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she can sit quite comfortably when she is reading. For Father we have bought a new brief bag because his own is so shabby that it makes us quite ashamed; but he always says: “It will do for a good while yet.” For a long time I did not know what to get for Aunt Dora, and at length we have decided upon a lace fichu; for she is awfully fond of lace. I am giving Hella a sketch book and a pencil case; she draws beautifully and will perhaps become an artist, for Dora I am getting a vanity bag and for Oswald a cigarette case with a horse’s head on it, for he is frightfully taken up with racing and the turf.

December 16th. Owing to Mother’s illness I’ve had simply no time to write anything about the school, although there has been a _great deal_ to write about, for example that Prof. W. is very friendly again, although he no longer gives us lessons, and that most of the girls can’t bear the Nutling because she makes such favourites of the Jewish girls. It’s quite true that she does, for example Franke, who is never any good, will probably get a Praiseworthy in Maths and Physics; and she lets Weinberger do anything she likes. I always get Excellent both for school work and prep.; so it really does not matter to me, but Berbenowitsch is frightfully put out because she is no longer the favourite as she was with Frau Doktor St. The other day it was quite unpleasant in the Maths lesson. In the answer to a sum there happened to be 1-3, and then the Nutling asked what 1-3 would be as a decimal fraction; so we went on talking about recurring [periodic] decimals and every time she used the word _period_, some of the girls giggled, but luckily some of them were Jews, and she got perfectly savage and simply screamed at us. In Frau Doktor St’s lesson in the First, some of the girls giggled at the same thing and she went on just as if she had not noticed it, but afterwards she always spoke of _periodic places_, and then one does not think of the real meaning so much. Frau Doktor F. said she should complain to Frau Doktor M. about our unseemly behaviour. But really all the girls had not giggled, for ex. Hella and I simply exchanged glances and understood one another at once. I can’t endure that idiotic giggling.

December 20th. Oswald came home to-day; he’s fine. It’s quite true that he has really had a moustache for a long time, but was not allowed to grow it at the Gymnasium; in boarding schools the barber comes every Saturday, and they _have_ to be shaved. He always says that at the Gymnasium everything manly is simply suppressed. I am so glad I am not a man and need not go to Gymnasium. Anyhow he has a splendid moustache now. Hella did not recognise him at first and drew back in alarm, she only knew him after a moment by his voice. We have reckoned it up, and find that she has not seen him since the Easter before last. At first he called her Fraulein, but her mother said: Don’t be silly. It did not seem silly to me, but most polite!!!

December 23rd. Mother is so delighted that Oswald is home again and he really is awfully nice; he is giving her a wonderful flowers-of-iron group representing a mountain scene with a forest, and in the foreground some roe deer as if in a pasture.

December 25th. Only time for a few words. Mother was very well yesterday, and it has not done her any harm to stay up so long. I am so happy. We both got a tie pin with a sapphire and 3 little diamonds, they have been made out of some earrings which Mother never wears now. But the nice thing about it is that they are made from her earrings. The satchel and Stifter’s Tales are awfully nice and so are the handkerchiefs with the coronet and everything else. Hella gave me a reticule with my monogram and the coronet as well. Oswald has given Dora and me small paperweights and Father a big one, bronze groups. We really need two writing tables, but there is no room for two. So I am going to arrange the little corner table as my writing table and have all my things there.

December 27th. At the Bruckners yesterday it was really awful. Hella’s mother is perfectly right; when anyone looks like _that_ she ought not to pay visits when she knows that other people may be there. Hella told me the day before yesterday how frightfully noticeable it is in her cousin that she is in an i– c–! Her mother was very much put out on her account and she wanted to prevent Emmy’s standing up. We were simply disgusted and horrified. But her husband is awfully gentle with her; She is certainly not pretty and especially the puffiness under her eyes is horrid. They say that many women look like that when they are pr. She was wearing a _maternity dress_, and that gives the whole show away! Hella says that some women look awfully pretty when they are in an i– c–, but that some look hideous. I do hope I shall be one of the first kind, if I ever . . . No, it is really horrible, even if it makes one pretty; when I think of Frau von Baldner and what she looked like last summer, yet Father has always said she is a a perfect beauty. Really no one is pretty in an i– c–. Soon after tea Hella and I went up to her room, and she said it had really been too much for her and that she could not have stood it much longer. And we went on talking about it for such a long time, that it really made both of us nearly ill. On Sunday Emmy and her husband are coming to dine with the Brs., and Hella begged me to ask her to dinner with us, or she would be quite upset. So of course she is coming here and thank goodness that will save her from feeling ill. And then she said that I must not think she wanted to come to us because of Oswald, but only for that _other_ reason. I understand that perfectly well, and she does not need to make any excuses to me.

