the 18th. Of course Lajos and Jeno will often come to see
the Bruckners; I’m awfully glad. I don’t know why, I always fancied that
they could only speak Magyar; but that is not so at all, though they
always speak it at home when they are alone. Hella told me to-day for
the first time that all the flowers on the table by her bed one Sunday
in hospital had been sent by Lajos; and she did not wish to tell me at
that time because he wished her to keep it a secret. This has made me
rather angry, for I see that I have been much franker with her than she
has been with me.

September 16th. The boys left to-day, and we stayed up till midnight
last night. We had been to N-- K--, I don’t know how to spell these
Hungarian names, and we did not get back till half past 11. It was
lovely. But it seems all the sadder to-day, especially as it is raining
as well. It’s the first time it’s rained since I came. Partings are
horrid, especially for the ones left behind; the others are going to new
scenes anyhow. But for the people left behind everything is hatefully
dull and quiet. In the afternoon Hella and I went into Jeno’s and Lajos’
room, it had not been tidied up yet and was in a frightful mess. Then
Hella suddenly began sobbing violently, and she flung herself on Lajos’
bed and kissed the pillow. _That_ is how she loves him! I’m sure _that_
is the way Mad. loves the lieutenant, but Dora is simply incapable of
_such_ love, and then she can talk of her _true and intimate friendship
with Mother_. Hella says she has always been in love with Lajos, but
that _her eyes were first opened_ when she saw Jeno and me going
about together and talking to one another. Now she will love Lajos for
evermore. Next year they will probably get engaged, she can’t be engaged
till she is 14 for her parents would not allow it. It is for her sake
that he is going into the Hussars because she likes the Hussars best.
They all _live frightfully hard_, and are tremendously smart.

September 21st. Since Saturday we have been back In Vienna, and Father,
Mother, and Dora came back from Rodaun on Thursday. Dora really is too
funny; since Ada stayed with us and walked in her sleep Dora is afraid
she has been _infected_. She does not seem to know what the word really
means! And while I was away she slept with Mother, and Father slept in
our room, because she was afraid to sleep alone. Of course no one takes
to walking in their sleep simply from sleeping alone, but that was only
a pretext; Dora has never been very courageous, in fact she is rather
a coward, and she was simply afraid to sleep alone. If Father had been
afraid too, I suppose I should have had to come back post-haste, and
if I had been afraid to travel alone, and there had been no one to come
with me, that would have been a pretty state of affairs. I told them so.
Father laughed like anything at my “_combinations_,” and Dora got in a
frightful wax. She is just as stupid and conceited as she was _before_
she fell in love. So Hella is right when she says: Love enobles
[veredelt]. Erno made a rotten joke about that when he heard Hella say
it once. He said: “You’ve made a slip of the tongue, you meant to say:
Love makes fools of people [vereselt].” Of course that’s because he’s not
in love with anyone.

September 22nd. School began again to-day. Frau Doktor M. is perfectly
fascinating, she looks splendid and she said the same to both of us.
Thank goodness she’s the head of our class again. In French we have a
new mistress Frau Doktor Dunker, she is perfectly hideous, covered with
pimples, a thing I simply can’t stand in any one; Hella says we must be
careful never to let her handle our books; if she does we might catch
them. In Maths and Physics we have another new mistress, she is a Doktor
too, and she speaks so fast that none of us can understand her; but
she looks frightfully clever, although she is very small. We call her
“_Nutling_” because she has such a tiny little head and such lovely
light-brown eyes. Otherwise the staff is the same as last year, and
there are a few new girls and some have left, but only ones we did not
know intimately. This is Franke’s last year at the Lyz., she will be
16 in April and has a splendid figure. Her worst enemy must admit that.
Dora is having English lessons from the matron, and she is _awfully
pleased_ about it, for she is one of her favourites and it will help her
too in her matriculation.

September 25th. Yesterday and the day before Mother was so ill that the
doctor had to be sent for at half past 10 at night. Thank goodness she
is better now. But on such days I simply can’t write a word in my diary;
I feel as if I oughtn’t to. And the days seem everlasting, for nobody
talks much, and it’s awful at mealtimes. Mother was up again to-day,
lying on the sofa.

September 29th. I’ve had such an awful toothache since the day before
yesterday. Dora says it’s only an ache for a gold filling like Frau
Doktor M.’s. Of course that’s absurd; for first of all, surely I ought
to know whether my own tooth hurts or not, and secondly the dentist says
that the tooth really is decayed. I have to go every other day and
I can’t say I enjoy it. At the same time, this year we have such a
frightful lot to learn at school. The Nutling is really very nice, if
one could only understand better what she says, but she talks at such a
rate that in the Fifth, where she teaches too, they call her Waterfall.
Nobody has ever given Frau Doktor M. a nickname, not even an endearing
one. The only one that could possibly be given to her is Angel, and that
could not be a real name, it’s quite unmeaning. In the drawing class we
are going to draw from still life, and, best of all, animal studies too,
I am so delighted.

October 4th. Goodness, to-day when we were coming home from the Imperial
Festival, we met Viktor in M. Street, but unfortunately he did not see
us. He was in full-dress uniform and was walking with 3 other officers
whom neither I nor Hella know. We were frightfully angry because he
did not recognise us; Hella thinks it can only be because we were both
wearing our big new autumn hats, which shade our faces very much.

October 11th. There was a frightful row in the drawing lesson to-day.
Borovsky had written a note to one of her friends: “The little Jewess,
F. (that means the Nutling) is newly imported from Scandalavia with her
horsehair pate with or without inhabitants.” Something of that sort
was what she had written and as she was throwing it across to Fellner,
Fraulein Scholl turned round at that very moment and seized the note.
“Who is F.?”, she asked, but no one answered. That made her furious and
she put the note in her pocket. At 1 o’clock, when the lesson was over,
Borovsky went up to her and asked her for the note. Then she asked once
more: “Who is F.?” And Fellner, thinking I suppose that she would help
Borovsky out, said: “She forgot to write Frau Doktor Fuchs.” Then the
row began. I can’t write it all down, it would take too long; of course
Borovsky will be expelled. She cried like anything and begged and
prayed, and said she did not mean it, but Fraulein Scholl says she is
going to give the letter to the head.

October 12th. Continuation; the head is laid up with a chill, so Frl.
Scholl gave the note to Frau Doktor M.; that was both good and bad. Good
because Borovsky will perhaps be able to stay after all, and bad because
Frau Doktor M. was frightfully angry. She gave us a fine lecture about
True Good Manners, simply splendid. I was so glad that I was not mixed
up in the business, for she did give Borovsky and Fellner a rating. It’s
probably true, then, that her own fiance is a Jew. Its horrible that
_she_ above all should be going to have a cruel husband; at least if all
that Resi told us is true; and I expect there is some truth in it. We
are frightfully curious to know whether the Nutling has heard anything
about it and if so what she will do.

October 13th. I don’t think the Nutling can have heard anything for she
seemed just as usual; but Hella thinks and so do I that she would not
show anything even if Frl. Scholl had told her; anyhow it was horridly
vulgar; one is not likely to pass it on to the person concerned. Why we
think she does not know anything is that neither Borovsky nor Fellner
were called up.

October 14th. To-day the needlewoman brought Dora’s handkerchiefs
with her monogram and the coronet, lovely; I want some like them for
Christmas. And for Mother she has embroidered six pillow-cases,
these have a coronet too; by degrees we shall have the coronet upon
everything. By the way, here is something I’d forgotten to write: In one
of the first days of term Father gave each of us one of his new visiting
cards with the new title, I was to give mine to Frau Doktor M. and Dora
hers to Frau Prof. Kreidl, to have the names properly entered in the
class lists. Frau Prof. Kreidl did not say anything, but Frau Doktor M.
was awfully sweet. She said: “Well, Lainer, I suppose you are greatly
pleased at this rise in rank?” And I said: “Oh yes, I’m awfully
delighted, but only inside,” then she said: That’s right; “Religion,
name, and money do not make the man.” Was not that charming! I write the
v before my name awfully small; but anyone who knows can see it. What a
shame that she is not noble! _She_ would be worthy of it!!

October 15th. Oswald has gone to Leoben to-day, he is to study mining,
but _against_ Father’s will. But Father says that no one must be forced
into a profession, for if he is he will always say throughout life that
he only became this or that on compulsion. The other evening Dora said
that Oswald had only chosen mining in order to get away from home; if he
were to study law or agricultural chemistry he could not get away from
Vienna, and that is the chief thing to him. Besides, he is a bit of a
humbug; for when he came home from Graz after matriculation he said in
so many words: “How delightful to have one’s legs under one’s own table
again and to breathe the _family atmosphere_.” Dora promptly said to
him: “Hm, you don’t seem to care so very much about home, for always
when you come home for the holidays the first thing you do is to make
plans for getting away.” For she is annoyed too that Oswald can
travel about wherever he likes. And yet he goes on talking about being
“_subjected to intolerable supervision”!!_ What about us? He can stay
out until 10 at night and _never_ comes to afternoon tea, and in fact
does just what he likes. If I go to supper with Hella and am just ever
so little late, there’s a fine row. As for the lectures poor Dora had
to endure when Viktor was waiting for her, I shall never forget them.
Of course she denies it all now, but I was present at some of them so
I know; otherwise he would not have called me “the Guardian Angel.” She
behaves now as if she had forgotten all about that, so I often remind
her of it on purpose when we are alone together. The other day she said:
“I do beg you, Grete (not Rita), don’t speak any more of that matter; I
have buried the affair for ever.” And when I said: “Buried, what do you
mean? A true love can’t simply be _buried_ like that,” she said: “It was
not a true love, and that’s all there is to say about it.”

October 16th. I had a frantically anxious time in the arithmetic lesson
to-day. All of a sudden Hella flushed dark red and I thought to myself:
Aha, that’s it! And I wrote to her on my black-line paper: Has it
begun??? for we had agreed that she would tell me directly, she will be
14 in February and _it_ will certainly begin soon. Frau Doktor F. said:
Lainer, what was that you pushed over to Br.? and she came up to
the desk and took the black-line paper. “What does that mean: Has it
begun???” Perhaps she really did not know what I meant, but several of
the girls who knew about it too laughed, and I was in a terrible fright.
But Hella was simply splendid. “Excuse me, Frau Doktor, Rita asked
whether the frost had begun yet.” “And that’s the way you spend your
time in the mathematics lesson?” But thank goodness that made things all
right. Only in the interval Hella said that really I am inconceivably
stupid sometimes. What on earth did I want to write a thing like that
for? _When_ it begins, _of course_ she will let me know directly. As a
matter of fact it has _not_ begun yet. We have agreed now that it will
be better to say “Endt,” a sort of portmanteau word of _developed_
[entwickelt] and _at last_ [endlich] . That will really be splendid
and Hella says that I happened upon it in a lucid interval. It’s really
rather cheeky of her, but after all one can forgive anything to one’s
friend. She absolutely insists that I must never again put her in such
a fix in class. Of course it happened because I am always thinking: Now
then, this is the day.

November 8th. On Father’s and Dora’s birthday Mother was so ill that
we did not keep it at all. I was in a terrible fright that Mother was
seriously ill, or even that -- -- -- -- -- No, I won’t even think it;
one simply must not write it down even if one is not superstitious. Aunt
Dora came last week to keep house for Mother. We are not going skating,
for we are always afraid that Mother might get worse just when we are
away. As soon as she is able to get up for long enough Father is going
to take her to see a specialist in the _diseases of women_; so it must
be true that Mother’s illness comes from _that_.

November 16th. Oh it’s horrible, Mother has to have an operation; I’m so
miserable that I can’t write.

November 19th. Mother is so good and dear; she wants us to go skating to
take our thoughts off the operation. But Dora says too that it would be
brutal to go skating when Mother is going to have an operation in a few
days. Father said to us yesterday evening: “Pull yourselves together
children, set your teeth and don’t make things harder for your poor
Mother.” But I can’t help it, I cry whenever I look at Mother.

November 23rd. It is so dismal at home since Mother went away; we had
to go to school and we believed she would not leave until the afternoon,
but the carriage came in the morning. Dora says that Father had arranged
all that because I could not control myself. Well, who could? Dora cries
all day; and at school I cried a lot and so did Hella.

November 28th. Thank goodness, it’s all safely over, Mother will be
home again in a fortnight. I’m so happy and only now can I realise how
_horribly_ anxious I have been. We go every day to see Mother at the
hospital; I wish I could go alone, but we always go all together, that
is either with Father or with Aunt Dora. But I suspect that Dora does
go to see Mother quite alone, she gave herself away to-day about the
flowers, she behaves as if Mother were only _her_ mother. On Thursday,
the first time we saw Mother, we all whispered, and Mother cried,
although the operation had made her quite well again. Unfortunately
yesterday, Aunt Alma was there when we were, and Father said that seeing
so many people at once was too exciting for Mother, and we must go away.
Of course he really meant that Aunt Alma and Marina had better go away,
but Aunt did not understand or would not. Why on earth did Aunt come?
We hardly ever meet since the trouble about Marina and that jackanapes
Erwin; only when there is a family party; Oswald says it’s not a family
gathering but a family dispersal because nearly always some one takes
offence.

November 30th. To-day I managed to be _alone_ with Mother. At school I
said I had an awfully bad headache and asked if I might go home before
the French lesson; I really had. What I told Mother was that Frau Doktor
Dunker was ill, so we had no lesson. Really one ought not to tell lies
to an invalid, but this was a _pious fraud_ as Hella’s mother always
calls anything of the sort, and no one will find out, because Frau
Doktor Dunker has nothing to do with the Fourth, so Dora won’t hear
anything about it. Mother said she was _awfully pleased_ to be able to
see _me_ alone for once. That absolutely proves that Dora does go alone.
Mother was so sweet, and Sister Klara said she was a perfect angel in
goodness and patience. Then I burst out crying and Mother had to soothe
me. At first, after I got home, I did not want to say anything about it,
but when we were putting on our things after dinner to go and see Mother
I said en passant as it were: “This is the second time I shall be seeing
Mother to-day.” And when Dora said: What do you mean? I said quite
curtly: “One of our lessons did not come off, and so I took the chance
_too_ of being able to see Mother _alone_.” Then she said: Did the
porter let you in without any trouble? It surprises me very much that
such _very_ young girls, who are almost children still, are allowed to
go in alone. Luckily Aunt came in at that moment and said: “Oh well,
nobody thinks Gretl quite a child now, and _both of you_ can go alone to
the hospital all right.” On the way we did not speak to one another.

December 5th. For St. Nicholas day we took Mother a big flower pot, and
tied to the stick was a label on which Father had written; “Being ill
is punishable as an unpermissible offence in the sense of Section 7 the
Mothers’ and Housewives’ Act.” Mother was frightfully amused. The doctor
says she is going on nicely, and that she will be able to come home in a
few days.

December 6th. It was awful to-day. In the evening when we were leaving
the dining-room Father said: “Gretl you have forgotten something.” And
when I came back he took me by the hand and said: “Why didn’t you tell
me that you want so much to see Mother _alone_? You need not make such
a secret of it.” And then I burst out crying and said: “Yes, I need not
keep it secret from you, but I don’t like Dora to know all about it.
Did she tell you what happened the other day?” But Father does not know
anything about my pretended headache, but only that I wanted so much to
see Mother alone. He was awfully kind and kissed and petted me, saying:
“You are a dear little thing, little witch, I hope you always will be.”
 But I got away as quick as I could, for I felt so ashamed because of my
fibbing. If it were not for Dora I’m sure I should never tell any lies.

December 6th. Father is an angel. He and I went to see Mother in the
morning, and Aunt and Dora went in the afternoon. And since Father had
to go into the Cafe where he had an appointment with a friend, I went on
alone to see Mother and he came in afterwards. Mother asked me about my
Christmas wishes; but I told her I had only one wish, that she should
get well and live for ever. I was awfully glad that Dora was not there,
for I could never have got that out before her. Still, she made me
tell her my wishes after all, so I said I wanted handerkerchiefs with
“monogram and coronet,” visiting cards with _von_, a satchel like that
which most of the girls in the _higher_ classes have, and the novel
Elizabeth Kott. But I am not to have the novel, for Mother was horrified
and said: My darling child, that’s not the sort of book for you; who on
earth put that into your head; Ada, I suppose? From what I know of your
tastes, it really would not suit you at all. So I had to give that up,
but I’m certain I should not find the book stupid.

December 11th. Mother came home again to-day; we did not know what time
she was coming, but only that it was to be to-day. And because I was
so glad that Mother is quite well again, I sang two or three songs, and
Mother said: That is a good omen when one is greeted with a song.
Then Dora was annoyed because _she_ had not thought of singing. We had
decorated the whole house with flowers.

December 15th. I am embroidering a cushion for Mother and Dora is
making her a footstool so that she can sit quite comfortably when she is
reading. For Father we have bought a new brief bag because his own is so
shabby that it makes us quite ashamed; but he always says: “It will do
for a good while yet.” For a long time I did not know what to get for
Aunt Dora, and at length we have decided upon a lace fichu; for she is
awfully fond of lace. I am giving Hella a sketch book and a pencil case;
she draws beautifully and will perhaps become an artist, for Dora I am
getting a vanity bag and for Oswald a cigarette case with a horse’s head
on it, for he is frightfully taken up with racing and the turf.

December 16th. Owing to Mother’s illness I’ve had simply no time to
write anything about the school, although there has been a _great
deal_ to write about, for example that Prof. W. is very friendly again,
although he no longer gives us lessons, and that most of the girls can’t
bear the Nutling because she makes such favourites of the Jewish girls.
It’s quite true that she does, for example Franke, who is never any
good, will probably get a Praiseworthy in Maths and Physics; and she
lets Weinberger do anything she likes. I always get Excellent both
for school work and prep.; so it really does not matter to me, but
Berbenowitsch is frightfully put out because she is no longer the
favourite as she was with Frau Doktor St. The other day it was quite
unpleasant in the Maths lesson. In the answer to a sum there happened
to be 1-3, and then the Nutling asked what 1-3 would be as a decimal
fraction; so we went on talking about recurring [periodic] decimals and
every time she used the word _period_, some of the girls giggled, but
luckily some of them were Jews, and she got perfectly savage and simply
screamed at us. In Frau Doktor St’s lesson in the First, some of the
girls giggled at the same thing and she went on just as if she had not
noticed it, but afterwards she always spoke of _periodic places_, and
then one does not think of the real meaning so much. Frau Doktor F. said
she should complain to Frau Doktor M. about our unseemly behaviour.
But really all the girls had not giggled, for ex. Hella and I simply
exchanged glances and understood one another at once. I can’t endure
that idiotic giggling.

December 20th. Oswald came home to-day; he’s fine. It’s quite true that
he has really had a moustache for a long time, but was not allowed to
grow it at the Gymnasium; in boarding schools the barber comes every
Saturday, and they _have_ to be shaved. He always says that at the
Gymnasium everything manly is simply suppressed. I am so glad I am not
a man and need not go to Gymnasium. Anyhow he has a splendid moustache
now. Hella did not recognise him at first and drew back in alarm, she
only knew him after a moment by his voice. We have reckoned it up, and
find that she has not seen him since the Easter before last. At first
he called her Fraulein, but her mother said: Don’t be silly. It did not
seem silly to me, but most polite!!!

December 23rd. Mother is so delighted that Oswald is home again and he
really is awfully nice; he is giving her a wonderful flowers-of-iron
group representing a mountain scene with a forest, and in the foreground
some roe deer as if in a pasture.

December 25th. Only time for a few words. Mother was very well
yesterday, and it has not done her any harm to stay up so long. I am so
happy. We both got a tie pin with a sapphire and 3 little diamonds, they
have been made out of some earrings which Mother never wears now. But
the nice thing about it is that they are made from her earrings.
The satchel and Stifter’s Tales are awfully nice and so are the
handkerchiefs with the coronet and everything else. Hella gave me a
reticule with my monogram and the coronet as well. Oswald has given Dora
and me small paperweights and Father a big one, bronze groups. We really
need two writing tables, but there is no room for two. So I am going
to arrange the little corner table as my writing table and have all my
things there.

December 27th. At the Bruckners yesterday it was really awful. Hella’s
mother is perfectly right; when anyone looks like _that_ she ought not
to pay visits when she knows that other people may be there. Hella told
me the day before yesterday how frightfully noticeable it is in her
cousin that she is in an i-- c--! Her mother was very much put out on
her account and she wanted to prevent Emmy’s standing up. We were simply
disgusted and horrified. But her husband is awfully gentle with her; She
is certainly not pretty and especially the puffiness under her eyes is
horrid. They say that many women look like that when they are pr. She
was wearing a _maternity dress_, and that gives the whole show away!
Hella says that some women look awfully pretty when they are in an i--
c--, but that some look hideous. I do hope I shall be one of the first
kind, if I ever . . . No, it is really horrible, even if it makes one
pretty; when I think of Frau von Baldner and what she looked like last
summer, yet Father has always said she is a a perfect beauty. Really no
one is pretty in an i-- c--. Soon after tea Hella and I went up to her
room, and she said it had really been too much for her and that she
could not have stood it much longer. And we went on talking about it for
such a long time, that it really made both of us nearly ill. On Sunday
Emmy and her husband are coming to dine with the Brs., and Hella begged
me to ask her to dinner with us, or she would be quite upset. So of
course she is coming here and thank goodness that will save her from
feeling ill. And then she said that I must not think she wanted to come
to us because of Oswald, but only for that _other_ reason. I understand
that perfectly well, and she does not need to make any excuses to me.

29th. Hella came to dinner to-day, she was wearing a new dress, a light
strawberry colour, and it suited her admirably. In the evening Oswald
said: “two or three years more, and Hella will look ripping.” It does
annoy me so this continual _will_. Hella’s father simply said of me
that I _was_ charming,, and not that idiotic: I _was going to become_
charming. I do hate the way people always talk out into the future.
However, Oswald paid Hella a great deal of attention. In the afternoon,
when Hella and I were talking about him, I wanted to turn the
conversation to Lajos, but she flushed up and said he was utterly false,
for since October he had only been to see them once, on a Sunday, just
when they were going to the theatre. Of course he says he does not care
a jot about the visits unless he can see her alone. She can’t realise
that that shows the greatness of his love. I understand it perfectly.
But it is really monstrous that Jeno has asked after me only once, quite
casually. And he really might have sent me a card at Christmas. But
that’s what young men are like. The proverb really applies to them: Out
of sight out of mind.

