a retired member of the Board of Mines. The young lady is really his
sister, and she is a teacher at the middle school in Brunn. I found all
this out from the housemaid. But I went about it in a very cunning way,
I did not want to ask straight out, and so I said: Can you tell me
who that white-haired old gentleman is, he is so awfully like my
Grandfather. (I have never see my Grandfather, for Father’s Father has
been dead 12 or 15 years, and Mother’s Father does not live in Vienna
but in Berlin.) Then Luise answered: “Ah, Fraulein, I expect you mean
Herr Oberbergrat Sch., von Sch. But I expect Fraulein’s Grandfather is
not quite so grumpy.” I said: “Is he so frightfully grumpy then?” And
she answered: “I should think so; we must all jump at the word go or
it’s all up with us!” And then one word led to another, and she told
me all she knew; the daughter is 32 already, her name is Hulda and her
father won’t let her marry, and the _young gentleman_ has left home
because his father pestered him so. He is a student in Prague, and only
comes home for the holidays. It all sounds very melancholy, and yet they
look perfectly happy except the daughter. By the way, it’s horrid for
the Weiners; Olga is 13 and Nelly actually 15, and their mother is once
more -- -- -- -- I mean their mother is in an i-- c--. They are both in
a frightful rage, and Nelly said to me to-day: “It’s a perfect scandal;”
they find it so awkward going about with their mother. I can’t say I’d
noticed anything myself; but they say it has really been obvious for a
long time; “_the happy event!!_ will take place in October,” said Olga.
It really must be very disagreeable, and I took a dislike to Frau W.
from the first. I simply can’t understand how such a thing can happen
when people are so old. I’m awfully sorry for the two Weiner girls.
Something of the same sort must have happened in the case of the Schs.,
for Luise has told me that the young gentleman is 21 and his sister not
32 but 35, she had made a mistake; so she is 14 years older, appalling.
I’m awfully sorry for her because her father won’t let her marry, or
rather would not let her marry. I’m sure Father would never refuse if
either of us wanted to marry. I have written all this to Hella; I miss
her dreadfully, for after all the Weiner girls are only strangers, and I
could _never_ tell my secrets to Dora, though we are quite on good terms
now. Oswald is coming to-morrow.
August 1st. A young man has a fine time of it. He comes and goes when he
likes and where he likes. A telegram arrived from Oswald to-day,
saying he was not coming till the middle of August: Konigsee, Watzmann,
glorious tramp. Letter follows. Father did not say much, but I fancy
he’s very much annoyed. Especially just now, after poor Mother’s death,
Oswald might just as well come home. Last year he was so long away
after matriculation, quite alone, and now it’s the same this year. One
pleasure after another like that is really not the thing when one’s
Mother has been dead only three months. The day after we came here and
before we had got to know anyone, I went out quite early, at half past
8, and went alone to the cemetery. It is on the slope of the mountain
and some of the tombstones are frightfully old, in many cases one can’t
decipher the inscriptions; there was one of 1798 in Roman figures. I sat
on a little bank thinking about poor Mother and all the unhappiness,
and I cried so terribly that I had to bathe my eyes lest anyone should
notice it. I was horribly annoyed to-day. A letter came from Aunt Alma,
she wants to come here, we are to look for rooms for her, to see if we
can find anything suitable, Aunt Alma always means by that very cheap,
but above all it must be in a private house; of course, for a boarding
house would be far too dear for them. I do hope we shan’t find
_anything_ suitable, we really did not find anything to-day, for a storm
was threatening and we did not go far. I do so hope we shall have no
better success to-morrow; for I really could not stand having Marina
here, she is such a spy. Thank goodness Aunt Dora and Dora are both very
much against their coming. But Father said: That won’t do girls, she’s
your aunt, and you must look for rooms for her. All right, we can _look
for them_; but seeking and finding are two very different things.
August 2nd. This morning we went out early to look for the rooms, and
since Dora always makes a point of finding what’s wanted, she managed
to hunt up 2 rooms and a kitchen, though they are only in a farm. The
summer visitors who were staying there had to go back suddenly to Vienna
because their grandmother died, and so the rooms are to let very cheap.
Dora wrote to Aunt directly, and she said that we shall all be delighted
to see them, which is a downright lie. However, I wrote a P.S. in which
I sent love to them all, and said that the journey was scandalously
expensive; perhaps that may choke them off a bit. Owing to this silly
running about looking for rooms I saw nothing of the Weiners yesterday
afternoon or this morning, and of course nothing of God Balder either.