29th. Hella came to dinner to-day, she was wearing a new dress, a light strawberry colour, and it suited her admirably. In the evening Oswald said: “two or three years more, and Hella will look ripping.” It does annoy me so this continual _will_. Hella’s father simply said of me that I _was_ charming,, and not that idiotic: I _was going to become_ charming. I do hate the way people always talk out into the future. However, Oswald paid Hella a great deal of attention. In the afternoon, when Hella and I were talking about him, I wanted to turn the conversation to Lajos, but she flushed up and said he was utterly false, for since October he had only been to see them once, on a Sunday, just when they were going to the theatre. Of course he says he does not care a jot about the visits unless he can see her alone. She can’t realise that that shows the greatness of his love. I understand it perfectly. But it is really monstrous that Jeno has asked after me only once, quite casually. And he really might have sent me a card at Christmas. But that’s what young men are like. The proverb really applies to them: Out of sight out of mind.

December 30th. Frau Richter called to-day, but only in the morning for a quarter of an hour. Not a word was said about Viktor, though I stayed in the drawing-room on purpose. Dora did not put in an appearance, though I’m sure she was at home. He is extraordinarily like his mother, he has the same lovely straight nose, and the small mouth and well- cut lips; but he is very tall and she is quite small half a head shorter than Mother. We owe them a call, but I don’t much think that we shall go.

December 31st. I really have no time, since this is New Year’s Eve, but I simply _must_ write. Dora and I went skating this morning, and we met Viktor on the ice; he went frightfully pale, saluted, and spoke to us; Dora wished to pass on, but he detained her and said that she must allow him to have a talk, so he came skating with us since she would not go to a confectioner’s with him. She was certainly quite right not to go to a confectioner’s. Of course I don’t know what they talked about, but in the afternoon Dora cried frightfully, and Viktor never said good-bye to me; it’s impossible that he can have forgotten, so either I must have been too far away at the time, or else Dora did not want him to; most likely the latter. I’m frantically sorry for him, for he is passionately in love with her. But she won’t come to her senses until it is too late. I don’t think she has said a word to Mother either. But all the afternoon she was playing melancholy music, and that shows how much she had felt it.

January 2nd. Yesterday I had no time to write because we had callers, pretty dull for the most part, the Listes and the Trobisches; Julie Tr. is such a stupid creature, and I don’t believe she knows the first thing about _those matters_; Annie is not quite all there, Lotte is the only tolerable one. Still, since we played round games for prizes, it was not as dull as it might have been, and Fritz and Rudl are quite nice boys. In the evening Mother was so tired out that Father said he really must put a stop to all this calling; I can’t say I care much myself for _that_ sort of visits, especially since Dora always will talk about _books_. People always talk about such frightfully dull books whenever they have nothing else to say. School began again to-day, with a German lesson thank goodness. Though I’m not superstitious in general, I must say I do like a good beginning. Besides, first thing in the morning we met two chimneysweeps, and without our having tried to arrange it in any way they passed us on our _left_. That ought to bring good luck.

January 5th. Most important, Hella since yesterday evening — — — –! She did not come to school yesterday, for the day before she felt frightfully bad, and her mother really began to think she was going to have another attack of appendicitis. Instead of that!!! She looks so ill and interesting, I spent the whole afternoon and evening with her; and at first she did not want to tell me what was the matter. But when I said I should go away if she did not tell me, she said: “All right, but you must not make such idiotic faces, and above all you must not look at me.” “Very well,” I said, “I won’t look, but tell me everything about it.” So then she told me that she had felt frantically bad, as if she was being cut in two, much worse than after the appendicitis operation, and then she had frantically high fever and shivered at the same time, all Friday, and yesterday — — — tableau!! And then her mother told her the chief things, though she knew them already. Earlier on Friday the doctor had said: “Don’t let us be in a hurry to think about a relapse, there may be _other!!_ causes.” And then he whispered to her mother, but Hella caught the word _enlighten_. Then she knew directly what time of day it was. She acted the innocent to her mother, as if she knew nothing at all, and her mother kissed her and said, now you are not a child any more, now you belong among the grown-ups. How absurd, so _I_ am still a child! After all, on July 30th I shall be 14 too, and at least one month before I shall have it too, so I shan’t be a _child_ for more than six months more. Hella and I laughed frightfully, but she is really a little puffed up about it; she won’t admit that she is, but I noticed it quite clearly. The only girl I know who did not put on airs when that happened was Ada. Because of the school Hella is awfully shy, and before her father too. But her mother has promised her not to tell him. If only one can trust her!!!