December 30th. Frau Richter called to-day, but only in the morning for a
quarter of an hour. Not a word was said about Viktor, though I stayed in
the drawing-room on purpose. Dora did not put in an appearance, though
I’m sure she was at home. He is extraordinarily like his mother, he has
the same lovely straight nose, and the small mouth and well-cut lips;
but he is very tall and she is quite small half a head shorter than
Mother. We owe them a call, but I don’t much think that we shall go.

December 31st. I really have no time, since this is New Year’s Eve, but
I simply _must_ write. Dora and I went skating this morning, and we met
Viktor on the ice; he went frightfully pale, saluted, and spoke to us;
Dora wished to pass on, but he detained her and said that she must allow
him to have a talk, so he came skating with us since she would not go to
a confectioner’s with him. She was certainly quite right not to go to
a confectioner’s. Of course I don’t know what they talked about, but in
the afternoon Dora cried frightfully, and Viktor never said good-bye to
me; it’s impossible that he can have forgotten, so either I must have
been too far away at the time, or else Dora did not want him to; most
likely the latter. I’m frantically sorry for him, for he is passionately
in love with her. But she won’t come to her senses until it is too
late. I don’t think she has said a word to Mother either. But all the
afternoon she was playing melancholy music, and that shows how much she
had felt it.

January 2nd. Yesterday I had no time to write because we had callers,
pretty dull for the most part, the Listes and the Trobisches; Julie Tr.
is such a stupid creature, and I don’t believe she knows the first thing
about _those matters_; Annie is not quite all there, Lotte is the only
tolerable one. Still, since we played round games for prizes, it was not
as dull as it might have been, and Fritz and Rudl are quite nice boys.
In the evening Mother was so tired out that Father said he really must
put a stop to all this calling; I can’t say I care much myself for
_that_ sort of visits, especially since Dora always will talk about
_books_. People always talk about such frightfully dull books whenever
they have nothing else to say. School began again to-day, with a German
lesson thank goodness. Though I’m not superstitious in general, I must
say I do like a good beginning. Besides, first thing in the morning we
met two chimneysweeps, and without our having tried to arrange it in any
way they passed us on our _left_. That ought to bring good luck.

January 5th. Most important, Hella since yesterday evening -- -- -- --!
She did not come to school yesterday, for the day before she felt
frightfully bad, and her mother really began to think she was going to
have another attack of appendicitis. Instead of that!!! She looks so ill
and interesting, I spent the whole afternoon and evening with her; and
at first she did not want to tell me what was the matter. But when I
said I should go away if she did not tell me, she said: “All right, but
you must not make such idiotic faces, and above all you must not look
at me.” “Very well,” I said, “I won’t look, but tell me everything about
it.” So then she told me that she had felt frantically bad, as if she
was being cut in two, much worse than after the appendicitis operation,
and then she had frantically high fever and shivered at the same time,
all Friday, and yesterday -- -- -- tableau!! And then her mother told
her the chief things, though she knew them already. Earlier on Friday
the doctor had said: “Don’t let us be in a hurry to think about a
relapse, there may be _other!!_ causes.” And then he whispered to her
mother, but Hella caught the word _enlighten_. Then she knew directly
what time of day it was. She acted the innocent to her mother, as if she
knew nothing at all, and her mother kissed her and said, now you are not
a child any more, now you belong among the grown-ups. How absurd, so
_I_ am still a child! After all, on July 30th I shall be 14 too, and at
least one month before I shall have it too, so I shan’t be a _child_ for
more than six months more. Hella and I laughed frightfully, but she is
really a little puffed up about it; she won’t admit that she is, but I
noticed it quite clearly. The only girl I know who did not put on airs
when that happened was Ada. Because of the school Hella is awfully shy,
and before her father too. But her mother has promised her not to tell
him. If only one can trust her!!!

January 7th. Hella came to school to-day _in spite of everything_. I
kept on looking at her, and in the interval she said: “I have told you
already that you must not stare at me in that idiotic way, and this is
the second time I’ve had to speak to you about it. One must not make
a joke about such things.” I was not going to stand that. One must not
look at her; very well, in the third lesson I sat turning away from her;
then suddenly she hooked one of my feet with hers so that I nearly
burst out laughing, and she said: “Do look round, for that way is even
stupider.” Of course Dunker promptly called us to order, that is, she
told Hella to go on reading, but Hella said promptly that she felt very
unwell, and that what she had said to me was, she would have to go
home at 12. All the girls looked at one another, for they all know
what _unwell_ means, and Frau Doktor Dunker said Hella had better leave
directly, but she answered in French--that pleases Dunker awfully--that
she would rather stay till the end of the lesson. It was simply
splendid!

January 12th. We went to the People’s Theatre to-day to the matinee of
The Fourth Commandment. The parting from the grandmother was lovely;
almost everyone was in tears. I managed to keep from crying because Dora
was only two places from me, and so did Hella, probably for the same
reason. Anyway she was not paying much attention to the play for in the
main interval Lajos, who had been in the stalls, came up and said how
d’you do to Hella and her mother. He wanted to go home with them after
the performance. Jeno has mumps, it is a horrid sort of illness and if I
had it I should never admit it. Those illnesses in which one is swelled
up are the nastiest of all. The Sunday after next Lajos and Jeno have
been invited to the Brs. and of course they asked me too, I am so glad.

January 18th. I have not written for a whole week, we have such a
frantic lot of work, especially in French in which we are very backward,
at least Dunker says so!! She can’t stand Madame Arnau, that’s obvious.
For my part I liked Mad. Arnau a great deal better, if only because she
had no pimples. And Prof. Jordan’s History class is awfully difficult,
because he always makes one find out the causes for oneself; one has to
learn _intelligently!_, but that is very difficult in History. No one
ever gets an Excellent from him, except Verbenowitsch sometimes, but
she learns out of a book, not our class book, but the one on which Herr
Prof. J. bases his lectures. And because she reads it all up
beforehand, naturally she always knows all the causes of the war and the
_consequences_. Really _consequences_ means something quite different,
and so Hella and I never dare look at one another when he is examining
us and asks: What were the consequences of this event? Of course the
Herr Prof. imagined that Franke was laughing at _him_ when she was only
laughing at _consequences_; and it was impossible for her to explain,
especially to a gentleman!!!!

January 20th. When Dora and I were coming home from skating to-day we
met Mademoiselle, and I said how d’you do to her at once, and I was
asking her how _she_ (much emphasised) was getting on, when suddenly I
noticed that Dora had gone on, and Mademoiselle said: “Your sister seems
in a great hurry, I don’t want to detain her.” When I caught Dora up and
asked her: “Why did you run away?” she tossed her head and said: “That
sort of company does not suit me.” “What on earth do you mean, you were
so awfully fond of Mad., and besides she is really lovely.” That’s true
enough, she said; but it was awfully tactless of her to tell me of all
that--you know what. Such an intimacy behind her parents’ backs _cannot
possibly lead to_ happiness. Then I got in such a fearful temper and
said: “Oh do shut up. Father and Mother did not know anything about
Viktor either, and you were happy enough then. It is just the secrecy
that makes one so happy.” Then she said very softly: “Dear Grete, you
too will change your views,” and then we did not say another word. But I
was awfully angry over her meanness; for first of all she wanted to hear
the whole story, although Mad. never offered to tell her, and now she
pretends that _she_ did not wish it. If I only knew where to find Mad. I
would warn her. Anyhow, this day week at 7 I shall take care to be in
W. Street, and perhaps I may meet her, for she probably has a private
lesson somewhere in that neighborhood.

January 24th. Mother is very ill again to-day, _in spite of_ the
operation. I have decided that I won’t go on Sunday to the Brs. although
Jeno will be there, and that I won’t wait about for Mademoiselle on
Monday. I have not told Hella anything about this for she would probably
say it was very stupid of me, but I would rather not; not because Dora
has twice spoken to me pointedly about a _clear conscience_, but because
I don’t enjoy anything when Mother is ill.

January 26th. Mother is an angel. Yesterday she asked Aunt Dora: “By the
way, Dora, has Grete put a fresh lace tucker in her blue frock, ready
for the Brs. to-morrow?” Then I said: “I’m not going Mother,” and Mother
asked: “But why not, surely not on my account?” Then I rushed up to her
and said: “I can’t enjoy anything when you are ill.” And then Mother was
so awfully sweet, and she wept and said: “_Such moments_ make one forget
all pains and troubles. But really you _must_ go, besides I’m a good
deal better to-day, and to-morrow I shall be quite well again.” So I
answered: “All right, I’ll go, but only if you are _really_ well.
But you must tell me _honestly_.” But in any case I shan’t go to meet
Mademoiselle on Monday.

January 28th. It was Mathematics to-day at school, so I could not write
yesterday. We had a heavenly time on Sunday. We laughed till our sides
ached and Hella was nearly suffocated with laughing. Lajos is enough to
give one fits; it was absolutely ripping the way he imitated the wife of
Major Zoltan in the Academy and Captain Riffl. I can hardly write about
it, for my hand shakes so with laughing when I think of it. And then,
while Hella and Lajos were singing songs together, Jeno told me that
every student in the Neustadt has an inamorata, a _real_ one. Mostly in
Vienna, but some in Wiener Neustadt though that is dangerous because of
being caught. All the officers know about it, but no one must be found
out. Then I told him about Oswald’s affair and he said: “Oswald was a
great donkey, you’ll excuse me for saying so since he’s your brother;
but really he made a fool of himself. He was only a civilian; it’s quite
different in the army.” Then I got cross and said: “That’s all very
well, Jeno, but you are not an officer yourself, so I don’t see how you
can know anything about it.” Then he said to Hella: “I say, Ilonka,
you must keep your friend in better order, she is rather inclined to
be insubordinate.” She is to make a written note of every act of
_insubordination_, and then he will administer _exemplary_ punishment.
All very fine, but it will take two to that.

January 30th. I wish I knew whether Mademoiselle really passed through
W. Street again at 7 o’clock on Monday, for she certainly said very
distinctly: “Au revoir, ma cherie!” She is so pretty and so pale;
perhaps she is really ill, and she must be awfully nervous about
-- -- -- That would be terrible. We wonder whether she knows about
certain means, but one simply can’t tell her.

February 2nd. I’ve had a wonderful idea and Hella thinks it a positive
inspiration. We are going to write anonymously to Mademoiselle about
those means, and Hella will write, so that no one can recognise
my writing. We think something of that sort must have happened to
Mademoiselle, for the other day I heard Mother say to Aunt Dora: “If we
had known that, we should never have engaged her for the children; it
will be a terrible thing for her parents.” And Aunt Dora said: “Yes,
those are the sort of people who hide their disgrace under the water.”
 It seems quite clear, for _disgrace_ means an _illegitimate_ child. And
the worst of it is, that they know that she has done _that_. We must
help the poor thing. And _that_ is why Dora is so indignant all of
a sudden. But how can she know? there is nothing to notice yet in
Mademoiselle; if there had been I should certainly have seen it, for
Hella often says I’ve a keen eye for it. That is quite true, I was the
first person to notice it in the maid at Prof. Hofer’s, when even Father
had not noticed it.

February 4th. Well, we have written to her, at least Hella has, saying
there are _such_ means, and that she will find all the details in the
encyclopedia. We have addressed it to F. M. and signed it “Someone
who understands you.” Unfortunately we shall never be able to find out
whether she got the letter, but the main thing is that she _should_.

February 7th. What a frightful lot of anxiety a letter can give one! In
the interval to-day the school servant came up to me and said: Please
are you Fraulein Lainer of the Third. “There is a letter for you.” I
blushed furiously, for I thought, it must be from Mademoiselle, but my
blushing made Frau Berger think it must be from a young man: “Really I
ought to give it to the head mistress; I am not allowed to deliver any
letters to the pupils, but in your case I will make an exception. But
please remember if it happens again I shall have to hand it in to the
office.” Then I said: “Frau Berger, I am quite certain it is not from
a gentleman, but from a young lady,” and when she gave it to me I saw
directly that it really was not from a gentleman but only from Ada!
It really is too stupid of her! At the New Year she reproached me for
having broken my word, and now she begs me to enquire at the Raimund
Theatre or at the People’s Theatre whether Herr G. is there; she says
she can’t live without him in St. P. But in the holidays she told me
that she was not in love with him, that for her he was only _a means to
an end_. I’m absolutely certain she said that. Nothing will induce me
to go to enquire at a theatre _office_, and Hella says too that to make
_such_ a suggestion is a piece of impudence. I shall just write her an
ordinary letter, telling her what a row she might have got me into at
school. I really think Ada has a bee in her bonnet, as Father always
says.

February 10th. I never heard of such a thing! I was sent for to the
office to-day because the school servant had complained that on two
occasions I had thrown down some orange peel at the entrance. It’s quite
true that I did drop one piece there yesterday, but I pushed it out of
the way with my foot into the corner, and as for any other time I know
nothing about it. But I see which way the wind is blowing. Frau Berger
thought I would give her some money for that letter; just fancy, how
absurd, money for a letter like that, I wouldn’t give 20 kreuzer for
such a letter. But since then she’s been in a frightfully bad temper, I
noticed it on Wednesday when we were wiping our shoes at the door. What
I said to the head was: “It happened only once, and I kicked the peel
into the corner where no one could tread on it, but I certainly did not
do it twice, and Bruckner can confirm what I say.” Then the head said:
“Oh well, we need not make a state affair of it, but the next time you
drop something, please pick it up.” Frau Berger is furious, and all we
girls in our class have decided that while we won’t make more mess than
we need, still, we shan’t be too particular. If any one of us happens to
drop a piece of paper she will just let it lie. Such cheek, one really
can’t stand it!

February 12th. We got our reports to-day. I have not got any
Satisfactories, only Praiseworthy and Excellent. Father and Mother are
awfully pleased and they have given each of us 2 crowns. Indeed Dora has
practically nothing but Excellents, only three Praiseworthies; but she
studies frantically hard, and she is learning Latin again with Frau
Doktor M. If she is still teaching the lower classes next year, I shall
go too, for that way we shall have her for 3 hours longer each week.
By the way, Franke has actually got Praiseworthy in Maths. and Physics,
though she’s hardly any good. The Nutling seems to give extraordinarily
good reports, for twice in the Maths. schoolwork Hella has had an
Unsatisfactory, and yet now in her report she has Praiseworthy. With
Frau Doktor M. one has really to deserve one’s report, and it was just
the same last year with Fr. Dr. St. The worst of all is with Herr
Prof. Jordan. Not a single one of us has got an Excellent except that
deceitful cat Verbenowitsch. To-morrow the Brs. are giving a great
birthday party because of Hella’s 14th birthday. Lajos and Jeno are
coming and the two Ehrenfelds, because Hella is very fond of them,
especially Trude, the elder, that is she is 2 days older than Kitty, for
they are _twins!!_ How awful!!! They only came to the Lyz this year, and
Hella meets them skating every day, I don’t because we have no season
tickets this year but only take day tickets when we can go, because
of Mother’s illness. I am giving Hella an electric torch with a very
powerful reflector, so that it really lights up the whole room, and an
amber necklace.

February 14th. It’s a good thing that we have the half-term holiday
to-day and to-morrow for that gives me time to write all about
yesterday. It was simply phenomenal! I went to wish Hella many happy
returns quite early, and I stayed to dinner and Lajos and Jeno had been
invited to dinner too in the afternoon the 2 Ehrenfelds came and brought
a box of sweets, and 3 of Hella’s girl cousins and two boys, one of whom
is frightfully stupid and never speaks a word, and several aunts and
other ladies, for the grown-ups had their friends too. But we did not
bother about them, for the dining-room, Lizzi’s room, and Hella’s room
had been arranged for us. Hella had been sent such a lot of flowers
that they nearly gave us a headache. At dinner Lajos proposed a toast
to Hella and another at tea. Hella was splendid, and in the evening she
said to me: “At 14 one really does become a different being.” For in
proposing his toast Lajos had said that every 7 years a human being
is completely changed, and Hella thinks that is perfectly true. Thank
goodness, _in 6 1/2 months I shall change my whole being too_. There
really did seem to be something different about her, and when we all had
to blow to extinguish the candles on her birthday cake, all except the
life-light in the middle, as a sign that the other years have passed,
she really got quite pale, for she was afraid that in joke or through
awkwardness some one would blow out her life-light. Thank goodness it
was all right. I don’t much care for such things myself, for I’m always
afraid that something might happen. Of course I know that it’s only a
superstition, but it would have been horribly unpleasant if anyone
had blown out the life-light. _Openly!!_ Lajos gave Hella an enormous
_square_ box of sweets, and _secretly!!_ a silver ring with a heart
pendant. He wanted her to wear this until it is replaced by a _gold_
one--the _wedding_ ring. But she can’t because of her parents, so she
begged me to allow her to say that I had given it her, but that would
not do either because of Father and Mother. _These_ things are such a
nuisance, and that is why no young man will ever go on living at home
where one is continually being questioned about everything one has,
and does, and wears. After tea we sang: “Had I but stayed on my lonely
Hearth” and other sad songs, because they are the prettiest, and in the
evening we danced while Hella’s Father played for us; and then Elwira,
the tall cousin, danced the czardas with Lajos, it was wonderful. I’ve
never known such a birthday party as yesterday’s. It’s only possible in
winter; you can never have anything like it on my birthday, July 30th,
for the people one is fondest of are never all together at that time.
Really no one ought to have a birthday in the holiday months, but always
sometime between the end of September and June. I do wish I were 14, I
simply can’t wait. Hella’s mother said to Hella, You are not a child any
longer, but a grown-up; I do wish I were too!!!

February 16th. We have a new schoolfellow. All the girls and all the
staff are delighted with her. She is so small she might be only 10, but
awfully pretty. She has brown curls (Hella says foxy red, but I don’t
agree) hanging down to her shoulders, large brown eyes, a lovely mouth,
and a complexion like milk and roses. She is the daughter of a bank
manager in Hamburg; he shot himself, I don’t know why. Of course she is
in mourning and it suits her wonderfully. She has a strong North German
accent. Frau Doktor Fuchs is simply infatuated with her and the head is
awfully fond of her too.

February 19th. Hella and I walked home to-day with Anneliese. She is
called Anneliese von Zerkwitz. Her mother has been so frightfully
upset by her father’s death that she’ll probably have to be sent to a
sanatorium; that is why Anneliese has come to Vienna to stay with her
uncle. He is a professor and they live in Wiedner Hauptstrasse. Dora
thinks her charming too, the whole school is in love with her, she is
going to gym. with us; I am so glad. Of course she won’t stand near
Hella and me because she’s so small; but we can always keep an eye on
her, show her everything, and help her with the apparatus. Hella is a
trifle jealous and says: “It seems to me that Anneliese has quite taken
my place in your affections.” I said that was not a bit true, but did
she not think Anneliese awfully loveable? “Yes,” said Hella, “but one
must not neglect old friends on that account.” “I certainly shan’t do
anything of the kind; but Anneliese really needs some one who will show
her everything and explain everything.” Besides, the head mistress and
Frau Doktor M. placed her in front of me and said to us: “Give her a
helping hand.”

February 20th. It’s such a pity that I can’t ask Anneliese here, for
Mother has been in bed for the last week. But she is going to Hella’s
on Sunday, and since I am going too of course I am frightfully glad.
Naturally I would much rather have her here; but unfortunately it’s
impossible because of Mother. Dora thinks that Mother will have to have
another operation, but I don’t believe it, for _such_ an operation can
only be done _once_. What I can’t understand is why there should be
anything wrong with Mother if the operation was successful. Dora is
afraid that Mother has cancer, that would be horrible; but I don’t
believe she has, because if one has cancer one can’t recover.

February 23rd. It was heavenly at the Bruckners! Anneliese did not
come until 4, for they don’t have dinner until 3. She wore a white
embroidered frock with black silk ribbons. Hella’s mother kissed her
with tears in her eyes. For her mother really is in a sanatorium because
is suffering from _nervous_ disease. Anneliese is living with her uncle
and aunt. But she often cries because of her father and mother. Still,
she enjoyed herself immensely in the round games, winning all the best
prizes, a pocket comb and mirror, a box of sweets, a toy elephant, a
negro with a vase, and other things as well. I won a pen-wiper, a double
vase, a pencil holder, a lot of sweets, and a note book, Hella won a lot
of things too, and so did her two cousins and Jenny.

Then we had some music and Anneliese sang the Wacht am Rhein and a lot
of folk songs; her voice is as sweet as herself. She was fetched at 7, I
stayed till 8.

March 1st. To-morrow Hella and I have been in vised to Anneliese’s. I am
so awfully glad. I shall ask Mother to let me wear my new theatre blouse
and the green spring coat and skirt. The temperature went up to 54
degrees to-day.

March 3rd. Yesterday we went to Anneliese’s. She shares a room with her
cousin; she is only 11 and goes to the middle school, but she is a
nice girl I expected to find everything frightfully smart at Professor
Arndt’s, but it was not so at all. They have only 3 rooms not
particularly well furnished. He has retired on a pension, Emmy is their
granddaughter, she lives with them because her father is in Galicia, a
captain or major I think. It was not so amusing as at Hella’s. We played
games without prizes, and that is dull; it is not that one plays for the
sake of the prizes, but what’s the use of playing if one does not win
anything? Then they read aloud to us out of a story book. But what Hella
and I found exasperating was that Anneliese’s uncle said “Du” to us
both. For Hella is 14, and I shall be 14 in a few months. But Hella
was quite right; in conversation she said: “At the High School only
the mistresses say Du to us, the professors _have_ to say Sie.”
 Unfortunately he went away soon after, so we don’t know whether he took
the hint. Hella says too that it was not particularly entertaining.