And at dinner we can’t see the Scharrers’ table because they have a
table in the bay window, for they have come here every year for the last
9 years. I’m absolutely tired out, but there’s something I must write.
This afternoon the Weiners and we went up to Kreindl’s, and Siegfried
Sch. came with us, for he knows the Weiners, who have been here every
year for the last 3 years. He talked chiefly to Dora, and that annoyed
me frightfully. So I said not a word, but walked well behind the others.
On the way home he came up to me and said: “I say, Fraulein Grete, are
you always so reserved? Your eyes seem to contradict the idea.” I said:
“It all depends on my mood, and above all I hate forcing myself on any
one.” “Could you not change places at table with your mother?” “In the
first place, she is not my Mother, who died on April 24th, but my Aunt,
and in the second place, why do you say that to _me_, you had better
say it to my sister!” “Don’t be jealous! There’s no reason for _that_.
I can’t help talking to your sister when we’re in company; but I can
assure you that you have no occasion whatever to be jealous.” I wish
I knew how I could manage that change of places, but I always sit
next Father; anyhow I would not do it directly; next week at soonest.
Farewell, my Hero Siegfried, sleep sweetly and dream of -- --.
August 3rd, Anneliese wrote to me: “You heart of gold, so you are able
to forgive my sins of youth? The world shines with a new light since I
received your letter.” I don’t know that my letter was so forgiving as
all that, for all I said was that I was very sorry she was so lonely in
Gratsch, and that we could not alter the past, so we had better bury
it. She sends me a belated birthday greeting (last winter we told one
another when our birthdays were), and she sends me a great pressed
forget-me-not. She waited to answer until it had been pressed. I don’t
know quite what I had better do. Big Siegfried could no doubt give me
very good advice, but I can’t very well tell him the whole story, for
then I should have to tell him why we quarrelled, and that would be
awful. I had better write to Hella before I answer. I must write to-day,
for it will be quite three days before I can get an answer, and then
1 or two days more before Anneliese gets the letter, so that will be 5
days at least. It is raining in torrents, so it is very dull, for
Father won’t let us sit in the hall alone; I can’t think why. Generally
speaking Father’s awfully kind, quite different from other fathers, but
this is really disgusting of him. I shall lie down on the sofa after
dinner and read _Immensee_, for I’ve not had a chance before.
August 6th. Well, the whole tribe arrived to-day; Marina in a dust-grey
coat and skirt that fits her abominably, and Erwin and Ferdinand;
Ferdinand is going through the artillery course in Vienna, at the
Neustadt military academy; he’s the most presentable of the lot. Uncle
was in a frightful temper, growling about the journey and about the
handbaggage, I think they must have had 8 or 10 packages, at least I
had to carry a heavy travelling rug and Dora a handbag of which she
said that it contained the accumulated rubbish of 10 years. Aunt Alma’s
appearance was enough to give one fits, a tweed dress kilted up so
high that one saw her brown stockings as she walked, and a hat like a
scarecrow’s. When I think how awfully well dressed _Mother_ always was,
and how nice she always looked; of course Mother was at least 20 years
younger than Aunt Alma, but even if Mother had lived to be 80 she would
never have looked like _that_. Thank goodness, on the way from the
station we did not meet any one, and above all we did not meet _him_.
For once in a way they all came to dinner at our boarding house. We
had two tables put together, and I seized the opportunity to change my
place, for I offered Aunt Alma the place next Father and seated myself
beside the lovely Marina, exactly opposite -- -- --! Anyway, Marina
looked quite nice at dinner, for her white blouse suits her very well,
and she has a lovely complexion, so white, with just a touch of pink in
the cheeks. But that is her only beauty. The way she does her hair is
hideous, parted and brushed quite smooth, with two pigtails. I’ve given
them up long ago, though everyone said they suited me very well. But
“snails” suit me a great deal better. _He_ looked across at me the whole
time, and Aunt Alma said: “Grete is blossoming out, I hope there’s not
a man in the case already.” “Oh no,” said Father, “country air does her
such a lot of good, and when I take the children away for a change I
don’t forbid any innocent pleasures.” My darling Father, I had to keep a
tight hand on myself so as not to kiss him then and there. They were
all so prim, with their eyes glued to their plates as if they had never
eaten rum pudding before. It is true that Ferdinand winked at Marina,
but of course she noticed nothing. They soon put away their first helps,
and they all took a second, and then they went on talking. When we went
to our rooms I knocked at Father’s door and gave him the promised kiss
and said: “You really are a jewel of a Father.” “Well, will you, if you
please, be a jewel of a daughter, and keep the peace with Marina and
the others?” I said: “Oh dear, I simply can’t stand her, she’s such a
humbug!” “Oh well,” said Father, “it may be a pity, but you know one
can’t choose one’s parents and one’s relations.” “I would not have
chosen any different parents, for we could not have found another Father
and another Mother like you.” Then Father lifted me right up into the
air as if I had still been a little girl, saying: “You are a little
treasure,” and we kissed one another heartily. I really do like Father
better than anyone in the world; for the way I like Hella is quite
different, she is my friend, and Dora is my sister; and I like Aunt Dora
too, and Oswald _if_ I ever see him again.