January 7th. Hella came to school to-day _in spite of everything_. I kept on looking at her, and in the interval she said: “I have told you already that you must not stare at me in that idiotic way, and this is the second time I’ve had to speak to you about it. One must not make a joke about such things.” I was not going to stand that. One must not look at her; very well, in the third lesson I sat turning away from her; then suddenly she hooked one of my feet with hers so that I nearly burst out laughing, and she said: “Do look round, for that way is even stupider.” Of course Dunker promptly called us to order, that is, she told Hella to go on reading, but Hella said promptly that she felt very unwell, and that what she had said to me was, she would have to go home at 12. All the girls looked at one another, for they all know what _unwell_ means, and Frau Doktor Dunker said Hella had better leave directly, but she answered in French –that pleases Dunker awfully–that she would rather stay till the end of the lesson. It was simply splendid!

January 12th. We went to the People’s Theatre to-day to the matinee of The Fourth Commandment. The parting from the grandmother was lovely; almost everyone was in tears. I managed to keep from crying because Dora was only two places from me, and so did Hella, probably for the same reason. Anyway she was not paying much attention to the play for in the main interval Lajos, who had been in the stalls, came up and said how d’you do to Hella and her mother. He wanted to go home with them after the performance. Jeno has mumps, it is a horrid sort of illness and if I had it I should never admit it. Those illnesses in which one is swelled up are the nastiest of all. The Sunday after next Lajos and Jeno have been invited to the Brs. and of course they asked me too, I am so glad.

January 18th. I have not written for a whole week, we have such a frantic lot of work, especially in French in which we are very backward, at least Dunker says so!! She can’t stand Madame Arnau, that’s obvious. For my part I liked Mad. Arnau a great deal better, if only because she had no pimples. And Prof. Jordan’s History class is awfully difficult, because he always makes one find out the causes for oneself; one has to learn _intelligently!_, but that is very difficult in History. No one ever gets an Excellent from him, except Verbenowitsch sometimes, but she learns out of a book, not our class book, but the one on which Herr Prof. J. bases his lectures. And because she reads it all up beforehand, naturally she always knows all the causes of the war and the _consequences_. Really _consequences_ means something quite different, and so Hella and I never dare look at one another when he is examining us and asks: What were the consequences of this event? Of course the Herr Prof. imagined that Franke was laughing at _him_ when she was only laughing at _consequences_; and it was impossible for her to explain, especially to a gentleman!!!!

January 20th. When Dora and I were coming home from skating to-day we met Mademoiselle, and I said how d’you do to her at once, and I was asking her how _she_ (much emphasised) was getting on, when suddenly I noticed that Dora had gone on, and Mademoiselle said: “Your sister seems in a great hurry, I don’t want to detain her.” When I caught Dora up and asked her: “Why did you run away?” she tossed her head and said: “That sort of company does not suit me.” “What on earth do you mean, you were so awfully fond of Mad., and besides she is really lovely.” That’s true enough, she said; but it was awfully tactless of her to tell me of all that– you know what. Such an intimacy behind her parents’ backs _cannot possibly lead to_ happiness. Then I got in such a fearful temper and said: “Oh do shut up. Father and Mother did not know anything about Viktor either, and you were happy enough then. It is just the secrecy that makes one so happy.” Then she said very softly: “Dear Grete, you too will change your views,” and then we did not say another word. But I was awfully angry over her meanness; for first of all she wanted to hear the whole story, although Mad. never offered to tell her, and now she pretends that _she_ did not wish it. If I only knew where to find Mad. I would warn her. Anyhow, this day week at 7 I shall take care to be in W. Street, and perhaps I may meet her, for she probably has a private lesson somewhere in that neighborhood.

January 24th. Mother is very ill again to-day, _in spite of_ the operation. I have decided that I won’t go on Sunday to the Brs. although Jeno will be there, and that I won’t wait about for Mademoiselle on Monday. I have not told Hella anything about this for she would probably say it was very stupid of me, but I would rather not; not because Dora has twice spoken to me pointedly about a _clear conscience_, but because I don’t enjoy anything when Mother is ill.

January 26th. Mother is an angel. Yesterday she asked Aunt Dora: “By the way, Dora, has Grete put a fresh lace tucker in her blue frock, ready for the Brs. to-morrow?” Then I said: “I’m not going Mother,” and Mother asked: “But why not, surely not on my account?” Then I rushed up to her and said: “I can’t enjoy anything when you are ill.” And then Mother was so awfully sweet, and she wept and said: “_Such moments_ make one forget all pains and troubles. But really you _must_ go, besides I’m a good deal better to-day, and to-morrow I shall be quite well again.” So I answered: “All right, I’ll go, but only if you are _really_ well. But you must tell me _honestly_.” But in any case I shan’t go to meet Mademoiselle on Monday.