March 9th. Oh dear, Mother really has got cancer; of course Father has
not told us so, but she has to have another operation. Dora has cried
her eyes out and my knees are trembling. She’s going to hospital on
Friday. Aunt Dora is coming back on Thursday and will stay here till
Mother is well again. I do so dread the operation, and still more
Mother’s going away. It’s horrible, but still lots of people have cancer
and don’t die of it.

March 22nd. Mother is coming home again tomorrow. Oh I am so glad!
Everything is so quiet in the hospital and one hardly dares speak in the
passages. Mother said: “I don’t want to stay here any longer, let me go
back to my children.” We went to see Mother in hospital every day and
took her violets and other flowers, for she was not allowed to eat
anything during the first few days after the operation. But it’s quite
different now that she’s home again. I should have liked to stay away
from school to-day, but Mother said: “No, children, go to school, do it
to please me.” So of course we went, but I simply could not attend to my
lessons.

March 24th. Mother is asleep now. She looks frightfully ill and still
has a lot of pain. I’m sure the doctors can’t really understand her
case; for if they had operated properly she would not still have pain
after the _second_ operation. I should like to know _what_ Mother has
been talking to Dora about, for they both cried. Although Dora and I
are on good terms now, she would not tell me, but said she had promised
Mother not to speak about it. I can’t believe that Mother has told Dora
a _secret_, but perhaps it was something about marrying. For Dora only
said: “Besides, Mother did not need to say that to me, for my mind was
quite made up in any case.” I do hate such hints, it’s better to say
nothing at all. As soon as Mother can get up she is going to Abbazia for
a change, and most likely Dora will go with her.

March 26th. Mother and Dora are going to Abbazzia next week. Dora thinks
I envy her the journey, and she said: “I would _willingly_ renounce the
journey and the seaside if only Mother would get well. And this year when
I have to matriculate, I certainly should not go for pleasure.” I’m
so awfully miserable that I simply can’t wear a red ribbon in my hair,
though red suits me best. I generally wear a black one now, but since
yesterday a brown one, for Mother said: “Oh, Gretel, do give up that
black ribbon; it looks so gloomy and does not suit you at all.” Of course
I could not tell Mother _how_ I was feeling, so I took the brown one and
said the red ribbon was quite worn out.

April 12th. I never get my diary written. It’s so gloomy at home for
Mother is very bad. Oswald is coming home to-morrow for the Easter
holidays and Mother is looking forward so to seeing him. I was to have
gone with Hella and her father to Maria-Zell, for this year they
are probably going to take a house for the summer in Mitterbach or
Mitterberg near Maria-Zell. But I am not going after all, for I don’t
feel inclined, and I think Mother is better pleased that I should not;
for she said: “So I shall have all my three darlings together here at
Easter.” When she said that I wanted to cry, and I ran quickly out of
the room so that she might not see me. But she must have seen, for after
dinner she said: “Gretel, if you really _want_ to go with the Bruckners,
I should like you to; I should be so glad for you to have a little
pleasure, you have not had much enjoyment all the winter.” And then I
could not stop myself, and I burst out crying and said: “No, Mother, I
won’t go on any account. All I want is that you should get quite well
again.” And then Mother cried too and said: “Darling, I’m afraid I shall
never be quite well again, but I should like to stay until you are all
grown up; after that you won’t need me so much.” Then Dora came in and
when she saw that Mother was crying she said that Father had sent
for me. He hadn’t really but in the evening she told me that Mother’s
illness was hopeless, but that I must not do anything to upset her
or let her see what I was feeling. And then we both cried a lot and
promised one another that we would always stay with Father.

May 16th. Mother died on April 24th, the Sunday after Easter. We are all
so awfully unhappy. Hardly anyone says a word at mealtimes, only Father
speaks to us so lovingly. Most likely Aunt Dora will stay here for good.
It’s not three weeks yet since Mother was buried, but in one way we feel
as if she had already been dead three years, and in another way one is
always suddenly wanting to go into her room, to ask her something or
tell her something. And when we go to bed we talk about her for such a
long time, and then I dream about her all night. Why should people die?
Or at least only quite old people, who no longer have anyone to care
about it. But a mother and a father ought never to die. The night after
Mother died Hella wanted me to come and stay with them, but I preferred
to stay at home; but late in the evening I did not dare to go into the
hall alone, so Dora went with me. Father had locked the door into the
drawing-room, where Mother was laid out, but all the same it was awfully
creepy. They did not call me on the 24th until after Mother was dead; I
should have so liked to see her once more. Good God, why should one die?
If only I had been called Berta after her; but she did not wish that
either of us should be called after her, nor did Father wish it in
Oswald’s case.

May 19th. When Mother was buried, one thing made me frightfully angry
with Dora, at least not really angry but hurt, that _she_ should have
gone into church and come out of church with Father. For _I_ have always
gone with Father and Dora has always gone with Mother. And while poor
Mother was in hospital, Dora went with Aunt. But at the funeral Father
went with her, and I had to go with Aunt Dora. A few days later I spoke
to her about it, and she said it was quite natural because she is the
elder. She said that Oswald ought to have gone with me, that that would
have been the proper thing. But he went alone. Another thing that annoys
me is this; when Aunt Dora came here in the autumn, Dora and I sat on
the same side of the table at dinner and supper, and Aunt sat opposite
Mother, and when Mother took to her bed her place was left vacant. After
she died Oswald sat on the fourth side, and now for about a week Dora
has been sitting in Mother’s place. I can’t understand how Father can
allow it!

May 19th. At dinner to-day no one could eat anything. For we had breast
of veal, and we had had the same thing on the day of poor Mother’s
funeral, and when the joint was brought in I happened to look at Dora
and saw that she was quite red and was sobbing frightfully. Then I could
not contain myself any more and said: “I can’t eat any breast of veal,
for on Mother’s burial day -- -- --,” then I could not say any more, and
Father stood up and came round to me, and Dora and Aunt Dora burst out
crying too. And after dinner Aunt promised us that we should never have
breast of veal again. For tea, Aunt Dora ordered an Ulm cake because we
had eaten hardly anything at dinner.

May 26th. To-day is the first day of Dora’s written matriculation.
Father wanted her to withdraw because she looks so ill, but she would
not for she said it would be a distraction for her and that she would
like to finish with the High School. Next year she is to go to a
preparatory school for the Gymnasium. She ought really to go to a
dancing class, for she is nearly 17, but since she is in mourning it is
quite impossible and of course she does not want to go anyhow. The head
thought too that Dora would withdraw from the examination because she
is so overwrought, but she did not want to withdraw. The staff were so
awfully sweet to us after Mother’s death, at least the women teachers
were. The professors don’t bother themselves about our private concerns,
for they only see us for 1 or 2 hours a week. Frau Doktor Steiner, from
whom we don’t have any lessons this year, was awfully sympathetic; I saw
plainly that she had tears in her eyes, and Frau Doktor M. was an angel
as she always is! We did not go to the spring festival on May 20th,
though Father said we could go if we liked. Hella and Anneliese were
awfully anxious that I should go; but I would not, and indeed I shall
never go to any more amusements. No doubt the others enjoyed themselves
immensely, but for Dora and me it would have been horrible. In the
evenings I often fancy to myself that it is not really true, that Mother
has simply gone to Franzensbad and will be back soon. And then I cry
until my head aches or until Dora says: “Oh Gretel, I do wish you’d
stop, it’s awful.” She often cries herself, I can hear her quite well,
but _I_ never say anything.

June 4th. So Dora looks upon Mother’s death as _a sign of God’s
displeasure against Father!_ But what could _we_ have done to prevent
it? She said, Oh, yes, we did a lot of things we ought not to have done,
and above all we had secrets from Mother. That is why God has punished
us. It’s horrible, and now that she is always speaking of the eye of God
and the finger of God it makes me so terribly afraid to go into a dark
room, because I always feel there is some one there who is eying me and
wants to seize me.

June 8th. Father is in a frightful rage with Dora; yesterday evening,
when I opened the drawing-room door and there was Father coming out,
quite unintentionally I gave a yell, and when Father asked what was the
matter I told him about God’s displeasure; only I did not tell him
it was against him, but only against Dora and me. And then Father was
frightfully angry for the first time since Mother’s death, and he told
Dora she was not to upset me with her ill-conditioned fancies, and Dora
nearly had an attack of palpitation so that the doctor had to be sent
for. Aunt came to sleep in our room and we both had to take bromide.
To-day Father was awfully kind to us and said: “Girls, you’ve no reason
to reproach yourselves, you have always been good children, and I hope
you always will be good.” Yes, I will be, for Mother’s eye watches over
us. Hella thinks I look very poorly, and she asked me to-day whether
perhaps . . . . ?? But I told her that I would not talk about such
things any more, that it would be an offence to my Mother’s memory. She
wanted to say something more, but I said: “No, Hella, I simply won’t
talk about _that_ any more. You can’t understand, because your mother is
still alive.”

June 12th. It is awful; just when I did not want to think any more
about _such_ things, there comes an affair of that very sort! I’m in a
frightful mess through no fault of my own. Just after 9 to-day a girl
from the Second came in to our Mathematic lesson and said: “The head
mistress wishes to see Lainer, Bruckner, and Franke in the office
directly.” All the girls looked at us, but we did not know why. When we
came into the office, the door of the head’s room was shut and Fraulein
N. told us to wait. Then the head came out and called me in. Inside a
lady was sitting, and she looked at me through a lorgnon. “Do you spend
much time with Zerkwitz?” asked the head. “Yes, said I,” and I had a
foreboding. “This lady is Zerkwitz’s mother, she complains that you talk
about very improper things with her daughter; is it so?” “Hella and I
never wanted to tell her anything; but she begged us to again and again,
and besides we thought she really knew it anyhow and only pretended she
didn’t.” “_What_ did you think she knew, and what did you talk to her
about?” broke in Anneliese’s mother. “Excuse me,” said the head, “I will
examine the girls; so Bruckner was concerned in the matter too?” “Very
seldom,” said I; “Yes, the chief offender is Lainer, _the girl whose
mother died recently_.” Then I choked down my tears, and said: “We
should never have said a word about these matters unless Anneliese had
kept on at us.” After that I would not answer any more questions. Then
Hella was called in. She told me afterwards that she knew what was
up directly she saw my face. “What have you been talking about to
Zerkwitz?” Hella would not say at first, but then she said in as few
words as possible: “About getting babies, and about being married!”
 “Gracious goodness, such little brats, and to talk about _such_ things,”
 said Anneliese’s mother. “Such corrupt minds.” “We did not believe
that Anneliese did not _really_ know, or we should never have told
her anything,” said Hella just as I had; she was simply splendid. “As
regards Alfred, we have nothing to do with that, and we have often
advised her not to allow him to meet her coming home from school; but
she would not listen to us.” “I am talking about your conversations
with which you have corrupted the poor innocent child,” said Frau von
Zerkwitz. “She certainly must have known something about it before, or
she would not have gone with Alfred or wanted to talk about it with us,”
 said Hella. “Heavenly Father, that is worse still; such corruptness
of mind!” Then we were sent out of the room. Outside, Hella cried
frightfully, and so did I, for we were afraid there would be a row at
home. We could not go back into the Mathematic lesson because we had
been crying such a lot. In the interval Hella walked past Anneliese and
said out loud: “Traitress!!” and spat at her. For that she was ordered
out of the ranks. I stepped out of the ranks too, and when Frau
Professor Kreindl said: “Not you, Lainer, you go on,” I said: “Excuse
me, I spat at her _too_,” and went and stood beside Hella. All the girls
looked at us. It was plain that Frau Prof. Kreindl knew all about it
already for she did not say any more. In the German lesson from 11 to 12
Frau Doktor M. said: “Girls, why can’t you keep the peace together? This
continual misconduct is really too bad, and serves only to make trouble
for you and for your parents and for us.” Just before 12 Hella and
I were summoned to the head’s room again. “Girls,” she said, “it’s
a horrible business this. Even if your own imaginations have been
prematurely poisoned, why should you try to corrupt others? As for
you, Lainer, you ought to be especially ashamed of yourself that such
complaints should be made of you when your mother has been buried only
a few weeks.” “Excuse me,” said Hella, “all this happened in the spring,
and even earlier, in the winter, for we were still skating at the time.
Rita’s mother was pretty well then. Besides, Zerkwitz was continually
pestering us to tell her. I often warned Rita, and said: ‘Don’t
trust her,’ but she was quite infatuated with Zerkwitz. Please, Frau
Direktorin, don’t say anything about it to Rita’s father, for he would
be frightfully upset.”

Hella was simply splendid, I shall never forget. She does not want me to
write that; we are writing together. Hella thinks we must write it all
down word for word, for one never can tell what use it may be. No one
ever had a friend like Hella, and she is so brave and clever. “You are
just as clever,” she says, “but you get so easily overawed, and besides
you are still quite nervous because of your mother’s death. I only hope
your father won’t hear anything about it.” That stupid idiot dug up the
old story about the two students on the ice, a thing that was over and
done with ages ago. “You should never trust anyone,” says Hella, and
she’s perfectly right. I never could have believed Anneliese would be
such a sneak. We don’t know yet what was up with Franke. As she came in
she put her finger to her lips, meaning of course “Betray nothing!”

June 15th. The school inspector came to-day. I was at the blackboard in
the Maths lesson, when there was a knock at the door and the head came
in with the Herr Insp. For a moment I thought he had come about _that
matter_, and I went as white as a sheet (at least the girls say I
did; Hella says I looked like Niobe mourning for her children). Thank
goodness, the sum was an easy one, and besides I can always do sums; in
Maths and French I am the best in the class. But the Herr Insp. saw that
I had tears in my eyes and said something to the head; then the head
said: “She has recently lost her mother.” Then the Herr Insp. praised
me, and like a stupid idiot I must needs begin to howl. The head said:
“It’s all right L., sit down,” and stroked my hair. She is so awfully
sweet, and I do hope that she and Frau Doktor M. will say a word for me
at the Staff Meeting. And I do hope that Father won’t hear anything of
it, for of course he would reproach me dreadfully because it all comes
so soon after Mother’s death. But really it all happened long before
that. The way it all happened was that Hella’s mother went away to see
Emmy, her married niece, who was _having her first baby_. And then it
was that we told the “innocent child” (that’s what we call the deceitful
cat) everything. Hella still thinks that the “innocent child” was a
humbug. That is quite likely, for after all she is nearly fourteen; and
at 14 one must _surely_ know a great deal already; it’s impossible
that at that age a girl can continue to believe in the stork story, as
Anneliese is said!!! to have done. Hella thinks that I shall soon be
“developed” too, because I always have such black rings under my eyes. I
overheard Frau von Zerkwitz say, “Little brats;” but Hella says that
the head _hemmed loudly to drown it_. Afterwards Hella was in fits of
laughter over the expression “little brats” for her mother always says
about _such_ things; _Little brats_ like you have no concern with such
matters. Good Lord, when is one to learn all about it if one does not
know when one is nearly 14! As a matter of fact both Hella and I learned
these things _very early_, and it has not done us any harm. Hella’s
mother always says that if one learns such things too early one gets to
look old; but of course that’s nonsense. But why do mothers not want us
to know? I suppose they’re just ashamed.

June 16th. Yesterday evening after we had gone to bed, Dora said: “What
were you really talking about to Z., or whatever her name is? The head
called me into the office to-day and told me that you had been talking
of improper matters. She said I must watch over you in _Mother’s
place!_” Well that would be a fine thing! Besides, it all happened when
Mother was still alive. A mother never knows what children are talking
of together. Dora thinks that I shall have a written Reprimand from the
Staff Meeting. I should hate that because of Father; that would mean
another fearful row; although Father is really awfully sweet now; I have
not had a single rowing since Mother first got ill. It’s quite true that
death makes people gentle, but why? Really one would have thought people
would get disagreeable, because they’ve been so much distressed. Last
week the tombstone was put up and we all went to see it. I should like
to go alone to the cemetery once at least, for one does not like to weep
before the others.

June 18th. The “innocent child” does not come to gym. any longer, at
least she has not been since _that affair_. We think she’s afraid,
although we should not say anything to her. We punish her with _silent
contempt_, she’ll _feel_ that _more than anything_. And thank goodness
she does not come to play tennis. I do hate people who are _deceitful_,
for one never knows where to have them. When a girl tells an outright
cram, then I can at least say to her: Oh, clear out, don’t tell such a
frightful whacker; I was not born yesterday. But one has no safeguard
against _deceitfulness_. That’s why I don’t like cats. We have another
name for the “innocent child,” we call her the “red cat.” I think she
knows. Day after tomorrow is the school outing to Carnuntum. I am so
excited. We have to be at the quay at half past 7.

June 21st. The outing was lovely. Hella was to come and fetch me. But
she overslept herself, so her mother took a taxi; and luckily I had
waited for her. I should like to be always driving in a taxi. Dora would
not wait, and went away at a quarter to 7 by electric car. At a quarter
to 8 Hella came in the taxi, and just before the ship weighed anchor (I
believe one ought only to say that of a sailing ship at sea, but it does
not matter, I’m not Marina who knows _everything_ about the navy), that
is just at the right moment, we arrived. They all stared at us when we
came rushing up in the taxi. I tumbled down as I got out of the car, it
was stupid; but I don’t think they all noticed it. Aunt Dora said that
for this one day we had better put off our mourning, and Father said so
too, so we wore our white embroidered frocks and Aunt Dora was awfully
good and had made us black sashes; it looked frightfully smart, and they
say that people wear mourning like that in America. I do love America,
the land of liberty. Boys (that is young students) and girls go to
school _together_ there!! -- -- -- But about the outing. In the boat we
sat next Frau Doktor M., she was awfully nice; Hella was on the right
and I was on the left, and we sat so close that she said: “Girls, you’re
squashing me, or at least you’re crushing my dress!” She was wearing a
white frock and had a coral necklace which suited her simply splendidly.
When we were near Hainburg Hella’s hat fell into the Danube, and all the
girls screamed because they thought a child had fallen overboard. But
thank goodness it was only the hat. We went up the Schlossberg and had a
lovely view, that is, _I_ did not look at anything except Frau Doktor
M. because she was so lovely; Professor Wilke was with us, and he went
about with her all the time. The girls say he will probably marry her,
perhaps in the holidays. Oh dear, _that_ would be horrid. Hella thinks
that is quite out of the question because of the German professor;
at any rate it would be better for her to marry Professor W. than the
other, because he is said to be a Jew. “Still, with regard to all the
things that hang upon marriage, it’s the same with every man,” said I.
“That’s just the chief point, you little goose,” said Hella. And Frau
Doktor M. said: “Do you allow your chum to talk to you like that? What
is the chief point?” I was just going to say: “We _can’t_ tell you
_that_,” when Hella interrupted me and said: “Just because I’m her chum
I can talk to her like that; she would not let anyone else do it.” Then
we went to dinner. Unfortunately we did not sit next “_her_.” We
had veal cutlets and four pieces of chocolate cake, and as the Herr
Religionsprof. went by he said: “How many weeks have you been fasting?”
 Before dinner we went to the museum to see the things they had dug up in
the Roman camp. The head mistress and Fraulein V. explained everything.
It was most instructive. In the afternoon we went to Deutsch-Altenburg.
It was great fun at tea. Then we had games and all the staff joined in,
the Fifth had got up a comedy by one of the girls. We were all in fits
of laughter. Then suddenly there came along a whole troop of officers
of the flying corps, frightfully smart, and one of them sat down at the
piano and began to play dance music. Another came up to the head and
begged her to allow the “young ladies” to dance. The head did not want
to at first, but all the girls of the Fifth and Sixth begged her to,
and the Herr Rel. Prof. said: “Oh, Frau Direktorin, let them have the
innocent pleasure,” and so they really were allowed to dance. The rest
of us either danced with one another or looked on. And then, when Hella
and I were standing right in front, up came a splendid lieutenant and
said: “May I venture to separate the two friends for a little dance?”
 “If you please,” said I, and sailed off with him. To dance with a
lieutenant is glorious. Then the same lieutenant danced with Hella and
in the evening on the way home she said that the lieutenant had really
wanted to dance with her first, but I had been so prompt with my “If
you please” and had placed my hand on his shoulder. Of course that’s
not true, but it is not a thing one would quarrel about with one’s best
friend, and anyhow he danced with both of us. Unfortunately we were
not able to dance very long because we got so hot. Oh, and I had almost
forgotten, a captain with a black moustache saluted Frau Doktor M., for
they know one another. She blushed furiously; so he is probably the man
she will marry, and not Herr Prof. Wilke and not the Jewish professor.
He would please me a great deal better. They were all so awfully smart!
Before we left a lieutenant brought in a huge bunch of roses, and the
officers gave a rose to each member of the staff, the ladies I mean.
Then something awfully funny happened. There is a girl in the Sixth who
looks quite old, as if she might be 24, and “our” lieutenant offered her
a rose too. And then she said: “No thank you, I am not one of the
staff, I’m in the Sixth.” Everyone burst out laughing, and she was quite
abashed because the lieutenant had taken her for one of the staff. And
the Herr Rel. Prof. said to her: “Tschapperl, you might just as well
have taken it.” But really she was quite right to refuse. I think there
must have been 20 officers at least. Of course Hella told the lieutenant
that she was a colonel’s daughter. I wonder if we shall ever see him
again.