August 8th. Oh, I am so furious! To-day I got a postcard from Hella,
with nothing on it but “Follow your own bent, with best wishes, your
M.” When we write postcards we always use a cipher which no one else can
understand, so that M. means H. It’s a good thing no one can understand
it. Of course I wrote to Anneliese directly, and was most affectionate,
and I sent a postcard to Hella, in our cipher, with nothing more than:
Have done so, with best wishes, W. Not even _your_ W. I do wonder what
she will do. Hero Siegfried was lying with us to-day in the hayfield,
and what he said was lovely. But I can’t agree that all fathers _without
exception_ are tyrants. I said: “_My_ Father isn’t!” He rejoined: “Not
_yet_, but you will find out in time. However, anyone with a character
of his own won’t allow himself to be suppressed. I simply broke with my
Old Man and left home; there are other technical schools besides the one
in Brunn. And since you say not _all_ fathers; well just look at Hulda;
whenever anyone fell in love with her the Old Man marred her chance, for
no one can stand such tutelage.” “Tutelage, what do you mean,” said I,
but just at that moment everyone got up to go away. To-morrow perhaps,
poor persecuted man.
August 9th. Oh dear, it’s horrible if it’s all really true what Hella
writes about being infected; an eruption all over the body, that is the
most horrible thing in the world. I must tear up her letter directly,
and since she could not write 8 whole pages in our cipher, I must
_absolutely destroy_ it, so that no one can get hold of a fragment of
it. Above all now that Marina is here, for you never can tell -- -- --.
But I know what I’ll do; I’ll copy the letter here, even if it takes 2
or 3 days. She writes:
Darling Rita, what did you say when you got yesterday’s postcard. If you
were angry, you must make it up with me. Consort with whom you please
and write to whom you please; but all the _consequences_ be on your
own head. Father always says: Beware of red hair! And I insist that the
“innocent child” has _foxy red_ hair. But you can think what you like.
Now I’ve got something much more important to tell you. But you must
promise me dirst that you will tear up my letter directly you have read
it. Otherwise please send it back to me _un_read.
Just fancy. Here in B. there is a young married woman living with her
mother and her cousin, a girl who is studying medicine; they are Poles
and I have always had an enthusiastic admiration for the Poles. The
young wife has got a divorce from her husband, for she was _infected_ by
him on the _wedding night_. Of course you remember what being _infected_
is. But really it is something quite different from what we imagined.
Because of _that_ she got a frightful eruption all over her body and her
face, and most likely all her hair will fall out; is it not frightful?
Her cousin, the medical student, who is apparently very poor, is there
to _nurse_ her. Our servant Rosa told me about it, she heard of it from
the housemaid where they have rooms. As you know, one can’t talk to
Lizzi about anything of that kind, and so I did not learn any more;
but the other day, when I went to buy some picture postcards, I met the
three ladies. The young wife was wearing a very thick veil, so that one
could see nothing. They were sitting on a bench in the garden in front
of their house, and I bowed in passing, on the way back. They bowed, and
smiled in a friendly way. In the afternoon I had to lie down, for I was
feeling very bad because of . . . .!! Then I suddenly heard some people
talking on the veranda just outside my window--the veranda runs all
round the house. At first I saw shadows passing, and then they sat down
outside. I recognised the soft voice of the Polish student directly,
and I heard her say to the wife of the mayor of J.: “Yes, my unfortunate
cousin’s experience has been a terrible one; that is because people sell
girls like merchandise, without asking them, and without their having
the least idea what they are in for.” I got up at once and sat down
close to the window behind the curtain so that I could hear everything.
