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.