I am writing this four days after the outing. Dora told me yesterday
that when I was dancing with the lieutenant the Herr Rel. Prof. said to
the Frau Direktorin: “Do just look at that young Lainer; little rogue,
see what eyes she’s making.” Making eyes, forsooth! I did not make eyes,
besides, what does it mean anyhow to make eyes!! Of course I did not
shut my eyes; if I had I should probably have fallen down, and then
everyone would have laughed. And I don’t like being laughed at. I hardly
saw Dora all through the outing, and she did not dance. She said very
cuttingly: “Of course not, for after all we _are_ in mourning, even if
we did wear white dresses; you are only a child, for whom that sort of
thing does not matter.” _That sort of thing_, as if I had done something
dreadful! I don’t love Mother any the less, and I don’t forget her.
Father was quite different; the day before yesterday evening he said:
“So my little witch has made a conquest; you’re beginning early. But
it’s no good taking up with an officer, little witch, they’re too
expensive.” But I would like to have the lieutenant, I would go up
with him in an aeroplane, up, up, till we both got quite giddy. In the
religion lesson yesterday, when the Herr Prof. came in he laughed like
anything and said: “Hullo, Lainer, is the world still spinning round
you? The Herr Leutnant has not been able to sleep since.” So I suppose
he knows him. Still, I’m quite sure that he has not lost his sleep on my
account, though very likely he said so. If I only knew what his name is,
perhaps Leo or Romeo; yes, Romeo, that would suit him admirably!

June 26th. When I was writing hard yesterday Aunt Alma came with Marina
and that jackanapes Erwin who was really responsible for all the row
that time. Since Mother died we have been meeting again. I don’t think
Mother liked Aunt Alma much, nor she her. Just as Father and Aunt Dora
are not particularly fond of one another. It is so in most families, the
father does not care much for the mother’s brothers and sisters and vice
versa. I wonder why? I wonder whether _He_ has a fiancee, probably he
has, and what she looks like. I wish I knew whether He likes brown hair
or fair hair or black hair best. But about the visit! Of course Marina
and I were _very_ standoffish. She is so frightfully conceited because
she goes to the Training College. As if that were something magnificent!
The High School is much more important, for from the High School one
goes on to the university, but not from the Training College; and they
don’t learn English, nor French properly, for it is only optional. Aunt
Alma knows that it annoys Father when anyone says we don’t look well, so
she said: “Why, Dora looks quite overworked; thank goodness it’s nearly
over, and she won’t get much out of it after all, it’s really better for
a girl to become a teacher.” Erwin lounged in his chair and said to me:
“Do you dare me to spit on the carpet?” “You are ill-bred enough to do
it; I can’t think why Marina, the future schoolmistress, does not give
you a good smacking,” said I. Then Aunt Alma chimed in: “What’s the
matter children? What game are you playing?” “It’s not a game at all;
Erwin wants to spit on the carpet and he seems to think that would be
all right.” Then Aunt said something to him in Italian, and he pulled
a long nose at me behind Father’s back, but I simply ignored it; little
pig, and yet he’s my cousin! Kamillo is supposed to have been just as
impudent as Bub. But we have never seen him, for he has been in Japan as
an ensign for the last two years. Mourning does not suit Marina at all;
there’s a provincial look about her and she can’t shake it off. Her
clothes are too long and she has not got a trace of b--, although she
was 17 last September; she is disgustingly thin.

June 27th. The Herr Insp. came to our class to-day, in French this time.
Frau Doktor Dunker is always frightfully excited by his visits, and at
the beginning of the lesson she said: “Girls, the Inspector is coming
to-day; pull yourselves together; please don’t leave me in the lurch.”
 So it must be true what Oswald always says that the inspectors come to
inspect the teachers and not the pupils. “At the inspection,” Oswald
often says, “every pupil has the professor in his hands.” Being
first, of course I was called upon, and I simply could not think what
“trotteur” meant. I would not say “Trottel” [idiot], and so I said
nothing at all. Then Anneliese turned round and whispered it to me, but
of course I was not going to say it after her, but remained speechless
as an owl. At length the Herr Inspektor said: “Translate the sentence
right to the end, and then you’ll grasp its meaning.” But I can’t see
the sense of that; for if I don’t know one of the words the sentence has
no meaning, or at least not the meaning it ought to have. If Hella had
not been absent to-day because of -- --, she might have been able to
whisper it to me. Afterwards Frau Doktor Dunker reproached me, saying
that no one could ever trust anyone, and that I really did not deserve
a One. “And the stupidest thing of all was that you laughed when you did
not know a simple word like that.” Of course I could not tell her that
my first thought had been to translate it “Trottel.” Unseen translation
is really too difficult for us.

June 28th. The Staff Meeting is to-day. I’m on tenter hooks to know
whether I shall have a Reprimand, or a bad conduct mark in my report.
That would be awful. It does not matter so much to Hella, for her father
has just gone away to manoeuvres in Hungary or in Bosnia, and by
the time he is back the holidays will have begun and no one will be
bothering about reports any more. So I shall know to-morrow. Oh bother,
to-morrow is a holiday and next day is Sunday. So for another 2 1/2 days
I shall have “to linger in suspense,” but a different sort of suspense
from what Goethe wrote about.

June 30th. We were at home yesterday and this afternoon because of
Dora’s matriculation. The Bruckners went to Breitenstein to visit an
aunt, who is in a convalescent home, and so I could not go with them.
In the evening we went to Turkenschanz Park to supper, but there was
nothing on. By the way, I have not written anything yet about the
“innocent child” at the outing. On the boat she began fussing round
Hella and me and wanted to push into the conversation, indirectly of
course! But she did not succeed; Hella is extraordinarily clever in such
matters; she simply seemed to look through her Really I’m a little sorry
for her, for she hasn’t any close friends beyond ourselves; but Hella
said: “Haven’t you had enough of it yet? Do you want to be cooked once
more with the same sauce?” And when Hella’s hat fell into the water and
we were still looking after it in fits of laughter, all of a sudden
we found Anneliese standing behind us offering Hella a fine lace shawl
which she had brought with her for the evening because she so readily
gets earache. “Wouldn’t you like to use this shawl, so that you
won’t have to go back to Vienna without a hat?” “Please don’t trouble
yourself, I’m quite used to going about bare-headed.” But the _way_ she
said it, like a queen! I _must_ learn it from her. She is really shorter
than I am, but at such moments she looks just like a grownup lady. I
told her as much, and she rejoined: “Darling Rita, you can’t _learn_ a
thing like that; it’s _inborn_.” She rather annoyed me, for she always
seems to think that an officer’s daughter is a thing apart.

July 1st. Thank goodness, everything has passed off without a public
scandal. Frau Doktor M. spoke to me in the corridor, saying: “Lainer,
you’ve had a narrow escape. If certain voices had not been raised on
your behalf, I really don’t know -- -- --.” Then I said: “I’m quite
certain, Frau Doktor, that you alone have saved me from a Bad Conduct
Mark.” And I kissed her hand. “Get along, you little baggage, for
the one part simply a child, and for the other with your head full of
thoughts which grown-ups would do well to dispense with.”

After all, one can’t help one’s _thoughts_, and we shall be more careful
in future as to the persons to whom we talk about _that sort of thing_.
Here’s another thing I forgot to mention about the outing: When we got
back into Vienna by rail, most of the parents came to meet us at the
station; Father was there too, and so was the “innocent child’s” mother.
Thank goodness Father did not know her. When we got out of the train
there was a great scrimmage, because we were all trying to sort
ourselves to our parents, and suddenly I heard Hella’s voice: “No,
Madam, your child is not in our bad company.” I turned round sharply,
and there was Hella standing in front of Frau von Zerkwitz who had just
asked her: “Hullo, _you_, what has become of my little Anneliese?” The
answer was splendid; I should never have been able to hit upon it; I
always think of good repartees after the event. It was just the same
that time when the old gentleman in the theatre asked Hella if she was
alone there, and she snapped at him. He said: Impudent as a Jewess,
or an impudent Jewess! It was too absurd, for first of all it’s not
impudent to make a clever repartee, and secondly it does not follow
because one can do it that one is a Jewess. So Hella finished up by
saying to him: “No, you’ve made a mistake, you are not speaking to one
of your own sort.”

We break up on the 6th; but because of Dora’s matriculation we are
staying here until the 11th. Then we are going to Fieberbrunn in Tyrol,
and this year we shall stay in a hotel, so I am awfully pleased. Hella
had a splendid time there last year.

July 2nd. My goodness, to-day I have . . . ., no, I can’t write it plain
out. In the middle of the Physics lesson, during revision, when I was
not thinking of anything in particular, Fraulein N. came in with a paper
to be signed. As we all stood up I thought to myself: Hullo, what’s
that? And then it suddenly occurred to me: Aha!! In the interval Hella
asked me why I had got so fiery red in the Physics lesson, if I’d
had some sweets with me. I did not want to tell her the real reason
directly, and so I said: “Oh no, I had nearly fallen asleep from
boredom, and when Fraulein N. came in it gave me a start.” On the way
home I was very silent, and I walked so slowly (for of course one must
not walk fast _when_ . . . ) that Hella said: “Look here, what’s up
to-day, that you are so frightfully solemn? Have you fallen in love
without my knowing it, or is it _at long last_ . . . .?” Then I said
“_Or is it at long last!_” And she said: “Ah, then now we’re equals once
more,” and there in the middle of the street she gave me a kiss. Just
at that moment two students went by and one of them said: “Give me one
too.” And Hella said: “Yes, I’ll give you one on the cheek which will
burn.” So they hurried away. We really had no use for them: to-day!!
Hella wanted me to tell her _everything about it_; but really I hadn’t
anything to tell, and yet she believed that I _wouldn’t_ tell. It is
really very unpleasant, and this evening I shall have to take frightful
care because of Dora. But I must tell Aunt because I want a San-- T--.
It will be frightfully awkward. It was different in Hella’s case, first
of all because she had such frightful cramps before it began so that her
mother knew all about it without being told, and secondly because it was
her _mother_. I certainly shan’t tell Dora whatever happens, for that
would make me feel still more ashamed. As for a San-- T--, I shall never
be able to buy one for myself even if I live to be 80. And it would be
awful for Father to know about it. I wonder whether men really do know;
I suppose they must know about their wives, but at any rate they can’t
know anything about their daughters.

July 3rd. Dora does know after all. For I switched off the light
_before_ I undressed, and then Dora snapped at me: “What on earth are
you up to, switch it on again directly.” “No I won’t.” Then she came
over and wanted to switch it on herself; “Oh do please wait until I’ve
got into bed.” “O-o-h, is that it,” said Dora, “why didn’t you say so
before? I’ve always hidden my things from you, and you haven’t got any
yet.” And then we talked for quite a long time, and she told me that
Mother had commissioned her to tell me everything _when_ -- -- -- Mother
had told her all about it, but she said it was better for one girl to
tell it to another, because that was least awkward. Mother knew too
that in January Hella had . . . But how? I never let on! It was midnight
before we switched off the light.

July 6th. Oh, I am so unhappy, when we went to get our reports to-day
and said good-bye to Frau Doktor M., she was awfully sweet, and at
the end she said: “I hope that you won’t give too much trouble to my
successor.” At first we did not understand, for we thought she only
meant that it is always uncertain whether the same member of the staff
will keep the same class from year to year, but then she said: “I am
leaving the school because I am going to be married.” It gave me such a
pang, and I said: “Oh, is it true?” “Yes, Lainer, it’s quite true.” And
all the girls thronged round her and wanted to kiss her hand. No one
spoke for a moment, and then Hella said: “Frau Doktor, may I ask you
something? But you mustn’t be angry!” “All right, ask away!” “Is it the
captain we met in Carnuntum?” She was quite puzzled for a minute, and
then she laughed like anything and said, “No, Bruckner, it is not he,
for he has a wife already.” And Gilly, who is not so frightfully fond of
her as Hella and I are, said: “Frau Doktor, please tell us whom you
are going to marry.” “There’s no secret about it, I am going to marry a
professor in Heidelberg.” That is why she has to leave the High School.
It’s simply ruined my holidays. Hella has such lovely ideas. The girls
would not leave Frau Doktor alone, and they all wanted to walk home with
her. Then she said: “My darling girls, that’s impossible, for I am going
to Purkersdorf to see my parents.” And then Hella had her splendid
idea. The others said: “Please may we come with you as far as the
metropolitan?” and at length she said they might. But Hella said, “Come
along,” and we hurried off to the metropolitan before them and took
tickets to Hutteldorf so that we should be able to get back in plenty of
time, and there we were waiting on the platform when she came and when
all the girls came with her as far as the entrance. Then we rushed up
to her and got into the train which came in at that moment. Of course we
had second class tickets, for Hella, being an officer’s daughter, mayn’t
travel third, and Frau Doktor M. always travels second too. And we all
three sat together on a seat for two, though it was frightfully hot.
She was so nice to us; I begged her to give us her photograph and she
promised to send us one. Then, alas, we got to Hutteldorf. “Now, girls,
you must get out.” Then we both burst out crying, and she _kissed us!_
Never shall I forget that blessed moment and that heavenly ride! As long
as the train was still in sight we both waved our handkerchiefs to her
and she _waved back!_ When we wanted to give up our tickets Hella looked
everywhere for her purse and could not find it; she must have left it in
the ticket office. Luckily I still had all my July pocket money and so I
was able to pay the excess fare, and then for once in a way _I_ was the
sharp-witted one; I said we had travelled third and had only passed
out through the second, so we had not to pay so much; and no one knew
anything about it, there’s no harm in that sort of cheating. Of course
we really did go back third, although Hella said it would spoil the
memory for her. That sort of thing does not matter to me. We did not
get home until a quarter past 1, and Aunt Dora gave me a tremendous
scolding. I said I had been arranging books in the library for Frau
Doktor, but Dora had enquired at the High School at 12, and there had
been no one there. We had already gone away then, I said, and had gone
part of the way with Frau Doktor M., for she was leaving because of
her marriage. Then Dora was quite astonished and said: “Ah, now I
understand.” The other day when she had to go into the room while the
staff meeting was on, the staff was talking about an engagement, and
Fraulein Thim was saying: “Not everyone has the luck to get a university
professor.” That must have been about _her_. Certainly Thim won’t get
one, not even a school porter. To-day, (I’ve been writing this up for
two days), I had such a delightful surprise; _she_ sent me her photo,
simply heavenly!! Father says the portrait is better looking than the
reality. Nothing of the sort, she is perfectly beautiful, with her
lovely eyes and her spiritual expression! Of course she has sent Hella
a photo too. We are going to have pocket leather cases made for the
photographs, so that we can take them with us wherever we go. But we
shall have to wait until after the holidays because Hella has lost her
money, and nearly all mine was used up in paying the excess fares.
And such a leather case will cost 3 crowns. Father has some untearable
transparent envelopes, and I shall ask him for two of them. They will do
as a makeshift.

Dora’s matriculation is to-morrow, she’s quite nervous about it although
she is very well up in all the subjects. But she says it’s so easy to
make mistakes. But Father is quite unconcerned, though last year he was
very much bothered about Oswald, and poor dear Mother was frightfully
anxious: “Pooh,” said Oswald, “I shall soon show them that there’s no
need to bother; all one wants at the metric is _cheek_, that’s the whole
secret!” And then all he telegraphed was “durch” [through] and
poor Mother was still very anxious, and thought that it might mean
_durchgefallen_ [failed]. But of course it really meant _durchgekommen_
[passed], for meanwhile the second telegram had come. And father had
brought two bottles of champagne to Rodaun, ready to celebrate Oswald’s
return. There won’t be anything of the sort after Dora’s matriculation
because Mother is not with us any more; oh it does make me so miserable
when I think that 2 1/2 months ago she was still alive, and now -- -- --.

July 9th. This morning, while Dora was having her exam (she passed with
Distinction), I went to the cemetery quite alone. I told Aunt Dora I was
going shopping with Hella and her mother, and I told Hella I was going
with Aunt, and so I took the tram to Potzleinsdorf and then walked to
the cemetery. People always ought to go to the cemetery alone. There
was no one in the place but me. I did not dare to stay long, for I
was afraid I should be home late. It’s a frightfully long way to
Potzleinsdorf, and it always seems so much further when one is alone.
And when I came away from the cemetery I took a wrong turning and found
myself in a quite deserted street near the Turkenschanze. That sort of
thing is very awkward, and for a long time there was simply no one of
whom I could ask the way. Then by good luck an old lady came along, and
she told me I had only to take the next turning to get back to the tram
line. And just as I did get there a Potzleinsdorf car came along, so
I got in and reached home long before Dora. But in the afternoon Hella
nearly gave me away, quite unintentionally. But since they were all
talking about the matriculation I was able to smooth it over. Now that
Dora has finished her matriculation she will have to tell me a great
deal more about _certain things_; she promised she would. Before the
matriculation she was always so tired because of the frightful grind,
but that is over now, and I never do any work in the holidays. What
are holidays for? Frau Doktor Dunker has really given me only a
Satisfactory, it’s awfully mean of her; and I shall have to learn from
_her_ for three years more! Nothing will induce me to bother myself
about French now, for she has a down on me, and when one’s teacher has a
down on one, one can work as hard as one likes and it’s no good. It was
so different with Frau Doktor M.!! I have just been looking at her photo
so long that my eyes are positively burning; but I had to write up about
to-day: even when one had been stupid once or twice, she never cast it
up against one, never, never, never -- -- the sweet angel!

July 10th. We are going to F. to-morrow; I am so glad. It is frightfully
dull to-day, for Hella went away yesterday to Berchtesgaden where she
is to stay for 6 weeks, and on the way back she is going to Salzburg and
perhaps Aunt Dora will take me to Salzburg for 2 days so that we can see
one another again before Hella goes to Hungary. She is lucky! I can’t go
to K-- M-- this year, for we are going to stay in F. till the middle of
September. I got my name day presents to-day because they are things for
the journey: a black travelling satchel with a black leather belt, and
half a dozen mourning handkerchiefs with a narrow black border, and
an outfit for pokerwork, and a huge bag of sweets for the journey from
Hella. The world is a wretched place without Hella. I do hope we shall
marry on the same day, for Mother always used to say: “The most ardent
_girl_ friendships are always broken up when one of the two marries.” I
suppose because the other one is annoyed because she has not married.
I wonder what it will be like at Frau Doktor M.’s wedding! and I wonder
whether she knows about _everything_; very likely not, but if not I
suppose her mother will tell her all about it before she is married.
Dora told me yesterday that Mother had once said to her: “A girl always
gets all sorts of false ideas into her head; the reality is quite
different.” But that is not so in our case, for we really know
everything quite precisely, even to the fact that you have to take off
every stitch; oh dear, I shall never forget it!--Oswald is coming to F.
on the 20th, for first he is going to Munich for a few days.

July 12th. It’s lovely here; mountains and mountains all round, and
we’re going to climb them all; oh, how I am enjoying myself! I simply
can’t keep a diary; it will have to be a weekary. For I must write to
Hella at least every other day. We are staying in the Edelweiss boarding
house; there are about 40 visitors, at least that’s what we counted at
dinner. There is a visitors’ list hanging up in the hall, and I must
study it thoroughly. The journey was rather dull, for Dora had a
frightful headache so we could not talk all through the night. I stood
in the corridor half the night. At one place in Salzburg there was a
frightful fire; no one was putting it out, so I suppose no one knew
anything about it. The boarding house is beautifully furnished, carpets
everywhere; there are several groups of statuary in the hall. We are
awfully pleased with everything. There are 4 courses at dinner and two
at supper. Flowers on every table. Father says we must wait and see
whether they change them often enough. Father has a new tweed suit which
becomes him splendidly for he is so tall and aristocratic looking. We
have coats and skirts made of thin black cotton material and black lace
blouses, and we also have white coats and skirts and white blouses,
and light grey tweed dresses as well. For Father is really quite right:
“Mourning is in your _heart_, not in your _dress_.” Still, for the
present, we shall wear black, but we have the white things in case it
gets frightfully hot. To-day, on a cliff quite near the house, we picked
a great nosegay of Alpine roses. Dora has brought Mother’s photo with
her and has put the flowers in front of it; unluckily I forgot to bring
mine. I should like to go to the top of the Wildeck or one of the other
mountains. It would be lovely to pick Edelweiss for oneself. But Father
says that mountaineering is not suited to our ages. The baths here
always seem very cold, only about 54 or 60 degrees at most. Dr. Klein
said we should only bathe when the water is quite warm. But apparently
that won’t be often. We have not made any acquaintances yet, but I like
the look of the two girls wearing Bosnian blouses at the second table
from ours. Perhaps we shall get to know them. One plan has come to
nothing. I wanted to talk to Dora in the evenings about all sorts of
_important_ things, but it is impossible because Aunt Dora shares our
room. Here’s another tiresome thing; Father’s room has a lovely veranda
looking on to the promenade, while our room only looks into the garden.
Of course the view is lovely, but I should have liked Father’s room much
better, only it is a great deal too small for three persons; there is
only one bed and its furniture is of a very ancient order. I do hate
that sort of furniture; the lady who keeps the boarding house calls it
_Empire!!_ I don’t suppose she can ever have seen a room furnished in
real Empire style.

July 15th. When Dora and I were out for a walk yesterday she told me
a great deal about Aunt Dora. I never really knew before whether Uncle
Richard was employed in the asylum or whether he was a patient there;
but he is a patient. He has spinal disease and is quite off his head
and often has attacks of raving madness. Once before he was sent to the
asylum he tried to throttle Aunt Dora, and _in another respect_ he did
her a _frightful lot of harm!!!_ I don’t quite understand how, for Aunt
Dora has never had any children. And why on earth do they make such a
secret about Uncle Richard? But when I come to think of it, no one ever
wanted to talk about Mother’s illness. There’s no sense in this secrecy,
for in the first place that always makes one think about things, and
secondly one always finds out in the long run. At last Aunt Dora was so
terribly afraid of Uncle that she always kept the door of her bedroom
locked. It must be awful to have a husband who is a raging maniac.
Father once said to Dora: your Aunt Dora is enough to drive one mad with
her whims and fancies. Of course he didn’t mean that literally, but I
must watch carefully to find out what Aunt really does to annoy anyone
so much. Most likely it is something connected with _this matter_. To my
mind Aunt Alma has many more whims and fancies, and yet Uncle Franz has
never gone raving mad. Dora says that Uncle Richard may go on living
for another 20 years, and that she is frightfully sorry for Aunt Dora
because she is tied to such a monster. Why tied? After all, he is in
an asylum and can’t do her any harm. Dora didn’t know about all this
before, Aunt only told her after Mother’s death. Dora thinks it is
better not to marry at all, unless one is _madly in love_ with a man.
And then only by a _marriage contract!!_ In that case _that_ would be
excluded. But I always imagined a marriage contract was made because
of a dowry and money affairs generally; and never thought of its having
_such_ a purpose. Frau Mayer, whom we met in the summer holidays two
years ago, had married under such conditions. But it puzzles me, for if
_that_ is what men chiefly want when they marry, I don’t see how any
man can be satisfied with a marriage contract. There must be a mistake
somewhere. Perhaps it is different among the Jews, for the Mayers were
Jews.