The mayor’s wife said: “Yes, it’s horrible what one has to go through
when one is married. _My_ husband is not one of that sort but -- -- --”
And then I could not understand what she went on to say I overheard
this conversation on Thursday. But that’s not all I have to tell you. Of
course my first thought was, if only I could have a talk with her; for
she spoke about _enlightenment_ and although we are both of us already
_very much enlightened_, still, as a medical student, she must know a
great deal more than we do, so that we can learn from her. And since she
said that girls ought not to be allowed to _run blindly into marriage_,
I thought she would probably tell me a little if I went cautiously to
work. There was a word which she and the mayor’s wife used more than
once, _segsual_ and I don’t know what it means, and I’m sure you
don’t know either, darling Rita. She said something about _segsual
intimacies_; of course when people talk about _intimacies_, one knows
it has a meaning, but what on earth does segsual mean? It must mean
something, since it is used with _intimacy_. Well, let me get on. On
Saturday there was a party, and the medical student came, and I left my
Alpine Songs lying on the piano, and somebody picked it up and turned
over the pages, and the word went round that the person to whom it
belonged must sing something. At first I did not let on, but went out
for a moment, and then came back saying: “I’m looking for my music book,
I left it lying about somewhere.” There was a general shout, and everyone
said: “We’ve agreed that the person to whom that book belongs has got to
sing.” Now I knew that Fraulein Karwinska had accompanied the singing on
such evenings before. So I said: “I shall be delighted to sing, provided
Fraulein K. will accompany me, For you gentlemen play too loud for my
voice.” Great laughter, but I had got what I wanted. We were introduced,
and I thought to myself: You will soon improve the acquaintance. On
Sunday for once in a way I got up quite early, at half past 6, for
Fraulein K. can only go out walking early in the morning since she
spends the whole day with her cousin. She sits near the Luisenquelle,
so I went there with a book, and as soon as she came I jumped up, said
“good-morning,” and went on: “I’m afraid I’ve taken possession of _your_
bench.” “Not at all,” she said, “Do you study on Sundays?” “Oh no, this
is only light reading,” I answered, and I made haste to sit on the book,
for in my hurry I had not noticed what it was. But luck was with me. She
sat down beside me and said: “What is it you are reading that you hide
so anxiously? I suppose it’s something that your mother must not know
about.” “Oh no,” said I, “we have not brought any such books to the
country with us.” “I take it that means that you do manage to get them
when you are in town?” “Goodness me, one must try and learn a little
about _life_; and since no one will ever tell one anything, one looks
about for oneself to see if one can find anything in a book.” “In the
encyclopedia, I suppose?” “No, that’s no good, for one can’t always find
the truth there.” She burst out laughing and said: “What sort of truth
do you want?” “I think you can imagine very well what sort of things I
want to know.” Of course one can speak more plainly to a medical student
than one can to other girls, and she was not in the least disgusted or
angry but said: “Yes, it’s the same struggle everywhere.” Then I made use
of your favourite phrase and said: “Struggle, what do you mean? What I
really want to know about is being infected.” Then she flushed up and
said: “Who’s been talking to you about that? It seems to me that the
whole town is chattering about my unhappy cousin. You must see that _I_
can’t tell you that.” But I answered: “If you don’t, who will? _You_
study medicine, and are seeing and talking about such things all day.”
“No, no, my dear _child_ (you can imagine how furious that made me), you
are still much too young for _that sort of thing_.” What do you think
of that, we are too young at 14 1/2, it’s utterly absurd. I expect that
really her studies have not gone very far, and she would not admit it.
Anyhow, I stood up, and said: “I must not disturb you any longer,” and
bowed and went away; but I thought to myself: “A fig for her and her
_studies_; fine sort of a doctor _she_‘ll make!” What do you think
about it all? We shall still have to trust to the encyclopedia, and
after all a lot of what we can learn there is all right, and luckily we
know most things except the word segsual. Next winter I expect we shall
find it easier than we used to to get to the bookcase in your house. I
don’t bow to the silly idiot any more.
But darling Rita, with regard to the “innocent child,” I don’t want to
influence you in any way, and I shan’t be angry with you for preferring
an _unworthy_ person to me!!! Faithless though you are, I send you half
a million kisses, your ever faithful friend, H. P.S. I have been 4 days
writing this letter; tear it up, _whatever_ you do!!!
Now that I have copied the letter, I really can’t see why Hella wants me
to tear it up. There’s nothing so very dreadful in it. But there is one
thing I shan’t be able to do for Hella, to help her in looking up things
in the encyclopedia. I think I should always feel that Mother would
suddenly come in and stand behind us. No, I simply can’t do it.