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.