July 21st. No, I never should have thought that Hella would prove
to have been right in that matter. I got a letter 8 pages long from
Anneliese to-day. That time when Hella had to stay at home for five days
she believed that Anneliese would make fresh advances. But obviously she
was afraid. So now she has written to me: My own dear Rita! You are the
only friend of my life; wherever I go, all the girls and everybody likes
me, and only you have turned away from me in anger. What harm did I do
you -- -- --? After all, she did do me some harm; for there might have
been a fine row if it had not been for Frau Doktor M., that angel in
human form! She writes she is so lonely and so unhappy; she is with her
mother at the Gratsch Hydropathic near Meran or Bozen, I forget which, I
must look it up _if_ I answer her. For I gave my word of honour to Hella
that I would never forgive the “innocent child.” But after all, to
write an answer is mere ordinary politeness, and is far from meaning
a reconciliation, and still less a friendship. She says that there are
absolutely no girls in Gratsch, only grown-up ladies and old gentlemen,
the youngest is 32! brr, I know I should find it deplorably dull myself.
So I really will write to her, but I shall be exceedingly reserved. She
finishes up with: Listen to the prayer of an unhappy girl and do not
harden your heart against one who has always loved you truly. That is
really very fine, and Anneliese always wrote the best compositions; Frau
Doktor M. used often to praise them and to speak of her excellent style,
but later she really did not like her at all. She often told her she
ought not to be so affected, or she would lose the power of expression
from sheer affectation. I shall not write to her immediately, but only
after a few days, and, as I said, with _great_ reserve.

July 23rd. I got to know the two girls to-day, their names are Olga and
Nelly, one is 15 and the other 13; I don’t know their surname yet, but
only that they have a leather goods business in Mariahilferstr. Their
mother’s hair is quite grey already, their father is not coming
until August 8th. We have arranged to go for a walk at 4 o’clock this
afternoon, to Brennfelden.

July 26th. I have made up my mind to write every day before dinner,
for after dinner we all go with our hammocks into the wood. After all
I wrote to Anneliese three days ago, without waiting, so as not to
keep her on tenterhooks. I have not written anything to Hella about it
because I don’t know how Anneliese will answer. Hella says she is having
a royal time in Innichen; but the tiresome thing does not say just
what she means by royal; she wrote only a bare 3 sides including the
signature so of course I did not write to her as much as usual.

July 27th. Dora is not very much taken with the Weiners; she thinks they
are frightfully stuck up. She says it’s not the proper thing to wear
gold bracelets and chains in the country, above all with peasant
costume. Of course she is right, but still I like the two girls very
much, and especially Olga, the younger one; Nelly puts on such airs;
they go to a high school too, the Hietzinger High School; but Olga has
only just got into the Second while Nelly is in the Fifth. Dora says
they will never set the Danube on fire. No matter, leave it to others to
do that. We enjoyed ourselves immensely on our walk. I’m going to spend
the whole day with them to-day. Father says: “Don’t see too much of
them; you’ll only get tired of them too soon.” I don’t believe that will
happen with the Weiners.

July 29th. It’s my birthday to-morrow. I wonder what my presents will
be. I’ve already had one of them before we left Vienna, 3 pairs of
openwork stockings, Aunt Dora gave them to me, exquisitely fine, and my
feet look so elegant in them. But I must take frightful care of them and
not wear them too often. Aunt says: “Perhaps now you will learn to give
up pulling at your stockings when you are doing your lessons.” As if I
would do any lessons in the holidays.



LAST HALF-YEAR, AGE FOURTEEN AND A HALF


LAST HALF-YEAR


July 30th. Thank goodness this is my 14th!!! birthday; Olga thought that
I was 16 or at least 15; but I said: No thank you; to _look_ like 16 is
_quite_ agreeable to me, but I should not like to _be_ 16, for after
all how long is one young, only 2 or 3 years at most. But as to feeling
different, as Hella said she did, I really can’t notice anything of the
kind; I am merely delighted that no one, not even Dora, can now call me
a _child_. I do detest the word “child,” except when Mother used to say:
“My darling child,” but then it meant something quite different. I like
Mother’s ring best of all my birthday presents; I shall wear it for
always and always. When I was going to cry, Father said so sweetly:
“Don’t cry, Gretel, you must not cry on your 14th!! birthday, that would
be a fine beginning of _grown-upness!_” Besides the ring, Father gave me
a lovely black pearl necklace which suits me perfectly, and is at the
same time so cool; then Theodor Storm’s _Immensee_, from Aunt Dora the
black openwork stockings and long black silk gloves, and from Dora a
dark grey leather wristband for my watch. But I shan’t wear that until
we are back in Vienna and I am going to school again. Grandfather and
Grandmother sent fruit as usual, but nothing has come from Oswald. He
can’t possibly have forgotten. I suppose his present will come later.
Father also gave me a box of delicious sweets. At dinner Aunt Dora had
ordered my favourite chocolate cream cake, and every one said: Hullo,
why have we got a Sunday dish on a weekday? And then it came out that it
was my birthday, and the Weiner girls, who knew it already, told most of
the other guests and nearly everyone came to wish me many happy returns.
Olga and Nelly had done so in the morning, and had given me a huge
nosegay of wild flowers and another of cut flowers. This afternoon we
are all going to Flagg; it is lovely there.

Evening: I must write some more. We could not have the expedition,
because there was a frightful thunderstorm from 2 to 4 o’clock. But
we enjoyed ourselves immensely. And I had another adventure: As I was
leaving the dining-room in order to go to the . . . ., I heard a voice
say: May I wish you a happy birthday, Fraulein? I turned round, and
there behind me stood the enormously tall fair-haired student, whom I
have been noticing for the last three days. “Thank you very much, it’s
awfully kind of you,” said I, and wanted to pass on, for I really had to
go. But he began speaking again, and said: “I suppose that’s only a
joke about your being 14. Surely you are 16 to-day?” “I am both glad and
sorry to say that I am not, said I, but after all everyone is as old
as he seems. Please excuse me, I really must go to my room,” said I
hurriedly, and bolted, for otherwise -- -- -- --!! I hope he did not
suspect the truth. I must write about it to Hella, it will make
her laugh. She sent me a lovely little jewel box with a view of
Berchtesgaden packed with my favourite sweets, filled with brandy. In
her letter she complains of the “shortness of my last letter.” I must
write her a long letter to-morrow. At supper I noticed for the first
time where “Balder” sits; that’s what I call him because of his lovely
golden hair, and because I don’t know his real name. He is with an old
gentleman and an old lady and a younger lady whose hair is like his, but
she can’t possibly be his sister for she is much too old.

July 31st. The family is called Scharrer von Arneck, and the father is
a retired member of the Board of Mines. The young lady is really his
sister, and she is a teacher at the middle school in Brunn. I found all
this out from the housemaid. But I went about it in a very cunning way,
I did not want to ask straight out, and so I said: Can you tell me
who that white-haired old gentleman is, he is so awfully like my
Grandfather. (I have never see my Grandfather, for Father’s Father has
been dead 12 or 15 years, and Mother’s Father does not live in Vienna
but in Berlin.) Then Luise answered: “Ah, Fraulein, I expect you mean
Herr Oberbergrat Sch., von Sch. But I expect Fraulein’s Grandfather is
not quite so grumpy.” I said: “Is he so frightfully grumpy then?” And
she answered: “I should think so; we must all jump at the word go or
it’s all up with us!” And then one word led to another, and she told
me all she knew; the daughter is 32 already, her name is Hulda and her
father won’t let her marry, and the _young gentleman_ has left home
because his father pestered him so. He is a student in Prague, and only
comes home for the holidays. It all sounds very melancholy, and yet they
look perfectly happy except the daughter. By the way, it’s horrid for
the Weiners; Olga is 13 and Nelly actually 15, and their mother is once
more -- -- -- -- I mean their mother is in an i-- c--. They are both in
a frightful rage, and Nelly said to me to-day: “It’s a perfect scandal;”
 they find it so awkward going about with their mother. I can’t say I’d
noticed anything myself; but they say it has really been obvious for a
long time; “_the happy event!!_ will take place in October,” said Olga.
It really must be very disagreeable, and I took a dislike to Frau W.
from the first. I simply can’t understand how such a thing can happen
when people are so old. I’m awfully sorry for the two Weiner girls.
Something of the same sort must have happened in the case of the Schs.,
for Luise has told me that the young gentleman is 21 and his sister not
32 but 35, she had made a mistake; so she is 14 years older, appalling.
I’m awfully sorry for her because her father won’t let her marry, or
rather would not let her marry. I’m sure Father would never refuse if
either of us wanted to marry. I have written all this to Hella; I miss
her dreadfully, for after all the Weiner girls are only strangers, and I
could _never_ tell my secrets to Dora, though we are quite on good terms
now. Oswald is coming to-morrow.

August 1st. A young man has a fine time of it. He comes and goes when he
likes and where he likes. A telegram arrived from Oswald to-day,
saying he was not coming till the middle of August: Konigsee, Watzmann,
glorious tramp. Letter follows. Father did not say much, but I fancy
he’s very much annoyed. Especially just now, after poor Mother’s death,
Oswald might just as well come home. Last year he was so long away
after matriculation, quite alone, and now it’s the same this year. One
pleasure after another like that is really not the thing when one’s
Mother has been dead only three months. The day after we came here and
before we had got to know anyone, I went out quite early, at half past
8, and went alone to the cemetery. It is on the slope of the mountain
and some of the tombstones are frightfully old, in many cases one can’t
decipher the inscriptions; there was one of 1798 in Roman figures. I sat
on a little bank thinking about poor Mother and all the unhappiness,
and I cried so terribly that I had to bathe my eyes lest anyone should
notice it. I was horribly annoyed to-day. A letter came from Aunt Alma,
she wants to come here, we are to look for rooms for her, to see if we
can find anything suitable, Aunt Alma always means by that very cheap,
but above all it must be in a private house; of course, for a boarding
house would be far too dear for them. I do hope we shan’t find
_anything_ suitable, we really did not find anything to-day, for a storm
was threatening and we did not go far. I do so hope we shall have no
better success to-morrow; for I really could not stand having Marina
here, she is such a spy. Thank goodness Aunt Dora and Dora are both very
much against their coming. But Father said: That won’t do girls, she’s
your aunt, and you must look for rooms for her. All right, we can _look
for them_; but seeking and finding are two very different things.

August 2nd. This morning we went out early to look for the rooms, and
since Dora always makes a point of finding what’s wanted, she managed
to hunt up 2 rooms and a kitchen, though they are only in a farm. The
summer visitors who were staying there had to go back suddenly to Vienna
because their grandmother died, and so the rooms are to let very cheap.
Dora wrote to Aunt directly, and she said that we shall all be delighted
to see them, which is a downright lie. However, I wrote a P.S. in which
I sent love to them all, and said that the journey was scandalously
expensive; perhaps that may choke them off a bit. Owing to this silly
running about looking for rooms I saw nothing of the Weiners yesterday
afternoon or this morning, and of course nothing of God Balder either.
And at dinner we can’t see the Scharrers’ table because they have a
table in the bay window, for they have come here every year for the last
9 years. I’m absolutely tired out, but there’s something I must write.
This afternoon the Weiners and we went up to Kreindl’s, and Siegfried
Sch. came with us, for he knows the Weiners, who have been here every
year for the last 3 years. He talked chiefly to Dora, and that annoyed
me frightfully. So I said not a word, but walked well behind the others.
On the way home he came up to me and said: “I say, Fraulein Grete, are
you always so reserved? Your eyes seem to contradict the idea.” I said:
“It all depends on my mood, and above all I hate forcing myself on any
one.” “Could you not change places at table with your mother?” “In the
first place, she is not my Mother, who died on April 24th, but my Aunt,
and in the second place, why do you say that to _me_, you had better
say it to my sister!” “Don’t be jealous! There’s no reason for _that_.
I can’t help talking to your sister when we’re in company; but I can
assure you that you have no occasion whatever to be jealous.” I wish
I knew how I could manage that change of places, but I always sit
next Father; anyhow I would not do it directly; next week at soonest.
Farewell, my Hero Siegfried, sleep sweetly and dream of -- --.

August 3rd, Anneliese wrote to me: “You heart of gold, so you are able
to forgive my sins of youth? The world shines with a new light since I
received your letter.” I don’t know that my letter was so forgiving as
all that, for all I said was that I was very sorry she was so lonely in
Gratsch, and that we could not alter the past, so we had better bury
it. She sends me a belated birthday greeting (last winter we told one
another when our birthdays were), and she sends me a great pressed
forget-me-not. She waited to answer until it had been pressed. I don’t
know quite what I had better do. Big Siegfried could no doubt give me
very good advice, but I can’t very well tell him the whole story, for
then I should have to tell him why we quarrelled, and that would be
awful. I had better write to Hella before I answer. I must write to-day,
for it will be quite three days before I can get an answer, and then
1 or two days more before Anneliese gets the letter, so that will be 5
days at least. It is raining in torrents, so it is very dull, for
Father won’t let us sit in the hall alone; I can’t think why. Generally
speaking Father’s awfully kind, quite different from other fathers, but
this is really disgusting of him. I shall lie down on the sofa after
dinner and read _Immensee_, for I’ve not had a chance before.

August 6th. Well, the whole tribe arrived to-day; Marina in a dust-grey
coat and skirt that fits her abominably, and Erwin and Ferdinand;
Ferdinand is going through the artillery course in Vienna, at the
Neustadt military academy; he’s the most presentable of the lot. Uncle
was in a frightful temper, growling about the journey and about the
handbaggage, I think they must have had 8 or 10 packages, at least I
had to carry a heavy travelling rug and Dora a handbag of which she
said that it contained the accumulated rubbish of 10 years. Aunt Alma’s
appearance was enough to give one fits, a tweed dress kilted up so
high that one saw her brown stockings as she walked, and a hat like a
scarecrow’s. When I think how awfully well dressed _Mother_ always was,
and how nice she always looked; of course Mother was at least 20 years
younger than Aunt Alma, but even if Mother had lived to be 80 she would
never have looked like _that_. Thank goodness, on the way from the
station we did not meet any one, and above all we did not meet _him_.
For once in a way they all came to dinner at our boarding house. We
had two tables put together, and I seized the opportunity to change my
place, for I offered Aunt Alma the place next Father and seated myself
beside the lovely Marina, exactly opposite -- -- --! Anyway, Marina
looked quite nice at dinner, for her white blouse suits her very well,
and she has a lovely complexion, so white, with just a touch of pink in
the cheeks. But that is her only beauty. The way she does her hair is
hideous, parted and brushed quite smooth, with two pigtails. I’ve given
them up long ago, though everyone said they suited me very well. But
“snails” suit me a great deal better. _He_ looked across at me the whole
time, and Aunt Alma said: “Grete is blossoming out, I hope there’s not
a man in the case already.” “Oh no,” said Father, “country air does her
such a lot of good, and when I take the children away for a change I
don’t forbid any innocent pleasures.” My darling Father, I had to keep a
tight hand on myself so as not to kiss him then and there. They were
all so prim, with their eyes glued to their plates as if they had never
eaten rum pudding before. It is true that Ferdinand winked at Marina,
but of course she noticed nothing. They soon put away their first helps,
and they all took a second, and then they went on talking. When we went
to our rooms I knocked at Father’s door and gave him the promised kiss
and said: “You really are a jewel of a Father.” “Well, will you, if you
please, be a jewel of a daughter, and keep the peace with Marina and
the others?” I said: “Oh dear, I simply can’t stand her, she’s such a
humbug!” “Oh well,” said Father, “it may be a pity, but you know one
can’t choose one’s parents and one’s relations.” “I would not have
chosen any different parents, for we could not have found another Father
and another Mother like you.” Then Father lifted me right up into the
air as if I had still been a little girl, saying: “You are a little
treasure,” and we kissed one another heartily. I really do like Father
better than anyone in the world; for the way I like Hella is quite
different, she is my friend, and Dora is my sister; and I like Aunt Dora
too, and Oswald _if_ I ever see him again.

August 8th. Oh, I am so furious! To-day I got a postcard from Hella,
with nothing on it but “Follow your own bent, with best wishes, your
M.” When we write postcards we always use a cipher which no one else can
understand, so that M. means H. It’s a good thing no one can understand
it. Of course I wrote to Anneliese directly, and was most affectionate,
and I sent a postcard to Hella, in our cipher, with nothing more than:
Have done so, with best wishes, W. Not even _your_ W. I do wonder what
she will do. Hero Siegfried was lying with us to-day in the hayfield,
and what he said was lovely. But I can’t agree that all fathers _without
exception_ are tyrants. I said: “_My_ Father isn’t!” He rejoined: “Not
_yet_, but you will find out in time. However, anyone with a character
of his own won’t allow himself to be suppressed. I simply broke with my
Old Man and left home; there are other technical schools besides the one
in Brunn. And since you say not _all_ fathers; well just look at Hulda;
whenever anyone fell in love with her the Old Man marred her chance, for
no one can stand such tutelage.” “Tutelage, what do you mean,” said I,
but just at that moment everyone got up to go away. To-morrow perhaps,
poor persecuted man.

August 9th. Oh dear, it’s horrible if it’s all really true what Hella
writes about being infected; an eruption all over the body, that is the
most horrible thing in the world. I must tear up her letter directly,
and since she could not write 8 whole pages in our cipher, I must
_absolutely destroy_ it, so that no one can get hold of a fragment of
it. Above all now that Marina is here, for you never can tell -- -- --.
But I know what I’ll do; I’ll copy the letter here, even if it takes 2
or 3 days. She writes:

Darling Rita, what did you say when you got yesterday’s postcard. If you
were angry, you must make it up with me. Consort with whom you please
and write to whom you please; but all the _consequences_ be on your
own head. Father always says: Beware of red hair! And I insist that the
“innocent child” has _foxy red_ hair. But you can think what you like.

Now I’ve got something much more important to tell you. But you must
promise me dirst that you will tear up my letter directly you have read
it. Otherwise please send it back to me _un_read.

Just fancy. Here in B. there is a young married woman living with her
mother and her cousin, a girl who is studying medicine; they are Poles
and I have always had an enthusiastic admiration for the Poles. The
young wife has got a divorce from her husband, for she was _infected_ by
him on the _wedding night_. Of course you remember what being _infected_
is. But really it is something quite different from what we imagined.
Because of _that_ she got a frightful eruption all over her body and her
face, and most likely all her hair will fall out; is it not frightful?
Her cousin, the medical student, who is apparently very poor, is there
to _nurse_ her. Our servant Rosa told me about it, she heard of it from
the housemaid where they have rooms. As you know, one can’t talk to
Lizzi about anything of that kind, and so I did not learn any more;
but the other day, when I went to buy some picture postcards, I met the
three ladies. The young wife was wearing a very thick veil, so that one
could see nothing. They were sitting on a bench in the garden in front
of their house, and I bowed in passing, on the way back. They bowed, and
smiled in a friendly way. In the afternoon I had to lie down, for I was
feeling very bad because of . . . .!! Then I suddenly heard some people
talking on the veranda just outside my window--the veranda runs all
round the house. At first I saw shadows passing, and then they sat down
outside. I recognised the soft voice of the Polish student directly,
and I heard her say to the wife of the mayor of J.: “Yes, my unfortunate
cousin’s experience has been a terrible one; that is because people sell
girls like merchandise, without asking them, and without their having
the least idea what they are in for.” I got up at once and sat down
close to the window behind the curtain so that I could hear everything.
The mayor’s wife said: “Yes, it’s horrible what one has to go through
when one is married. _My_ husband is not one of that sort but -- -- --”
 And then I could not understand what she went on to say I overheard
this conversation on Thursday. But that’s not all I have to tell you. Of
course my first thought was, if only I could have a talk with her; for
she spoke about _enlightenment_ and although we are both of us already
_very much enlightened_, still, as a medical student, she must know a
great deal more than we do, so that we can learn from her. And since she
said that girls ought not to be allowed to _run blindly into marriage_,
I thought she would probably tell me a little if I went cautiously to
work. There was a word which she and the mayor’s wife used more than
once, _segsual_ and I don’t know what it means, and I’m sure you
don’t know either, darling Rita. She said something about _segsual
intimacies_; of course when people talk about _intimacies_, one knows
it has a meaning, but what on earth does segsual mean? It must mean
something, since it is used with _intimacy_. Well, let me get on. On
Saturday there was a party, and the medical student came, and I left my
Alpine Songs lying on the piano, and somebody picked it up and turned
over the pages, and the word went round that the person to whom it
belonged must sing something. At first I did not let on, but went out
for a moment, and then came back saying: “I’m looking for my music book,
I left it lying about somewhere.” There was a general shout, and everyone
said: “We’ve agreed that the person to whom that book belongs has got to
sing.” Now I knew that Fraulein Karwinska had accompanied the singing on
such evenings before. So I said: “I shall be delighted to sing, provided
Fraulein K. will accompany me, For you gentlemen play too loud for my
voice.” Great laughter, but I had got what I wanted. We were introduced,
and I thought to myself: You will soon improve the acquaintance. On
Sunday for once in a way I got up quite early, at half past 6, for
Fraulein K. can only go out walking early in the morning since she
spends the whole day with her cousin. She sits near the Luisenquelle,
so I went there with a book, and as soon as she came I jumped up, said
“good-morning,” and went on: “I’m afraid I’ve taken possession of _your_
bench.” “Not at all,” she said, “Do you study on Sundays?” “Oh no, this
is only light reading,” I answered, and I made haste to sit on the book,
for in my hurry I had not noticed what it was. But luck was with me. She
sat down beside me and said: “What is it you are reading that you hide
so anxiously? I suppose it’s something that your mother must not know
about.” “Oh no,” said I, “we have not brought any such books to the
country with us.” “I take it that means that you do manage to get them
when you are in town?” “Goodness me, one must try and learn a little
about _life_; and since no one will ever tell one anything, one looks
about for oneself to see if one can find anything in a book.” “In the
encyclopedia, I suppose?” “No, that’s no good, for one can’t always find
the truth there.” She burst out laughing and said: “What sort of truth
do you want?” “I think you can imagine very well what sort of things I
want to know.” Of course one can speak more plainly to a medical student
than one can to other girls, and she was not in the least disgusted or
angry but said: “Yes, it’s the same struggle everywhere.” Then I made use
of your favourite phrase and said: “Struggle, what do you mean? What I
really want to know about is being infected.” Then she flushed up and
said: “Who’s been talking to you about that? It seems to me that the
whole town is chattering about my unhappy cousin. You must see that _I_
can’t tell you that.” But I answered: “If you don’t, who will? _You_
study medicine, and are seeing and talking about such things all day.”
 “No, no, my dear _child_ (you can imagine how furious that made me), you
are still much too young for _that sort of thing_.” What do you think
of that, we are too young at 14 1/2, it’s utterly absurd. I expect that
really her studies have not gone very far, and she would not admit it.
Anyhow, I stood up, and said: “I must not disturb you any longer,” and
bowed and went away; but I thought to myself: “A fig for her and her
_studies_; fine sort of a doctor _she_‘ll make!” What do you think
about it all? We shall still have to trust to the encyclopedia, and
after all a lot of what we can learn there is all right, and luckily we
know most things except the word segsual. Next winter I expect we shall
find it easier than we used to to get to the bookcase in your house. I
don’t bow to the silly idiot any more.