January 28th. It was Mathematics to-day at school, so I could not write yesterday. We had a heavenly time on Sunday. We laughed till our sides ached and Hella was nearly suffocated with laughing. Lajos is enough to give one fits; it was absolutely ripping the way he imitated the wife of Major Zoltan in the Academy and Captain Riffl. I can hardly write about it, for my hand shakes so with laughing when I think of it. And then, while Hella and Lajos were singing songs together, Jeno told me that every student in the Neustadt has an inamorata, a _real_ one. Mostly in Vienna, but some in Wiener Neustadt though that is dangerous because of being caught. All the officers know about it, but no one must be found out. Then I told him about Oswald’s affair and he said: “Oswald was a great donkey, you’ll excuse me for saying so since he’s your brother; but really he made a fool of himself. He was only a civilian; it’s quite different in the army.” Then I got cross and said: “That’s all very well, Jeno, but you are not an officer yourself, so I don’t see how you can know anything about it.” Then he said to Hella: “I say, Ilonka, you must keep your friend in better order, she is rather inclined to be insubordinate.” She is to make a written note of every act of _insubordination_, and then he will administer _exemplary_ punishment. All very fine, but it will take two to that.

January 30th. I wish I knew whether Mademoiselle really passed through W. Street again at 7 o’clock on Monday, for she certainly said very distinctly: “Au revoir, ma cherie!” She is so pretty and so pale; perhaps she is really ill, and she must be awfully nervous about — — — That would be terrible. We wonder whether she knows about certain means, but one simply can’t tell her.

February 2nd. I’ve had a wonderful idea and Hella thinks it a positive inspiration. We are going to write anonymously to Mademoiselle about those means, and Hella will write, so that no one can recognise my writing. We think something of that sort must have happened to Mademoiselle, for the other day I heard Mother say to Aunt Dora: “If we had known that, we should never have engaged her for the children; it will be a terrible thing for her parents.” And Aunt Dora said: “Yes, those are the sort of people who hide their disgrace under the water.” It seems quite clear, for _disgrace_ means an _illegitimate_ child. And the worst of it is, that they know that she has done _that_. We must help the poor thing. And _that_ is why Dora is so indignant all of a sudden. But how can she know? there is nothing to notice yet in Mademoiselle; if there had been I should certainly have seen it, for Hella often says I’ve a keen eye for it. That is quite true, I was the first person to notice it in the maid at Prof. Hofer’s, when even Father had not noticed it.

February 4th. Well, we nave written to her, at least Hella has, saying there are _such_ means, and that she will find all the details in the encyclopedia. We have addressed it to F. M. and signed it “Someone who understands you.” Unfortunately we shall never be able to find out whether she got the letter, but the main thing is that she _should_.

February 7th. What a frightful lot of anxiety a letter can give one! In the interval to-day the school servant came up to me and said: Please are you Fraulein Lainer of the Third. “There is a letter for you.” I blushed furiously, for I thought, it must be from Mademoiselle, but my blushing made Frau Berger think it must be from a young man: “Really I ought to give it to the head mistress; I am not allowed to deliver any letters to the pupils, but in your case I will make an exception. But please remember if it happens again I shall have to hand it in to the office.” Then I said: “Frau Berger, I am quite certain it is not from a gentleman, but from a young lady,” and when she gave it to me I saw directly that it really was not from a gentleman but only from Ada! It really is too stupid of her! At the New Year she reproached me for having broken my word, and now she begs me to enquire at the Raimund Theatre or at the People’s Theatre whether Herr G. is there; she says she can’t live without him in St. P. But in the holidays she told me that she was not in love with him, that for her he was only _a means to an end_. I’m absolutely certain she said that. Nothing will induce me to go to enquire at a theatre _office_, and Hella says too that to make _such_ a suggestion is a piece of impudence. I shall just write her an ordinary letter, telling her what a row she might have got me into at school. I really think Ada has a bee in her bonnet, as Father always says.

