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.