But darling Rita, with regard to the “innocent child,” I don’t want to
influence you in any way, and I shan’t be angry with you for preferring
an _unworthy_ person to me!!! Faithless though you are, I send you half
a million kisses, your ever faithful friend, H. P.S. I have been 4 days
writing this letter; tear it up, _whatever_ you do!!!

Now that I have copied the letter, I really can’t see why Hella wants me
to tear it up. There’s nothing so very dreadful in it. But there is one
thing I shan’t be able to do for Hella, to help her in looking up things
in the encyclopedia. I think I should always feel that Mother would
suddenly come in and stand behind us. No, I simply can’t do it.

August 13th. Through that stupid copying I have been prevented writing
about _my own_ affairs, although they are far more important. Last
Wednesday the Society for the Preservation of Natural Beauties had
arranged a great excursion to Inner-Lahn in breaks. Dora did not want
to go at first, but Father said that if it would give _us_ pleasure,
he would very much like to go with us, and Mother would be only too
delighted to see that we were enjoying something once more. And two days
before the excursion Dora finally decided that she would like to go;
I knew why at once; she thought that by that time all the places would
have been taken, and that we should have been told: Very sorry, no more
room. But luckily she had made a _great_ mistake. For the secretary
said: With pleasure; how many places shall I reserve? and so we said:
7; namely, Father, Dora, and I, Aunt Alma (unfortunately), Marina (very
unfortunately), and the two boys (no less unfortunately). “That will
need an extra conveyance,” replied the secretary, and we thought we
should make a family party. But it was not so: Next Dora sat a gentleman
whom I had seen once or twice before, and he paid her a tremendous
amount of attention. Besides that there were 2 strange gentlemen,
Frau Bang and her 2 daughters and her son, who is not quite all there;
opposite was Hero Siegfried, a young lady who is I believe going on the
stage, the two Weiner girls and their Mother (notwithstanding!!!), then
I, and afterwards Marina, Father, Aunt Alma, and the two boys opposite.
I don’t know who made up the other break-loads. At 6 in the morning we
all met outside the school, for the schoolmaster acted as our guide.
I did not know before that he has two daughters and a son who has
matriculated this year. First of all they held a great review, and the
gentlemen fortified themselves with a nip and so did some of the ladies;
I did not, for I hate the way in which a liqueur burns one’s throat so
that every one, at any rate girls and ladies, make such faces when they
are drinking, that is why I never drink liqueur. I did not care much
about the drive out, for it was very cold and windy, most of us had red
noses and blue lips; I kept on biting my lips to keep them red, for one
looks simply hideous when one’s lips are white or blue, I noticed
that in Dora when we were skating last winter. Father went only on our
account, and Aunt Dora stayed at home so that Aunt Alma could go. Marina
wears “snails” now, the sight of her is enough to give one fits. Dora
gets on with her quite well, which is more than I can say for myself.
Only when we got out aid I notice that Siegfried’s sister, Fraulein
Hulda, had been sitting next the aspiring actress. She is awfully nice,
and many, many years ago she must have been very pretty; she has such
soft brown eyes, and her hair is the same colour as her brother’s; but
he has glorious blue eyes, which get quite black when he is angry, as he
was when he was talking about his father. I should tremble before him
in his wrath. He is so tall that I only come up to his shoulder. Father
calls him the red tapeworm; but that’s really not fair. He is very broad
but so thin. In Unter-Toifen we stopped for breakfast, eating the
food we had brought with us; about half an hour; then the schoolmaster
hurried us all away, for we had quite 10 miles to walk. The two boys
made a party with other boys, and we five girls, we 2, the 2 Weiners,
and Marina, led the way. Aunt Alma walked with a clergyman’s wife from
Hildesheim, or whatever it was called, and with the schoolmaster’s wife.
It was _awfully_ dull at first, so that I began to be sorry that I
had begged Father to let us go. But after we had gone a few miles the
schoolmaster’s son and three bright young fellows came along and walked
with us. Then we had such fun that we could hardly walk for laughing,
and the elders had continually to drive us on. Marina was quite
unrestrained, I could never have believed that she could be so jolly.
One of the schoolmaster’s daughters fell down, and some one pulled her
out of the brook into which she had slid because she was laughing so
much. I really don’t know what time we got to Inner-Lahn, for we were
enjoying ourselves so much. Dinner had been ordered ready for us, and we
were all frantically hungry. We laughed without stopping, for we had all
sat down just as we had come in, although Aunt Alma did not want us to
at first. But she was outvoted. I was _especially pleased_ to show Hero
Siegfried that I could amuse myself very well without him, for he had
frozen on to the aspiring actress, or she had frozen on to him--I don’t
know which, or at least I did not know _then!_ Since we were sitting all
mixed up everyone had to pay for himself, and Father said next day we
had spent a perfect fortune; but that was not in the hotel, it happened
later, when we were buying mementoes. And I think Dora gave Marina 3
crowns, so that she could buy some things too. But Dora never lets on
about anything of that sort. I must say I like her character better and
better; in those ways she is very like Mother. Well, our purchases were
all packed into two or three rucksacks, and were kept for a raffle in
Unter-Toifen on the way back. I must have spent at least 7 crowns, for
Father had given each of us 5 crowns before we started, and I still had
a lot of my August pocket money left, and now I’ve got only 40 hellers.
After we had had dinner and bought the things we lay about in the forest
or walked about in couples. I had curled myself up for a nap when some
one came up behind me, and when I sat up this _someone_ put his hands
over my eyes and said: “The Mountain Spirit.” And I recognised _his_
hands _instantly_, and said: “Hero Siegfried!” Then he laughed like
anything and sat down beside me and said: “You were enjoying yourself
so much this morning that you had not even a glance to spare for me.”
 “Contrariwise (I’ve got that from Dora), I never foist myself on anyone,
and never _hang around anyone’s neck_.” Then he wanted to put his arm
round my waist (and probably, most probably, he would have kissed me),
but I sprang to my feet and called Dora or rather Thea, for before the
gentlemen we pretend that we never call one another anything but Thea
and Rita. Father says that that is awfully silly, and no longer suitable
for Dora (but of course it was alright for me!), but we keep to our
arrangement. Then he raised my hand to his lips and said: “Don’t call!”
 But Dora came up, and with her the gentleman with the pincenez, who is
a doctor of law belonging to the District Court of Innsbruck, and Marina
and one of the young men, and I asked, “I say, when _are_ we going to
have tea?” “Just fancy, she is hungry again already,” they all said,
and laughed like anything. And Dora looked _frightfully_ happy. She was
wearing an edelweiss buttonhole which she had not been wearing before;
in the evening she told me that Dr. P. had given it her. If possible he
is even taller than Hero Siegfried, for Dora is taller than I am and her
head only comes up to his ear. At 3 o’clock the last party came up to
the belvedere, we had got there earlier. The view was lovely. But I must
say I can enjoy a fine view much better when I am alone, that is with
Father or quite a few persons; it is no good when there’s such a crowd;
each additional person seems to take something more away. In a lovely
place and at the cemetery one must be alone. For a beautiful view
usually makes one feel frightfully sad, and one ought not to have been
laughing so much just before, or laugh directly afterwards. If I were
alone in Inner-Lahn I’m sure I should become melancholy, for it is so
gloriously beautiful there.

At 4 o’clock, after tea, we started back, for the schoolmaster thought
the descent would not take more than two hours and a half, but we needed
more than three. For we were all very tired, and a great many of them
had sore feet, especially Aunt Alma! We had said before, that it would
be too much for Aunt; but she had to come with us to take care of
Marina, though Marina enjoyed herself _extremely_ with a Herr Furtner,
who is studying mining like Oswald, not in Leoben but in Germany. One
does not really find out what a girl is like until one sees how she
behaves with a man, or what she is like when one talks to her about
_certain things_; as for the last, of course that’s impossible with
Marina _since the experience_ we had. But anyhow she is nicer than
one would have thought at first sight. It was lovely on the way home.
Driving back from Unter-Toifen we sat quite differently.

In our break, instead of the Weiners, there were three students from
Munich, they were awfully nice, and we sang all the songs we knew;
especially “Hoch vom Dachstein, wo der Aar nur haust,” and “Forelle”
 and “Wo mein Schatz ist,” were lovely, and the people in two different
breaks sang together. And then some of them sang some Alpine songs and
yodelled till the hills echoed. Two or three of the men in the third
break were rather tipsy and _Hero Siegfried!!_ was one of them. Aunt
Alma had a frightful headache; it was utterly idiotic for her to come,
and we did not know yet what was still to happen. At every house from
which a girl had come there was a serenade. And next evening there was
to be a great raffle of the mementoes we had bought, but Father would
not let us go to that.

August 14th. It is desperately dull. I don’t know what on earth to do,
so I am writing my diary. Besides, I have not written about the row yet.
The next afternoon Aunt Alma came just as we were going out and said to
Father: Ernst, please let me have a word with you. Now we all know Aunt
Alma’s _let me have a word with you_. In plain language it means: I’m
going to make a scene. She began: “Ernst, you know I never like these
big parties with a lot of strangers, for no good can come of them.
Still, I made up my mind to go for the sake of the children, and chiefly
for the sake of _your motherless_ children. (Nobody asked her to; and
Aunt Dora had to stay at home on her account.) Do you know what sort of
people were in our company? That impudent young student whom Gretel is
always running after (did you ever hear anything like it! I should like
to know when I ran after him; I suppose in the wood I put _my_ arm round
_his_ waist, and I suppose that it was _I_ who began the acquaintance
on my birthday) and that girl who’s training for the stage did not come
home after the excursion till the night was half over. God knows
where they were! They were certainly no _cleaner_ when they got home.
(Naturally, for where could they have had a wash.) His father gave the
young blackguard a fine talking to, but of course the girl’s mother
takes her side. It would positively kill me to think of _my Marina doing
anything of the kind_.” Father was able to get a word in at last: “But
my dear Alma, what has all this to do with my girls? As far as I know
these two people weren’t in our break, isn’t that so girls?” I was glad
that Father turned to _us_, and I said: “Siegfried Sch. and the girl
drove in the fourth break, I saw them getting in. And it was toute meme
chause where he drove and with whom he was driving.” (Of course that’s
not true, but I said it was because of Aunt.) “Such language and such
a tone to your own Father!” Directly she said that Father was in such a
passion as I have never seen him in before. “My dear Alma, I really must
beg you not to interfere with _my_ educational methods, any more than
I ever attempt to interfere in _your_ affairs.” Father said this quite
quietly, but he was simply white with rage, and Dora told me afterwards
that I was quite white too, also from rage of course. Aunt Alma said:
“I don’t want to prophesy evil, but the future will show who is right
Goodbye.” As soon as she had gone Dora and I rushed to Father and said:
“Please Father, don’t be so frightfully angry; there’s no reason why you
should.” And Father was awfully sweet and said: “I know quite well that
I can trust you; you are my Berta’s children.” And then I simply could
not contain myself, and I said: “No, Father, I really did flirt with
Siegfried, and in the wood he put his arm round my waist; but I did not
let him kiss me, I give you my word I did not. And if you want me
to I’ll promise never to speak to him again.” And then Father said:
“Really, Gretel, you have plenty of time yet for such affairs, and
even if that _red-haired rascal_ plays the gallant with you, he is only
making himself a laughing-stock. And you don’t want that, do you, little
witch?” Then I threw my arms round Father and promised him _on my word
of honour_ that I would never speak to Siegfried again. For it really
distresses me very much that he should make himself ridiculous; and
that he should go out walking half the night with that girl; such
shamelessness!

We were so much upset that we did not go for a walk, and of course did
not go to the raffle. But I’m frightfully sorry about those things I
paid 7 crowns for. I do hope he did not win any of them.

August 15th. Just a few words more. Early this morning, as I was going
to breakfast, in the corridor I met S. (it’s a good thing that is the
initial both of his name and of Strick [rascal] as Father called him)
and he said: “Good morning, Fraulein Gretchen. Why weren’t you at the
raffle? Hadn’t you any share?”--“Oh yes, I had bought 7 crowns worth for
it, but I had no fancy for the company I should meet.” -- -- Why, what
has taken you all of a sudden? They were the same people as at the
excursion! -- -- -- “Precisely for that reason,” said I, and passed on.
I think I gave him what for, for he simply must have understood. Father
is really quite right, and it is not at all nice to abuse one’s parents
to strangers as he is always doing. I could not say a word against my
parents to anyone, although I’m often frightfully angry with them; of
course not about Mother, for she is dead. But not even about Father;
I would rather choke down the greatest injustice. For when we had that
trouble with Aunt Alma about Marina, I was really not in the least to
blame, but he scolded me so, even while Aunt Alma was there, so that I
can never forget it. But still, to a stranger, to some one whom I had
only just got to know, I would never say a word against anyone in our
family; though I used to get on so badly with Dora, I never said much
against her even to Hella; at most that she was deceitful, and that
really used to be so, though she seldom is now.

August 19th. It is so filthyly dull here; I can’t bear the word filthy,
but it’s the only one that’s strong enough. Oswald is coming this
evening, at last. Thank goodness. S. has made several _advances_, but I
have _ignored_ them. Let him stick to his actress who can go out walking
with him half the night. I really _should_ like to know where they
went. In the night, I never heard of such a thing! Dora says she took a
dislike to S. from the first because he -- -- -- -- -- it’s an absolute
lie! -- -- -- has clammy! hands. It’s simply not true, on the contrary
he has such entrancingly cool hands, I’m sure I must know that better
than Dora. But I’ve known for a long time that whenever anyone pays
_me_ attention Dora is _unsympathetic_, naturally enough. By the way, on
Sunday I got a charming letter from Anneliese. I must answer it to-day.

August 22nd. Oswald is awfully nice. He did not forget my birthday, but
he says that at that time he was stoney, in student’s slang that means
that he hadn’t any money, and then he could not find anything suitable,
but that he will repair the omission as soon as we get back to Vienna.
But I don’t know what I should like. Oswald is going to stay until
we all go back to Vienna, and we are making a few excursions _by
ourselves_. That is really the best way after all. I am not much with
the Weiners now, for we had a little tiff on the big excursion. But
Nelly is rather taken with Oswald, so she came twice to our table
to-day, once about a book we had lent her, and once to arrange for a
walk.

August 24th. It is really absurd that one’s own brother can think such
a lot of one; but if he does, I suppose he knows. Oswald said to
me to-day: “Gretl, you are so smart I could bite you. How you are
developing.” I said: “I don’t want anyone to bite me,” and he said: “Nor
do I,” but I was awfully delighted, though he is only my brother. He
can’t stand Marina, and as a man he finds Dora too stupid; I think he’s
right, really. And I simply can’t understand Dr. P., that he can always
find something to talk about to Dora. He has hardly said 10 words to me
yet. Still, I don’t care.

August 27th. We went up the Matscherkogel yesterday, and we had a lovely
view. The two boys came, for they had begged their father to let them;
but of course Aunt Alma and Marina did not come. Oswald calls Aunt Alma
_Angular Pincushion_, but only when Father isn’t there, for after all
she is Father’s sister. The Weiners wanted to come too, but I said
that my brother was staying only a few days more, and that this was a
“farewell excursion _en famille_.” They were rather hurt, but they have
made me very angry by the way in which they will go on talking about S.
in front of me, on purpose, saying that he is engaged or is going to
be engaged to the actress girl against his father’s will. What does
it matter to _me_? They keep on exchanging glances when they say that,
especially Olga, who is really rather stupid. I am so sad now at times
that I simply can’t understand how I could have enjoyed myself so much
on the big excursion. I’m always thinking of dear Mother, and I often
wear my black frock. It suits my mood better.

August 30th. I believe the Schs. are leaving to-morrow. At least the old
gentleman said to Father the day before yesterday: “Thank the Lord, we
shall soon be able to enjoy the comforts of home once more.” That is
what Hella’s grandmother used to say before they came back from the
country. And to-day I saw two great trunks standing in the passage just
outside Herr Scharrer’s room. Oswald thinks the old gentleman charming;
well, there’s no accounting for tastes. I don’t believe he’s ever
spoken to S., though he is a German Nationalist too, but of a different
section; Oswald belongs to the Sudmark, and S. abused that section
frightfully when I told him that Oswald belonged to the Sudmark.

August 31st. He has really gone to-day, that is, the whole family has
gone. They came to bid us goodbye yesterday after supper, and they left
this morning by the 9 o’clock train to Innsbruck. And his hands are not
clammy, I paid particular attention to the point; it is pure imagination
on Dora’s part. He and Oswald greeted one another with Hail! That’s a
splendid salutation, and I shall introduce it between Hella and me.

September 2nd. The Weiners left to-day too, because people are really
beginning to stare at their mother too much. When Olga said goodbye to
me she told me she hated having to travel with her mother and whenever
possible she would lag behind a little so that people should not know
they belonged together.

September 4th. I never heard of such a thing!! S. has come back, alone
of course. Everyone is indignant, for he has only come back because of
Fraulein A., the actress girl. But Oswald defends him like anything.
This afternoon Frau Lunda said to Aunt Dora: “It’s simply scandalous,
and his parents certainly ought not to have allowed him to come, even if
the girl’s mother does not know any better.” Then Oswald said: “Excuse
me, Frau Lunda, Scharrer is no longer a schoolboy who must cling to
his mother’s apron-string; such tutelage would really be unworthy of a
full-grown German.” I was so pleased that he gave a piece of his mind
to Frau L., for she is always glaring at one and is so frantically
inquisitive. And _tutelage_ is such an impressive word, S. used it once
when he was speaking of his sister and why she had never married. Frau
L. was furious. She turned to Aunt Dora and said: “Young men naturally
take one another’s part, until they are fathers themselves and then they
hold other views.”

September 8th. Thank goodness we are going home the day after to-morrow.
It really has been rather dull here, certainly I can’t join in the paean
Hella sang about the place last year; of course they were not staying in
the Edelweiss boarding house but in the Hotel Kaiser von Oesterreich.
It makes a lot of difference _where_ one is staying. By the way, it
has just occurred to me. The young wife who had the eruption after
_infection_ can’t have been divorced, as Hella wrote me the week before
last; for her husband has been there on a visit, he is an actor at the
Theatre Royal in Munich. So it would seem that actors really are all
_infected_; and Hella always says it is only officers! She takes rather
an exaggerated view.

September 14th. We have been back in Vienna since the 11th, but I have
been absolutely unable to write, though there was plenty to write about.
For the first person I met when I went out on the 11th to fetch
some cocoa which Resi had forgotten, was Lieutenant R. Viktor, _the
Conqueror!!_ Of course he recognised me immediately, and was awfully
friendly, and _walked with me a little way_. He asked casually after
Dora, but it is obvious that he is not in love with her any more. And
it was so funny that he should not know that Dora had matriculated this
year and so would not be going to the High School any more. I did not
tell him that she intends to go on with her studies, for it is not
absolutely settled yet.

September 16th. Hella came home yesterday; I am so glad; I greeted her
with: _Hail!_ but she said; “don’t be silly,” besides, it’s unsuitable
for an Austrian officer’s daughter!!! Still, we won’t quarrel about it
after 2 months’ separation, and _Servus_ is very smart too though not
so distinguished. She told me a tremendous lot more about that young
married woman; some of the ladies in B. said that her cousin was _in
love_ with the husband. That would be awful, for then she would get
infected too; but Hella says she did not notice anything, though she
watched very closely during the fortnight he was there. He sang at two
of the musical evenings, but she did not see any sign of it. Lizzi
is _engaged_, but Hella could not write anything about it, for the
engagement is only being officially announced now that they are back in
Vienna; her fiance is Baron G. He is an attache in London, and she met
him there. He is madly in love with her. In August he was on leave, and
he came to B. to make an offer of marriage; that is why they stayed the
whole summer in B. instead of going to Hungary. Those were the _special
circumstances_, about which Hella said she could not write to me. I don
t see why she could not have told me _that_, I should have kept it to
myself; and after all, Lizzi is 19 1/2 now, and no one would have been
surprised that she is engaged at last. They can’t have a great betrothal
party, for Baron G.’s father died in July. Hella is very much put out.
Lizzi says it does not matter a bit.