February 10th. I never heard of such a thing! I was sent for to the office to-day because the school servant had complained that on two occasions I had thrown down some orange peel at the entrance. It’s quite true that I did drop one piece there yesterday, but I pushed it out of the way with my foot into the corner, and as for any other time I know nothing about it. But I see which way the wind is blowing. Frau Berger thought I would give her some money for that letter; just fancy, how absurd, money for a letter like that, I wouldn’t give 20 kreuzer for such a letter. But since then she’s been in a frightfully bad temper, I noticed it on Wednesday when we were wiping our shoes at the door. What I said to the head was: It happened only once, and I kicked the peel into the corner where no one could tread on it, but I certainly did not do it twice, and Bruckner can confirm what I say.” Then the head said: “Oh well, we need not make a state affair of it, but the next time you drop something, please pick it up.” Frau Berger is furious, and all we girls in our class have decided that while we won’t make more mess than we need, still, we shan’t be too particular. If any one of us happens to drop a piece of paper she will just let it lie. Such cheek, one really can’t stand it!

February 12th. We got our reports to-day. I have not got any Satisfactories, only Praiseworthy and Excellent. Father and Mother are awfully pleased and they have given each of us 2 crowns. Indeed Dora has practically nothing but Excellents, only three Praiseworthies; but she studies frantically hard, and she is learning Latin again with Frau Doktor M. If she is still teaching the lower classes next year, I shall go too, for that way we shall have her for 3 hours longer each week. By the way, Franke has actually got Praiseworthy in Maths. and Physics, though she’s hardly any good. The Nutling seems to give extraordinarily good reports, for twice in the Maths. schoolwork Hella has had an Unsatisfactory, and yet now in her report she has Praiseworthy. With Frau Doktor M. one has really to deserve one’s report, and it was just the same last year with Fr. Dr. St. The worst of all is with Herr Prof. Jordan. Not a single one of us has got an Excellent except that deceitful cat Verbenowitsch. To-morrow the Brs. are giving a great birthday party because of Hella’s 14th birthday. Lajos and Jeno are coming and the two Ehrenfelds, because Hella is very fond of them, especially Trude, the elder, that is she is 2 days older than Kitty, for they are _twins!!_ How awful!!! They only came to the Lyz this year, and Hella meets them skating every day, I don’t because we have no season tickets this year but only take day tickets when we can go, because of Mother’s illness. I am giving Hella an electric torch with a very powerful reflector, so that it really lights up the whole room, and an amber necklace.

February 14th. It’s a good thing that we have the half-term holiday to-day and to-morrow for that gives me time to write all about yesterday. It was simply phenomenal! I went to wish Hella many happy returns quite early, and I stayed to dinner and Lajos and Jeno had been invited to dinner too in the afternoon the 2 Ehrenfelds came and brought a box of sweets, and 3 of Hella’s girl cousins and two boys, one of whom is frightfully stupid and never speaks a word, and several aunts and other ladies, for the grown-ups had their friends too. But we did not bother about them, for the dining-room, Lizzi’s room, and Hella’s room had been arranged for us. Hella had been sent such a lot of flowers that they nearly gave us a headache. At dinner Lajos proposed a toast to Hella and another at tea. Hella was splendid, and in the evening she said to me: “At 14 one really does become a different being.” For in proposing his toast Lajos had said that every 7 years a human being is completely changed, and Hella thinks that is perfectly true. Thank goodness, _in 6 1/2 months I shall change my whole being too_. There really did seem to be something different about her, and when we all had to blow to extinguish the candles on her birthday cake, all except the life-light in the middle, as a sign that the other years have passed, she really got quite pale, for she was afraid that in joke or through awkwardness some one would blow out her life-light. Thank goodness it was all right. I don’t much care for such things myself, for I’m always afraid that something might happen. Of course I know that it’s only a superstition, but it would have been horribly unpleasant if anyone had blown out the life-light. _Openly!!_ Lajos gave Hella an enormous _square_ box of sweets, and _secretly!!_ a silver ring with a heart pendant. He wanted her to wear this until it is replaced by a _gold_ one–the _wedding_ ring. But she can’t because of her parents, so she begged me to allow her to say that I had given it her, but that would not do either because of Father and Mother. _These_ things are such a nuisance, and that is why no young man will ever go on living at home where one is continually being questioned about everything one has, and does, and wears. After tea we sang: “Had I but stayed on my lonely Hearth” and other sad songs, because they are the prettiest, and in the evening we danced while Hella’s Father played for us; and then Elwira, the tall cousin, danced the czardas with Lajos, it was wonderful. I’ve never known such a birthday party as yesterday’s. It’s only possible in winter; you can never have anything like it on my birthday, July 30th, for the people one is fondest of are never all together at that time. Really no one ought to have a birthday in the holiday months, but always sometime between the end of Sep- tember and June. I do wish I were 14, I simply can’t wait. Hella’s mother said to Hella, You are not a child any longer, but a grown-up; I do wish I were too!!!

