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.