September 18th. Lizzi’s betrothal cards arrived to-day. It must be
glorious to send out betrothal cards. Dora got quite red with annoyance,
though she said when I asked her: “Why do you flush up so, surely
there’s no reason to be ashamed when anyone is _engaged!_” “Really, why
should you think I am ashamed, I am merely _extremely surprised_.” But
one does not get so red as _that_ from surprise.

September 19th. School began to-day; unfortunately, for _she_ has gone.
And what was the Third is now the Fourth, and that is detestable, to sit
in the classroom without _her_. Luckily we have Frau Doktor St. as class
mistress, and she is to teach us mathematics and physics once more;
Frau Doktor F., whom we used to call Nutling and the Fifth used to call
Waterfall has gone, for she has been appointed to the German High School
in Lemberg. For the time being we are sitting in our old place, but
Hella says we must ask Frau Doktor S. to let us have another seat, for
the memory of the three years when we had Frau Doktor M. might make us
inattentive. That is a splendid idea. In German we have a master, in
French I am sorry to say it’s still Frau Doktor Dunker, whose complexion
has not improved, and in English the head mistress. I am very pleased
with that, for first of all I like her very much, and secondly I shall
be in her good books from the start because Dora was her favourite. Of
course I’m not learning Latin, for it would not interest me now that
Frau Doktor M. has gone. Oh, and we have a new Religion teacher, for
Herr Professor K. has retired, since he was 60 already.

September 21st. We have managed it. In the long interval, Hella said to
Frau Doktor St., who was in charge. “Frau Doktor, may we venture to ask
for something?” So she said: “What, in the very first week; well, what
is it?” We said we should like to move from the third bench towards the
window, for we found it very painful to go on sitting where we had sat
when Frau Doktor M., was there. At first she refused, but after a while
she said: “I’ll see what I can do, if you are really not happy where
you are.” From 11 to 12 was the mathematic lesson, and as soon as Frau
Doktor Steiner had taken her place she said: “This arrangement of
your seats was only provisional. You had better sit more according to
height.” Then she rearranged us all, and Hella and I were moved to the
5th bench on the window side; the two twins, the Ehrenfelds got our
places; in front of us is Lohr and a new girl called Friederike Hammer
whose father is a confectioner in Mariahilferstrasse. We are awfully
glad that we have got away from that hateful third bench where _she_
used so often to stand near us and lay her hand on the desk.

September 29th. Professor Fritsch, the German professor, came to-day
for the first time. He is always clearing his throat and he wears gold
spectacles. Hella thinks him _tolerably_ nice, but I don’t. I’m quite
sure that I shall never get an Excellent in German again. Yesterday the
new Religion master came for the first time, and I sat alone, for Hella
being a Protestant did not attend. He looks frightfully ill and his eyes
are always lowered though he has burning black eyes. Next time I shall
sit beside Hammer which will be company for us both.

October 2nd. We had confession and communion to-day, and since the staff
will not allow us to choose our confessors, I had to go to Professor
Ruppy. I did hate it. I whispered so low that he had to tell me to speak
louder three times over. When I began about the sixth commandment he
covered his eyes with his hand. But thank goodness he did not ask any
questions about that. The only one of the staff who used to allow us to
choose our confessors was Frau Doktor M. Really, she did not allow
it directly but when one ran quickly to another confessional box, she
pretended not to notice. The Herr Rel. Prof gives frightfully long
penances; all the girls who went to him took a tremendous time to get
through. I do hope he won’t be so strict over his examinations or I
shall get an Unsatisfactory; that would be awful. October 3rd. Father
was so splendid to-day! Aunt Dora must have told him that I asked
her not long ago whether Father was likely to marry Frau Riedl, whose
husband died almost exactly the same time as Mother, for Father is
guardian to her three children. She was here to-day with Willi, because
he has just begun going to school. Dora and I talked it over, and
she said that if Father married Frau R., she would leave home. In the
evening when we were at supper, I said: “If only Frau v. R. was not
so ugly. Father, don’t you think she’s perfectly hideous? And Father
laughed so lovingly and said: You need not be anxious, little witch,
I’m not going to inflict a stepmother on you.” I was so glad, and so was
Dora and we kissed Father such a lot, and Dora said: “I felt sure that
you would never break your oath to Mother,” and she burst out crying.
And Father said: “No, girls, I did not give any promise to your Mother,
she would never have asked anything of the kind. But with grown girls
like you it would never do to bring a stepmother into the house.” And
then I told Father that Dora would have gone away from home, and as
for me, I should certainly have been frightfully upset. For _if_ Father
really wanted _to marry_ again _I_ should have to put up with it; and so
would Dora. But Father said once more: “Don’t worry, I certainly shan’t
marry again.” And I said: “Not even Aunt Dora?” And he said: “Oh, as
for her -- --” And then he pulled himself up and said: “No, no, not even
Aunt Dora.” Dora has just told me that I am a perfect idiot, for surely
I must know that Father is not particularly charmed by Aunt. And then
she blamed me for having told Father that she would leave home if he
were to marry again. _I am a child_ to whom it is impossible to entrust
any secrets!! Now we have been quarrelling for at least three quarters
of an hour, so it is already half past 11. Luckily to-morrow is a
holiday, because of the Emperor’s birthday. But I am so glad to know for
certain that Father is not going to marry Frau v. R I could never get on
with a stepmother.

October 9th. It’s horribly difficult in German this year. In composition
we are not allowed to make any rough notes, we have to write it straight
off and then _hand it in_. I simply can’t. Professor Fritsch is very
handsome, but the girls are terribly afraid of him for he is so strict.
His wife is in an asylum and his children live with his mother. He
has got a divorce from his wife, and since he has the luck to be
a Protestant he can marry again if he wants to. Hella is perfectly
fascinated by him, but I’m not in the least. For I always think of Prof.
W. in the Second, and that’s enough for me. I’m not going to fall in
love with any more professors. In the Training College, where Marina is
now, in her fourth year one of the professors last year married a former
pupil. I would not do that at any price, marry a former professor,
who knows all one’s faults. Besides, he must be at least 12 or 20 years
older than the girl; and that’s perfectly horrible, one might as well
marry one’s father; he would be at least fond of her, and she would at
least know the way he likes to have everything done; but to marry one’s
former professor, what an extraordinary thing to do!

October 15th. I’m frightfully anxious that Hella may have a relapse;
she says that nothing would induce her to have a second operation,
especially now that -- -- --; she says she would rather die. That would
be awful! I did my best to persuade her to tell her mother that she has
such pain; but she won’t.

October 19th. In November, Hella’s father will be made a general and
will be stationed in Cracow. Thank goodness she is going to stay here
with her grandmother until she leaves the Lyz. She will only go to
Cracow at Christmas and Easter and in the summer holidays. She is
frantically delighted. The good news has made her quite well again.
Everyone at school is very proud that there will be a general’s daughter
in our class. It’s true that there is a field-marshal’s daughter in the
Third, but he is retired. Father always says: Nobody makes any fuss over
a retired officer.

October 22nd. We are so much excited that we’ve hardly any time to learn
our lessons. At Christmas last year some one gave Hella’s mother several
of Geierstamm’s novels. The other day one of them was lying on the
table, and when her mother was out Hella had a hurried look at it and
read the title _The Power of Woman!!!_ When her mother had finished
it, she watched to see where it was put in the bookcase, and now we are
reading it. It’s simply wonderful! It keeps me awake all night; Signe
whom he is so passionately fond of and who deceives him. We cried so
much that we could not go on reading. And Gretchen, the girl, to whom
her father is everything; I can understand so well that she is always
anxious lest her father should marry that horrid Frau Elise, although
she has a husband already. And when she dies, oh, it’s so horrible and
so beautiful that we read it over three times in succession. The other
day my eyes were quite red from crying, and Aunt said I must be working
too hard; for she thinks that Hella and I are studying literature
together. Oh dear, lessons are an awful nuisance when one has _such_
books to read.

October 24th. When I look at Father I always think of the novel _The
Power of Woman_; of course leaving Signe out of account. Hella hopes
she’ll be able to get hold of some other book, but it’s not so easy to
do without her mother finding it out, for she often lends books to her
friends. Then there would be an awful row. We certainly don’t want to
read _The Little Brother’s Book_, the title does not attract us; but
there’s a novel called _The Comedy of Marriage_, it must be splendid; we
_must_ get that whatever happens.

October 26th. The Bruckners are going to keep on their flat, and Hella’s
grandmother will come and live there; only the Herr _General!!!_ is
going to C., and of course Hella’s mother too. Lizzi will stay, for she
is taking cooking lessons, since she is to be _married_ in Mid-Lent.

October 31st. Hella’s parents left to-day, she cried frightfully, for
she did so want to go with them. Lizzi was quite unconcerned, for she
is engaged already, and the Baron, her fiance, is coming at Christmas,
either to Vienna or Cracow; he does not care which.

November 4th. Some of the girls in our class were furious in the German
lesson to-day. One or two of the girls did not know the proper places
for commas, and Prof. Fritsch hinted that we had learned nothing at all
in previous years. We understood perfectly well that he was aiming at
Frau Doktor M., whose German lessons were 10 times or rather 100 times
better than Professor F.’s. And on this very matter of punctuation Frau
Doktor M. took a tremendous lot of trouble and gave us lots of examples.
Besides, whether one has a good style or not does not depend upon
whether one puts a _comma_ in the right place. The two Ehrenfelds, who
towards the end were awfully fond of Frau Doktor M., say that we, who
were Frau Doktor M.’s favourites, ought to write a composition without a
single comma, just to show him. That’s a splendid idea, and Hella and I
will do it like a shot if only the others can be trusted to do it too.

November 6th. This year all the classes _must_ have at least two outings
every month, even in winter. If that had been decided in the last school
year, when Frau Doktor M. was still there, I should certainly have gone
every time. But this year, when she has left, we can’t enjoy it. Frau
Doktor St. is awfully nice, but not like Frau Doktor M. Besides, we go
somewhere with Father every Sunday, Hella comes with us, and Lizzi if
she likes. As soon as the snow comes we are going to have tobogganing
parties at Hainfeld or Lilienfeld.

December 3rd. Nearly a whole month has passed without my writing, but I
must write to-day! There’s been such a row in the German lesson!! We got
back the compositions in which Hella and I, the 2 Ehrenfelds, Brauner,
Edith Bergler, and Kuhnelt, had not put a single comma. Nothing would
have been found out had not that idiot Brauner put in commas first
and then scratched them out. We had agreed that if the Prof. noticed
anything we would say we had meant to go through them together before
the lesson, and to decide where to put in commas, but that we had had no
time. Now the silly fool has given away the whole show. He is going to
bring the matter before the staff meeting. But after all, it’s simply
_impossible_ to give 6 girls out of 25 a bad conduct mark.

December 4th. The head mistress came to inspect the German lesson
to-day. Afterwards she said that she expected us to make all the
knowledge which Frau Doktor M. had instilled into us for 3 years, the
firm foundation of our further development in the higher classes. In the
English lesson she referred to the more restricted use of punctuation
marks in English; and afterwards we 6 _sinners_ were summoned to the
office. The whole school knew about the trouble and was astonished at
our courage, especially the lower classes; the Fifth and the Sixth were
rather annoyed that we in the Fourth had dared to do it. The head
gave us a terrible scolding, saying that it was an unexampled piece
of impudence, and that we were not doing credit to Frau Doktor M. Then
Hella said very modestly: “Frau Direktorin, will you please allow me to
say a word in our defence?” Then she explained that Prof. Fritsch never
missed a chance of casting a slur upon Frau Doktor M., not in plain
words of course, but so that we could not fail to understand it, and
that was why we acted as we did. The head answered we must certainly be
mistaken, that no member of the staff could ever speak against another
in such a way we had simply misunderstood Prof Fritsch! But we know
perfectly well how often the Nutling used to say in the Maths lesson:
“Don’t you know _that_? Surely you _must_ have been taught that.” The
emphasis does it!!!!! The staff meeting is to-morrow, and we were told
to do our best to make amends before the meeting. The 2 Ehrenfelds
suggested that we should write the compositions over again, of course
with all the commas, and should place them on his desk to-morrow morning
before the German lesson; but all the rest of us were against this, for
we saw plainly that the head had changed colour when Hella said what
she did. We shall make the corrections and then we shall all begin new
copybooks.

December 8th. It is 3 days now since the staff meeting, but not a word
has been said yet about our affair, and in the German lesson yesterday
the Prof. gave out the subject for the third piece of home work without
saying anything in particular. I think he is afraid to. Hella has saved
us all, for everyone else would have been afraid to say what she did,
even I. Hella said: “My dear Rita, I’m not an officer’s daughter for
nothing;” if _I_ have not courage, who should have? The girls stare at us
in the interval and whenever they meet us, though in the office the head
said to us: “I do hope that this business will not be spread all over
the school.” But Brauner has a sister in the Second and Edith Bergler’s
sister is in the Fifth and through them all the classes have heard about
it. I suppose nothing is going to be said to our parents or something
would have happened already. Besides, to be on the safe side, I have
already dropped a few hints at home. And since Dora, thank goodness, is
no longer at the school, it is impossible that there can be much fuss.
It was only at first that we were alarmed, but Hella was quite right
when she said: “I’m sure nothing will happen to us, for _we are in the
right_.”

December 15th. A meeting with Viktor!!! Dora and I had gone to do our
Christmas shopping, and we came across him just as we had turned into
Tuchlauben. Dora got fiery red, and both their _voices trembled_. He
does look fine, with his black moustache and his flashing eyes! And the
green facings on his tunic suit him splendidly. He cleared his throat
quickly to cover his embarrassment, and walked with us as far as the
Upper Market-place; he has another six-months furlough because of throat
trouble; so Dora can be quite easy in her mind in case she fancied that
-- -- -- -- --. When he said goodbye he kissed our hands, _mine as well
as Dora’s_, and smiled so sweetly, sadly and sweetly at the same time.
Several times I wanted to turn the conversation upon him. But when Dora
does not want a thing, you can do what you like and she won’t budge;
she’s as obstinate as a mule! She’s always been like that since she was
quite a little girl, when she used to say: Dor not! That meant: Dora
won’t; little wretch! such a wilful little beast!

December 17th. Yesterday we had our first tobogganing party on the
Anninger; it was glorious, we kept on tumbling into the snow; the snow
lay fairly thick, especially up there, where hardly anyone comes. As we
were going home such a ridiculous thing happened to Hella; she caught
her foot on a snag and tore off the whole sole of a brand new shoe. She
had to tie it on with a string, and even then she limped so badly
that every one believed she had sprained her ankle tobogganing.
Her grandmother was frightfully angry and said: “That comes of such
_unladylike_ amusements!” Aunt Dora was very much upset, for she had
been with us, but Father said: Hella’s grandmother is quite an old lady,
and in her day people had very different views in this respect. I should
say so, _in this respect_, Hella finds it out a dozen times a day, all
the things she must not say and must not do, and all the things which
are unsuitable for young girls! Her grandmother would like to keep her
under a glass shade; but not a transparent one, for she must not be able
to see out, and _no one_ must be able to see _in_. (The last is the main
point.)

December 20th. To-day was the last German lesson before Christmas,
and not a word more has been said about our affair. Hella has proved
splendidly right. Even Verbenowitsch, who curries favour with every
member of the staff, has congratulated her, and so has Hammer, who is
a newcomer and did not know Frau Doktor M. By the way, at 1 o’clock the
other day we met Franke; she goes now to a school of dramatic art, and
says that the whole tone of the place is utterly different, she is so
glad to have done with the High School. She had heard of the affair
with Prof. F. and she congratulated us upon our _strength of character_,
especially Hella of course. She says that the matter is common talk in
all the High Schools of Vienna, at least she heard of it from a girl at
the High School for the Daughters of Civil Servants, a girl whose sister
is at the School of Dramatic Art. She is very happy there, but she is
annoyed that such an institution should still be called a school; it’s
not a _school_ in the least; we would be astonished to see how free they
all are. She is very pretty and has even more figure than she used
to have. She speaks very prettily too, but rather too loudly, so that
everyone turned round to look at us. She hopes that she will be able to
invite us to see her debut in _one year!!!_ I should never be able to
stand on a stage before a lot of strangers, I know I would never be able
to get a word out.

December 21st. Hella is awfully unlucky. The day before yesterday she
got such bad influenza and sore throat that she can’t go to Cracow. She
says she is born to ill luck; this is the second Christmas that has been
spoiled, two years ago the appendicitis operation, and now this wretched
influenza. She hopes her mother will come to Vienna, but if so her
father will be left quite alone. And how on earth shall we get on,
Christmas without Mother, the first Christmas without Mother. I simply
don’t dare to think of it, for if I did it would make me cry. Dora says
too that it can’t be a proper Christmas without Mother. I wonder what
Father will say when he sees Mother’s portrait. I do hope the frame will
be ready to-morrow. Hella is especially unhappy because she is not able
to see Lajos. Besides, she is madly in love at the same time with a
lieutenant of dragoons whom we meet every day and who is a count, and
he is madly in love with her. He knows that her father is a general, for
when her father went to kiss the Emperor’s hand he took Hella part of
the way with him in the motor, and she was introduced to the lieutenant
then. So now he salutes her when they meet. He is tremendously tall and
looks fearfully aristocratic. But what annoys me with Hella is that she
_invariably_ denies it when she is in love with anyone. I always tell
her, or if she notices anything I don’t deny it. What’s the sense of it
between friends? for example, the year before last she was certainly
in love with the young doctor in the hospital. And in September when
we came back from Theben with that magnificent lieutenant in the flying
corps, I made no secret of the fact that I was frantically in love with
him. But she did not believe me, and said: That is not real love, when
people don’t see one another for months and flirt with others between
whiles. That was aimed at Hero Siegfried. Goodness me, at him!! it’s
really too absurd.

December 22nd. I am so delighted, Frau Doktor M., at least she is Frau
Professor Theyer now, has written to me. I had sent her Christmas good
wishes, and she sent a line to thank me, and at the same time she wished
me a happy New Year, _she took the lead in this_; it was heavenly. I was
frightfully annoyed because Dora said that she had done it only to save
herself the trouble of writing again; I’m sure that’s not true. Dora
always says things like that simply to annoy me. But her sweet, her
divine letter, I carry it about with me wherever I go, and _her_
photograph too. She sent Hella only a card, naturally, for that was
all Hella had sent her. I can quite well fancy Frau Doktor M. as a
stepmother, that is, not quite well, but better than anyone else. She
wrote so sweetly about Mother, saying that of course I should find this
Christmas less happy than usual. She is certainly right there. We can
none of us feel as if the day after to-morrow is to be Christmas Eve.
The only thing that I really enjoy thinking of is the way Father will
stare when he sees the portrait. But really in the first years after
such a loss one ought not to keep Christmas, for on such days one feels
one’s sadness more than ever.

December 23rd. I have still a frightful lot to do for Christmas, but I
must write to-day. There was a ring at the front door this morning at
about half past 11. I thought it must be Hella come to fetch me, that
she must be all right again, so I rushed out, tore the door open,
prepared to greet Hella, and then I was simply kerblunxed, for there was
a gentleman standing who asked most politely: Is anyone at home? I knew
him in a moment, it was that Dr. Pruckmuller from Fieberbr. Meanwhile
Dora had opened the drawing-room door, and now came the great proof of
deceitfulness: She was _not in the least_ surprised, but said: “Ah, Dr.
Pruckmuller, I am so glad you have kept your word.” So it was plain that
he had promised her to come, and I am practically sure she knew he was
coming _to-day_, for she was wearing her best black silk apron with
the insertions, such as we only wear when visitors are expected. What a
humbug she is! So I went into the drawing-room too. Then Aunt Dora came
in and asked him to supper this evening. Then he went away. All the time
he had not said a word to me, it seemed as if he had not even noticed
that there was such a person as me in the world Not until he was
actually leaving did he say: “Well; Fraulein, how are you?” “Oh well,”
 said I, “I’m much as anyone can expect to be so soon after Mother’s
death.” Dora got as red as fire, for she understood. I shall know how to
treat him _if_ he becomes my brother-in-law. But that may be a long way
off; for he lives in Innsbruck, and Father is not likely to allow Dora
to marry away to Innsbruck. At dinner I hardly said a word, I was so
enraged at this deceitfulness. But there is more to come. At 7, or
whatever time it was, Dr. Pruckmuller turned up. Dora appeared in a
white blouse with a black bow, and had remained in her room till the
last minute so that I might not know what she was wearing. For I had
believed she would wear her black dress with the insertions, and so I
was wearing mine. Oh well, that did not matter. At supper he talked all
the time to Dora, so I purposely talked to Oswald. Then he said that on
March 1st he was going to be transferred to Vienna. Once more Dora was
not in the least astonished, so _she must have known all about it!_ But
now I remember quite well that in October the postman handed me a letter
for her with the Innsbruck postmark. So she was _corresponding with
him openly the whole time_, less than 6 months after Mother’s death.
It really is too bad! But when I was chattering about the country, she
kicked me under the table as a hint not to laugh so frightfully. And
when my brother-in-law in spe, oh how it does make me laugh, two or
three years ago, in Goisern I think it was, we used to call Dora Inspe,
because she had said of Robert Warth and me: The bridal pair in spe! And
now she is in the same position. When he went away in the evening I was
trembling lest Father should invite him to the Christmas tree, but
thank goodness when Father asked: “What are you doing with yourself
to-morrow,” he answered: “To-morrow I am spending the day with my
sister’s family, she is married to a captain out Wieden way.” Thank
goodness that came to nothing, for we are not at all in the mood for
visitors, especially the first Christmas without Mother. And if she knew
-- -- -- I wish I knew what really happens to the soul. Of course I gave
up believing in Heaven long ago; but the soul must go somewhere. There
are so many riddles, and they make one so unhappy; in a newspaper
feuilleton the other day I saw the title of a chapter: _The Riddle of
Love_. But _this_ riddle does not make people sad, as one can see by
Dora. Anyhow, all girls, that is all elder sisters, seem alike in this
respect. I remember what Hella told me about Lizzi’s engagement. It is
true, she had first made his acquaintance in London, not at home; but
there was just the same deceitfulness. What on earth does it mean?
Would it not be much more kindly and reasonable to tell your sister
_everything_? Otherwise how can anyone expect one to be an ally. Oh
well, _I_ don’t care, I’m not going to let my Christmas Eve be disturbed
by a thing _like that_; if one can call it a _Christmas Eve_ at all.
On Boxing Day, when he is to spend the evening here, I shall tell Hella
that I want to come to her and her grandmother. After all, I am glad she
has stayed in Vienna.