February 16th. We have a new schoolfellow. All the girls and all the staff are delighted with her. She is so small she might be only 10, but awfully pretty. She has brown curls (Hella says foxy red, but I don’t agree) hanging down to her shoulders, large brown eyes, a lovely mouth, and a complexion like milk and roses. She is the daughter of a bank manager in Hamburg; he shot himself, I don’t know why. Of course she is in mourning and it suits her wonderfully. She has a strong North German accent. Frau Doktor Fuchs is simply infatuated with her and the head is awfully fond of her too.

February 19th. Hella and I walked home to-day with Anneliese. She is called Anneliese von Zerkwitz. Her mother has been so frightfully upset by her father’s death that she’ll probably have to be sent to a sanatorium; that is why Anneliese has come to Vienna to stay with her uncle. He is a professor and they live in Wiedner Hauptstrasse. Dora thinks her charming too, the whole school is in love with her, she is going to gym. with us; I am so glad. Of course she won’t stand near Hella and me because she’s so small; but we can always keep an eye on her, show her everything, and help her with the apparatus. Hella is a trifle jealous and says: “It seems to me that Anneliese has quite taken my place in your affections.” I said that was not a bit true, but did she not think Anneliese awfully loveable? “Yes,” said Hella, “but one must not neglect old friends on that account.” “I certainly shan’t do anything of the kind; but Anneliese really needs some one who will show her everything and explain everything.” Besides, the head mistress and Frau Doktor M. placed her in front of me and said to us: “Give her a helping hand.”

February 20th. It’s such a pity that I can’t ask Anneliese here, for Mother has been in bed for the last week. But she is going to Hella’s on Sunday, and since I am going too of course I am frightfully glad. Naturally I would much rather have her here; but unfortunately it’s impossible because of Mother. Dora thinks that Mother will have to have another operation, but I don’t believe it, for _such_ an operation can only be done _once_. What I can’t understand is why there should be anything wrong with Mother if the operation was successful. Dora is afraid that Mother has cancer, that would be horrible; but I don’t believe she has, because if one has cancer one can’t recover.

February 23rd. It was heavenly at the Bruckners! Anneliese did not come until 4, for they don’t have dinner until 3. She wore a white embroidered frock with black silk ribbons. Hella’s mother kissed her with tears in her eyes. For her mother really is in a sanatorium because is suffering from _nervous_ disease. Anneliese is living with her uncle and aunt. But she often cries because of her father and mother. Still, she enjoyed herself immensely in the round games, winning all the best prizes, a pocket comb and mirror, a box of sweets, a toy elephant, a negro with a vase, and other things as well. I won a pen- wiper, a double vase, a pencil holder, a lot of sweets, and a note book, Hella won a lot of things too, and so did her two cousins and Jenny.

Then we had some music and Anneliese sang the Wacht am Rhein and a lot of folk songs; her voice is as sweet as herself. She was fetched at 7, I stayed till 8.

March 1st. To-morrow Hella and I have been in vised to Anneliese’s. I am so awfully glad. I shall ask Mother to let me wear my new theatre blouse and the green spring coat and skirt. The temperature went up to 54 degrees to-day.

March 3rd. Yesterday we went to Anneliese’s. She shares a room with her cousin; she is only 11 and goes to the middle school, but she is a nice girl I expected to find everything frightfully smart at Professor Arndt’s, but it was not so at all. They have only 3 rooms not particularly well furnished. He has retired on a pension, Emmy is their granddaughter, she lives with them because her father is in Galicia, a captain or major I think. It was not so amusing as at Hella’s. We played games without prizes, and that is dull; it is not that one plays for the sake of the prizes, but what’s the use of playing if one does not win anything? Then they read aloud to us out of a story book. But what Hella and I found exasperating was that Anneliese’s uncle said “Du” to us both. For Hella is 14, and I shall be 14 in a few months. But Hella was quite right; in conversation she said: “At the High School only the mistresses say Du to us, the professors _have_ to say Sie.” Unfortunately he went away soon after, so we don’t know whether he took the hint. Hella says too that it was not particularly entertaining.

March 9th. Oh dear, Mother really has got cancer; of course Father has not told us so, but she has to have another operation. Dora has cried her eyes out and my knees are trembling. She’s going to hospital on Friday. Aunt Dora is coming back on Thursday and will stay here till Mother is well again. I do so dread the operation, and still more Mother’s going away. It’s horrible, but still lots of people have cancer and don’t die of it.