December 25th. Christmas Eve was _very_ melancholy. We all three got
Mother’s picture, life size in beautiful green frames, for our rooms.
Dora sobbed out loud, and so I cried too and went up to Father and put
my arms around him. His eyes were quite wet; for he adored Mother. Only
Oswald did not actually cry, but he kept on biting his lips. I was so
glad that Dr. P. was not there, for it is horribly disagreeable to cry
before strangers. We _both_ got lovely white guipure blouses, not lace
blouses, then Aunt gave me a splendid album for 500 postcards, and
she also gave me an anthology which I had asked for. Brahms’ Hungarian
Dances, because Dora would not lend me hers last year because she said
they were too difficult for me; as if _that_ were any business of hers;
surely my music mistress is a better judge; then some writing paper
with my monogram, a new en-tout-cas with everything complete, and hair
ribbons and other trifles. Father was awfully delighted with Mother’s
portrait; of course we had not known that he was getting us life-size
portraits of Mother, and from the last photograph of the winter before
last we had quite a small likeness painted by Herr Milanowitz, who is a
painter, and who knew Mother very well--in colour of course. And we got
a lovely rococo frame to close up; when it is open it looks as if Mother
were looking out of the window. That was _my_ idea, and Herr Milanowitz
thought it _most original_. Dora considered it very awkward that he
would not take any money for it, but it made it possible for us to get a
much more elegant frame. After Christmas; for New Year, we are going
to send Herr M. some of the best cigars, bought with _our own_ money,
I wanted to send them for Christmas, but we don’t know anything about
cigars, and we did not want to tell anyone because one can never know
whether one won’t be betrayed and you will be told it is unintentional;
but that is not true, for when one betrays anything one has always
secretly intended to do so; and then one says it was a slip of the
tongue; but one really knows all the time. I can’t write down all the
extra things that Dora got, only one of them: At 7 o’clock just when
Father was lighting the candles on the tree, a commissionaire brought
some lovely roses with two sprays of mistletoe interwoven and beneath a
nosegay of violets -- -- -- of course from Dr. P. with a card, but she
would not let anyone read that. All she said was: “Dr. P. sends
everyone Christmas greetings; I believe he had really written: _Merry_
Christmas,” but Dora did not dare to say _that_. Oh, and Hella gave me
a bead bag, and I gave her a purse with the double eagle on it, for she
wanted a purse that would have a military look. I never knew anyone with
such an enthusiasm for the army as Hella; certainly I think officers
look awfully smart; but surely it’s going too far when she feels that
other men practically don’t exist. The others have to learn a lot, for
example doctors, lawyers, mining engineers, not to speak of students
at the College of Agriculture, for perhaps these last “hardly count”
 (that’s the phrase Hella is always using); but all of them have to learn
a great deal more than officers do; Hella never will admit that, and
always begins to talk of the officers of the general staff; as if they
_all_ belonged to the general staff! We have often argued about it.
Still, I do hope she will get an officer for her husband, of course one
who is well enough off to marry, for otherwise it’s no go; for Father
says the Bruckners have no private means. It’s true he always says that
of us too, but I don’t believe it; we are not so to say rich, but I
fancy we should both of us have enough money for an officer to be able
to marry us. Anyhow, Dora voluntarily renounces that possibility, _if_
she is really going to marry Dr. P.

27th. Well, I went to Hella’s yesterday and stayed till 9, and on
Christmas Day she was here. I see that I wrote above that the Bs. were
not well off; it seems to me to be very much the reverse. We always get
a great many things and very nice ones at Christmas and on our birthdays
and name days (of course Protestants don’t have these last), but we
don’t give one another such splendid things as the Bs. do. Hella had
been given a piece of rose-coloured silk for a dress to wear at the
dancing class which must have cost at least 50 crowns, and a lace collar
and cuffs, which we had seen at the shop, and it had cost 24 crowns,
then she had a gold ring with an emerald, and a number of smaller things
which she never even looked at. And to see all the things her sister
got, things for her _trousseau!_ And the Bs. Christmas tree cost 12
crowns whilst ours cost only 7, though ours was just as good. So I think
that the Bs. really have plenty of money, and I said to Hella: “You must
be enormously rich.” And she said: “Oh well, not so rich as all that; I
must not expect to marry an officer on the general staff. Lizzi has done
very well for herself for Paul is a baron and is very well off. He is
frantically in love with her; queer taste, isn’t it?” I quite agree, for
Lizzi has not much to boast of in the way of looks, beautiful fair hair,
but she is so awfully thin, not a trace of b -- --, Hella has much more
figure. And if one hasn’t any by the time one is 20 one is not likely to
get one.

Something awfully funny happened to-day. Hella asked me: “I say, what’s
the Christian name of that Dr. who is dangling after your sister?” Then
it struck me for the first time that on his visiting card he only has
Dr. jur. A. Pruckmuller, and then I remembered that last summer, when we
first made his acquaintance, Dora said, It’s a pity he’s called August,
the name does not suit him at all. Well, we laughed till we felt quite
ill, for of course Hella began to sing: “O du lieber Augustin,” and
then I thought of Der dumme August [clown’s nickname in circus] and we
wondered what Dora would call him. Gusti or Gustel, or Augi, my darling
Augi, my beloved Gusterl, oh dear, we were in fits of laughter. Then
we discussed what names we should like to have for our husbands, and I
said: Ewald or Leo, and Hella said: Wouldn’t you like Siegfried? But I
put my hand on her mouth and said: “Shut up, or you will make me really
angry, _that_ is and must remain forgotten.” She said what she would
like best would be to have a husband called Peter or Thamian or
Chrysostomus; then for a pet name she would use Dami or Sosti; and then
she said quite seriously that she would only marry a man called Egon, or
Alexander, or at least Georg. Just at that moment her mother came in to
call us to tea, and she said: “What’s an that about Alexander and Georg?
You are such dreadful girls. If you are alone together for a couple
of minutes (I had come at half past 2 and the Brs. have tea at 4,
and that’s what Hella’s mother calls 2 minutes), you begin to talk of
unsuitable things.” Hella was afraid her mother would think God knows
what, so she said: “Oh no, Mother, we were only discussing what names we
should like our fiances to have.” You ought to have seen how her mother
went on. “That’s just it, that when you are barely 15 (I’m not 15 yet)
you should have nothing but _such_ things in your heads!” _Such_ things,
how absurd. At tea it was almost as dull as it was the other evening
at home; for the Herr Baron was there, that is, they all say Du to one
another now, for the wedding is to be in February, as soon as it is
settled whether the Baron is to stay in London or to be transferred to
Berlin. It must be funny to say “Du” to a strange man. Hella says she
soon got used to it, and that she likes Paul well enough. When he brings
Lizzi sweets, when he is taking her to the theatre, he always gives
Hella a box for herself. _Other_ people would certainly not do that, and
I know _other_ people who wouldn’t accept it. When I got home, Father
said: Well, another time I think you’d better stay and sleep at the
Brs., and I said: I did not want to be a killjoy here. And Oswald said:
“What you need is a box on the ear,” Father was luckily out of the room
already and so I said: “_Your_ children, if you ever have any, can be
kept in order by boxing their ears till they are green and blue, but you
have no rights over your sisters, Father told you so in Fieberbrunn.”
 “Oh, I know Father always backs you two up, he has done so from the
first.” “Please don’t draw me into your quarrels,” said Dora, as if she
had been something quite different from me. And then Aunt Dora said: “I
do wish you would not keep on quarreling.” “_I_ didn’t begin it,” said
I, and went away without saying goodnight; that is I went to Father’s
room to say goodnight to him and I saw Aunt Dora in the hall, but I
_didn’t_ say goodnight to Oswald and Dora, for I’m not going to put up
with _everything_. And now it’s half past 11 already, for I have been
writing such a long time, and have cried such a lot, for I’m _very_
unhappy. Even Hella doesn’t know how unhappy I am. I must go to bed
now; whether I shall sleep or not is another question. If I can possibly
manage it, I shall go alone to the cemetery to-morrow.

31st. Hella and I went to the cemetery to-day. Her father and mother
returned to Cracow yesterday evening, and she told her grandmother she
was going to spend the morning with me, and I said I was going to the
Brs., so we went alone to Potzleinsdorf. Hella went for a walk round the
cemetery while I went to darling Mother’s grave. I am so unhappy; Hella
consoles me as much as she can, but even she can’t understand.

January 1, 19--! Of course we did not keep New Year’s Eve yesterday, but
were quite alone and it was very melancholy. This morning Dr. P. brought
Dora and Aunt Dora some roses and he gave me some lovely violets as a
New Year’s greeting. He is leaving on the 4th, so he is coming here
on the evening of the 3rd. I can’t say I look forward to it. To-morrow
school begins thank goodness. I met a dust cart, that means good luck;
Father says it is a scandal the way the dirt carts go on all through the
day in Vienna, and that one should see one even on New Year’s day at 2
in the afternoon. But still, if it means _good luck!_

January 2nd. The dust cart did bring good luck. We had a real piece of
_luck_ to-day! In the big interval I noticed a little knot of girls in
the hall, and suddenly I felt as if my heart would stop beating. Frau
Doktor M., I should say Frau Professor Theyer, was standing among them,
she saw us directly and held out her hand to us so we kissed it. She has
come to visit her parents and _her husband_ is with her; since she did
not know for certain whether she would be able to come to the school she
had not written either to me or to Hella about it. She is so lovely and
so entrancingly loveable. When the bell rang for class and Frau Doktor
Dunker came in I saw that _she_ was still standing outside. So I put my
handkerchief up to my face as if my nose were bleeding, and rushed out
to her. And because I slipped and nearly fell, she held out her arms to
me. Hardly had I reached her, when Hella came out and said: “Of course I
understood directly; I said you were awfully bad, so I must go and look
after you.” Then the Frau Professor laughed like anything and said: “You
are such wicked little actresses; I must send you back immediately.” But
of course she did not but was frightfully sweet. Then we begged her
to let us stay with her, but she said: “No, no, I’ve been your teacher
here, and I must not encourage you in mischief. But here is a better
idea. Would you like to come and see me to-morrow?” “Rather,” we both
exclaimed. She said she was staying in a hotel, but we must not come
alone to a hotel, so she would see us at her parents, in Schwindgasse,
and we were to come there at 4 or half past. Then we kissed both her
hands and were so happy! To-morrow at 4! Oh dear, a whole night more and
nearly a whole day to wait. “If your parents allow you,” she said; as
if Father or even Hella’s grandmother would not allow _that!_ All Father
said was: “All right Gretel, but don’t go quite off your head first or
you won’t be able to find your way to Schwindgasse. Is Hella as crazy as
you are?” Of course, how can one be otherwise?

January 3rd. Still 2 hours, it’s awful, Hella is coming to fetch me at
half past 3. In school to-day we kept on looking at one another, and all
the other girls thought it must be something to do with a man. Goodness,
what do we care about a man now! We had a splendid idea, that we had
just time to make a memento for _her_, since she does not leave until
the evening of the 5th. I am having traced on a piece of yellow silk
for a book marker an edelweiss and her monogram E. T., the new one of
course. Hella is painting a paperknife in imitation of tarsia mosaic.
I would rather have done something of that sort too, but I have no
patience for such work, so I often spoil it before I’ve finished. But
one can’t very well spoil a piece of embroidery. But I shan’t get the
tracing on the silk back from the shop until half past 3, so I shall
have to work all night and the whole day to-morrow.

Evening. Thank goodness and confound it, whichever way you like to
take it, the idiot at the shop had forgotten about the bookmarker and I
shan’t get it until to-morrow morning early. So I’m able to write now:
It was heavenly! We had to walk up and down in front of her house for
at least half an hour, until at last it was 5 minutes past 4. She was so
sweet to us! She wanted to say Sie to us, but we _simply would not
have it_, and so she said Du as she used to. We talked of all sorts of
things, I don’t know what, only that I suddenly burst out crying, and
then she drew me to her b -- --, no, I can’t write that about her; she
drew me to herself and than I felt _her heart beating!_ and went almost
crazy. Hella says that I put both my arms round her neck, but I’m sure
that’s all imagination, for I should never have dared. She has such
fascinating hands, and the _wedding ring_ glistens so on her divine
ring finger. Of course we talked about the school, and then she suddenly
said: Tell me what really happened about those compositions, when half
the class deliberately refrained from putting any punctuation marks.
“Oh,” we said, “that is a frightful cram, it wasn’t _half_ the class,
but only 6 of us who have a special veneration for you.” Then we told
her how it all came about. She laughed a little, and said: “Well, girls,
you did not do me any particular _service_. It really was a great piece
of impertinence.” But I said: “Prof. Fritsch’s remarks were 10 times
more impertinent, for they related to another member of the staff, and
what was worse to you.” Then she said: “My darling girls, that often
happens in life, that the absent are given a bad reputation, whether
justly or unjustly; one is liable to that in every profession.” Hella
said that the head mistress was not like that or there would have been a
frightful row, since the matter had become known in all the High Schools
of Vienna. Then Frau Doktor M. said: “Yes, the Frau Direktorin is really
a splendid woman.” Then there came something glorious, or really 2
glorious things: (1). She gave us some magnificent sweets, better than I
have ever eaten before. Hella agrees, and we are really connoisseurs in
the matter of sweets. The second thing, even more glorious, was this:
after we had been there some time, there was a knock at the door and in
came _her_ husband, the Herr Prof., and said: “How are you my treasure?”
 and to us: “Goodday, young _ladies_.” Then she introduced us, saying:
“Two of my best-loved pupils and my most faithful adherents.” Then the
Herr Prof. laughed a great deal and said: “That can’t be said of all
pupils.” So I said quickly: “Oh yes, it can be said of Frau Doktor, the
whole class would go through fire for her.” Then he went away, and she
said: “Excuse me for a moment,” and we could hear quite plainly that _he
kissed her_ in the next room, and then she said as she came in again:
“Oh well, be off with you, Karl, goodbye.” It’s a pity his name is Karl,
it’s so prosaic, and he calls her Lise, and I expect when they are alone
he calls her Lieschen, since he is a North German. I must go to bed,
it’s half past 11 already. To be continued to-morrow. Sleep well, my
sweet glorious ecstatic golden and only treasure! God, I am so happy.

January 6th. Thank goodness to-day is a holiday, and we can’t go
tobogganing because Dora has a _chill!!!_ I got the bookmarker on the
4th, worked at it all day and up till midnight, and yesterday I got up
at half past 5, went on working the whole morning, and at 2 o’clock we
took our mementoes to the house. Though we should have liked to give
them to her ourselves, we didn’t, but only gave them to the maid. She
said: Shall I show you in? but Hella said: “No, thank you, we don’t want
to disturb Frau Theyer, and when I reproached her for this she said: Oh
no, it was better not; you are quite upset anyhow, you know what _she_
said: But my dear child, you will make yourself ill; you must not do
that on _my_ account!” Oh dear, I’m crying so that I can hardly write,
but I _must_ write, for there is still so much that’s glorious to put
down, things that I must never, never forget, even if it should take me
a week to write. The great thing is that I shall simply live upon this
memory, and the only thing I want in life is that I may see _her_ once
more. Of course we took her some flowers on Friday, I lilies of the
valley with violets and tuberoses, and Hella Christmas roses. She was
delighted, and went directly to fetch 2 vases which her mother brought
in. She is as small as Frau Richter, and her hair is grey, she is
charming; but she is not in the least like Frau Doktor M. When we said
goodbye she offered us still more sweets, but since we were both nearly
crying already we did not want to take any more, but she wrapped them
nearly all up for us, saying: “To console you in your sorrow.” From
anyone else it might have sounded ironical, but from her it was simply
lovely. There were 17 large sweets, and Hella gave me 9 of them and took
only 8 for herself. I shall eat only one every day, so that they will
last me 9 days. _Joy and sorrow combined!!_ Hella is not so frightfully
in love as I am, and yesterday she said, in joke of course: “It seems to
me that your whole world is foundered; I must pull you out, or you’ll
be drowned.” And then she asked me how I could have been so stupid as to
use the word _honeymoon_ to _her_, although she hemmed to warn me.
She said it really was utterly idiotic of me, and that the Frau Prof.
blushed. I did not notice it myself, but when her _husband_ came in, she
certainly did flush up like anything. Hella and I talked of quite a lot
of _other things of that sort_. I should so much have liked to ask her
whether she has given up going to church, for I think the Herr Prof.
really is a Jew, though he does not _look_ like one. For lots of other
men wear black beards. But I did not venture to ask, and Hella thinks
it is a very good thing I did not, for one _does not talk about such
things_. I wonder _whether she will have a baby_? Oh, it would be
horrible. Of course she may have entered into a _marriage_ contract,
that would have been the best way. However, Hella thinks that the
professor would not have agreed to anything of the kind. But surely if
he was frantically in love with her . . .

January 1 5th. The girls in our class are frantically jealous. We did
not say in so many words that we, alone among them all, had been invited
to see her, but Hella had brought one of the sweets she had given us and
in the interval she said: This must be eaten reverently, and she cut it
in two to give me half. The Ehrenfelds thought it must have been given
by some acquaintance made at the skating rink, and Trude said: “Doubly
sweetened, by chocolate and love.” “Yes,” said I, “but not in the sense
you imagine.” And since she said: “Oh, of course, I know all about that,
but I don’t want to be indiscreet,” Hella said: “I may as well tell you
that Frau Doktor M., or I should say the _married_ Frau Prof. Theyer,
gave us this sweet and a great many more on the day she had invited
us to go and see her.” Then they were all utterly kerblunxed and
said: “Great Scott, what luck, but you always were Frau Doktor M.’s
favourites, especially Lainer. But Lainer always courted Frau Doktor M.”

January 17th. The whole school knows about our being invited to see her,
the glorious one! I’ve just been reading it over, and I see that I have
left a frightful lot out, especially about her father. When we were
leaving, just outside the house door we burst out crying because as
I opened the door I had said, For the last time! Just then an old
gentleman came up and was about to go in, and when he saw that we were
crying, though we were standing quite in the shadow, he came up to us
and asked what was the matter. Then Hella said: “We have lost out best
friend.” Then the old gentleman looked at us for a tremendously long
time and said: “I say, do you happen to be the two ardent admirers of
Frau Doktor Mallburg? She is my daughter, you know. And then he said:
But you really can’t go through the streets bathed in tears like that.
Come upstairs again with me and my daughter will console you.” So we
really did go upstairs again, and she was perfectly unique. Her father
opened the door and called out: Lieserl, your admirers simply can’t part
from you, and I found them being washed out to sea in a river of tears.
Then she came out wearing a _rose-coloured dressing-gown!!!_ exquisite.
And she led us into the room and said: “Girls, you must not look at me
in this old rag, which is only fit to throw away.” I should have liked
to say: “Give it to _me_ then.” But of course I could not. And when we
made our final goodbye, perhaps _for ever_, she kissed each of us _twice
over_ and said: Girls, I wish you all the happiness in the world!

January 18th. Hella invited me there to-day, to meet Lajos and Jeno. But
I’m not going, for Jeno does not interest me in the very least. That
was not a _real_ love. I don’t care for anyone in the whole world except
her, my one and only! Even Hella can’t understand that, in fact she
thinks it _dotty_. Father wanted me to go to Hella’s _to change the
current of my thoughts_. Of course I hardly say a word about _her_ to
anyone, for no one understands me. But I never could have believed that
Father would be just like anyone else. It’s quite true that I’m getting
thin. I’m so glad that we are not going tobogganing to-day because Dora
has a chill, a _real_ chill this time. So I am going to the church in
Schwindgasse and shall walk up and down in front of _her_ house; perhaps
I shall meet her father or her mother. I wrote to her the day before
yesterday.

January 24th. I am so happy. She wrote to me _by return!_ This is the
second letter I have had from her! At dinner to-day Father said: “Hullo,
Gretel, why are you looking so happy to-day? I have not seen you with
such a sunny face for a long time.” So I answered in as few words as
possible: “After dinner I will tell _you_ why.” For the others need not
know anything about it. And when I told Father vaguely that Frau Prof.
Th. had written to me, Father said: “Oh, is _that_ what has pleased you
so much. But I have something up my sleeve which will also please you.
February 1st and 2nd are Sunday and Monday, you have 2 days free, and if
you and Hella can get a day off from school on Saturday we might make an
excursion to Mariazell. How does that strike you?” It would be glorious,
if only Hella is allowed to come, for her grandmother imagines that the
sore throat she had before Christmas was due to the tobogganing on the
Anninger, where the sole was torn off her shoe! As if _we_ could help
that. Still, by good luck she may have forgotten it; she is 63 already,
and one forgets a lot when one is that age.

Evening. Hella may come; it will be splendid! Perhaps we shall try a
little skiing. But really Hella is a horrid pig; she said: “All right,
I’ll come, if you’ll promise not to be continually talking about Frau
Professor Th. I’m very fond of her too, but you are simply crazy about
her.” It’s really too bad, and I shall never mention _her_ name to
the others any more. I am looking forward so to the tobogganing at
Mariazell. We’ve never made any such excursion in winter before. Hurrah,
it will be glorious! Oh I do wish the 31st of January were here; I’m
frantically excited.



EDITOR’S NOTE


Rita’s joyful expectations of tobogganing among glistening snow-clad
hills, remained unfulfilled. The rude hand of fate was thrust into the
lives of the two sisters. On January 29th their father, suddenly struck
down with paralysis, was brought home in an ambulance, and died in a few
hours without recovering consciousness.

Torn from the sheltering and affectionate atmosphere of home, separated
from her most intimate friend, the young orphan had to struggle for
peace of soul in the isolation of a provincial town -- -- --






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