March 22nd. Mother is coming home again tomorrow. Oh I am so glad! Everything is so quiet
in the hospital and one hardly dares speak in the passages. Mother said: “I don’t want to stay here any longer, let me go back to my children.” We went to see Mother in hospital every day and took her violets and other flowers, for she was not allowed to eat anything during the first few days after the operation. But it’s quite different now that she’s home again. I should have liked to stay away from school to-day, but Mother said: “No, children, go to school, do it to please me.” So of course we went, but I simply could not attend to my lessons.

March 24th. Mother is asleep now. She looks frightfully ill and still has a lot of pain. I’m sure the doctors can’t really understand her case; for if they had operated properly she would not still have pain after the _second_ operation. I should like to know _what_ Mother has been talking to Dora about, for they both cried. Although Dora and I are on good terms now, she would not tell me, but said she had promised Mother not to speak about it. I can’t believe that Mother has told Dora a _secret_, but perhaps it was something about marrying. For Dora only said: “Besides, Mother did not need to say that to me, for my mind was quite made up in any case.” I do hate such hints, it’s better to say nothing at all. As soon as Mother can get up she is going to Abbazia for a change, and most likely Dora will go with her.

March 26th. Mother and Dora are going to Abbazzia next week. Dora thinks I envy her the journey, and she said: “I would _willingly_ renounce the jour- ney and the seaside if only Mother would get well And this year when I have to matriculate, I certainly should not go for pleasure.” I’m so awfully miserable that I simply can’t wear a red ribbon in my hair, though red suits me best. I generally wear a black one now, but since yesterday a brown one, for Mother said: “Oh, Gretel, do give up that black ribbon; it looks so gloomy and does not suit you at all. Of course I could not tell Mother _how_ I was feeling, so I took the brown one and said the red ribbon was quite worn out.

April 12th. I never get my diary written. It’s so gloomy at home for Mother is very bad. Oswald is coming home to-morrow for the Easter holidays and Mother is looking forward so to seeing him. I was to have gone with Hella and her father to Maria-Zell, for this year they are probably going to take a house for the summer in Mitterbach or Mitterberg near Maria-Zell. But I am not going after all, for I don’t feel inclined, and I think Mother is better pleased that I should not; for she said: “So I shall have all my three darlings together here at Easter.” When she said that I wanted to cry, and I ran quickly out of the room so that she might not see me. But she must have seen, for after dinner she said: “Gretel, if you really _want_ to go with the Bruckners, I should like you to; I should be so glad for you to have a little pleasure, you have not had much enjoyment all the winter.” And then I could not stop myself, and I burst out crying and said: “No, Mother, I won’t go on any account. All I want is that you should get quite well again.” And then Mother cried too and said: Darling, I’m afraid I shall never be quite well again, but I should like to stay until you are all grown up; after that you won’t need me so much.” Then Dora came in and when she saw that Mother was crying she said that Father had sent for me. He hadn’t really but in the evening she told me that Mother’s illness was hopeless, but that I must not do anything to upset her or let her see what I was feeling. And then we both cried a lot and promised one another that we would always stay with Father.

May 16th. Mother died on April 24th, the Sunday after Easter. We are all so awfully unhappy. Hardly anyone says a word at mealtimes, only Father speaks to us so lovingly. Most likely Aunt Dora will stay here for good. It’s not three weeks yet since Mother was buried, but in one way we feel as if she had already been dead three years, and in another way one is always suddenly wanting to go into her room, to ask her something or tell her something. And when we go to bed we talk about her for such a long time, and then I dream about her all night. Why should people die? Or at least only quite old people, who no longer have anyone to care about it. But a mother and a father ought never to die. The night after Mother died Hella wanted me to come and stay with them, but I preferred to stay at home; but late in the evening I did not dare to go into the hall alone, so Dora went with me. Father had locked the door into the drawing-room, where Mother was laid out, but all the same it was awfully creepy. They did not call me on the 24th until after Mother was dead; I should have so liked to see her once more. Good God, why should one die? If only I had been called Berta after her; but she did not wish that either of us should be called after her, nor did Father wish it in Oswald’s case.

May 19th. When Mother was buried, one thing made me frightfully angry with Dora, at least not really angry but hurt, that _she_ should have gone into church and come out of church with Father. For _I_ have always gone with Father and Dora has always gone with Mother. And while poor Mother was in hospital, Dora went with Aunt. But at the funeral Father went with her, and I had to go with Aunt Dora. A few days later I spoke to her about it, and she said it was quite natural because she is the elder. She said that Oswald ought to have gone with me, that that would have been the proper thing. But he went alone. Another thing that annoys me is this; when Aunt Dora came here in the autumn, Dora and I sat on the same side of the table at dinner and supper, and Aunt sat opposite Mother, and when Mother took to her bed her place was left vacant. After she died Oswald sat on the fourth side, and now for about a week Dora has been sitting in Mother’s place. I can’t understand how Father can allow it!

May 19th. At dinner to-day no one could eat anything. For we had breast of veal, and we had had the same thing on the day of poor Mother’s funeral, and when the joint was brought in I happened to look at Dora and saw that she was quite red and was sobbing frightfully. Then I could not contain myself any more and said: “I can’t eat any breast of veal, for on Mother’s burial day — — –,” then I could not say any more, and Father stood up and came round to me, and Dora and Aunt Dora burst out crying too. And after dinner Aunt promised us that we should never have breast of veal again. For tea, Aunt Dora ordered an Ulm cake because we had eaten hardly anything at dinner.

May 26th. To-day is the first day of Dora’s written matriculation. Father wanted her to withdraw because she looks so ill, but she would not for she said it would be a distraction for her and that she would like to finish with the High School. Next year she is to go to a preparatory school for the Gymnasium. She ought really to go to a dancing class, for she is nearly 17, but since she is in mourning it is quite impossible and of course she does not want to go anyhow. The head thought too that Dora would withdraw from the examination because she is so overwrought, but she did not want to withdraw. The staff were so awfully sweet to us after Mother’s death, at least the women teachers were. The professors don’t bother themselves about our private concerns, for they only see us for 1 or 2 hours a week. Frau Doktor Steiner, from whom we don’t have any lessons this year, was awfully sympathetic; I saw plainly that she had tears in her eyes, and Frau Doktor M. was an angel as she always is! We did not go to the spring festival on May 20th, though Father said we could go if we liked. Hella and Anneliese were awfully anxious that I should go; but I would not, and indeed I shall never go to any more amusements. No doubt the others enjoyed themselves immensely, but for Dora and me it would have been horrible. In the evenings I often fancy to myself that it is not really true, that Mother has simply gone to Franzensbad and will be back soon. And then I cry until my head aches or until Dora says: “Oh Gretel, I do wish you’d stop, it’s awful.” She often cries herself, I can hear her quite well, but _I_ never say anything.

June 4th. So Dora looks upon Mother’s death as _a sign of God’s displeasure against Father!_ But what could _we_ have done to prevent it? She said, Oh, yes, we did a lot of things we ought not to have done, and above all we had secrets from Mother. That is why God has punished us. It’s horrible, and now that she is always speaking of the eye of God and the finger of God it makes me so terribly afraid to go into a dark room, because I always feel there is some one there who is eying me and wants to seize me.

June 8th. Father is in a frightful rage with Dora; yesterday evening, when I opened the drawing-room door and there was Father coming out, quite unintentionally I gave a yell, and when Father asked
what was the matter I told him about God’s displeasure; only I did not tell him it was against him, but only against Dora and me. And then Father was frightfully angry for the first time since Mother’s death, and he told Dora she was not to upset me with her ill-conditioned fancies, and Dora nearly had an attack of palpitation so that the doctor had to be sent for. Aunt came to sleep in our room and we both had to take bromide. To-day Father was awfully kind to us and said: “Girls, you’ve no reason to reproach yourselves, you have always been good children, and I hope you always will be good.” Yes, I will be, for Mother’s eye watches over us. Hella thinks I look very poorly, and she asked me to-day whether perhaps . . . . ?? But I told her that I would not talk about such things any more, that it would be an offence to my Mother’s memory. She wanted to say something more, but I said: “No, Hella, I simply won’t talk about _that_ any more. You can’t understand, because your mother is still alive.”

June 12th. It is awful; just when I did not want to think any more about _such_ things, there comes an affair of that very sort! I’m in a frightful mess through no fault of my own. Just after 9 to-day a girl from the Second came in to our Mathematic les- son and said: “The head mistress wishes to see Lainer, Bruckner, and Franke in the office directly. All the girls looked at us, but we did not know why. When we came into the office, the door of the head’s room was shut and Fraulein N. told us to wait. Then the head came out and called me in. Inside a lady was sitting, and she looked at me through a lorgnon. “Do you spend much time with Zerkwitz?” asked the head. Yes, said I, and I had a foreboding. “This lady is Zerkwitz’s mother, she complains that you talk about very improper things with her daughter; is it so?” “Hella and I never wanted to tell her anything; but she begged us to again and again, and besides we thought she really knew it anyhow and only pretended she didn’t.” “_What_ did you think she knew, and what did you talk to her about?” broke in Anneliese’s mother. “Excuse me,” said the head, “I will examine the girls; so Bruckner was concerned in the matter too?” “Very seldom,” said I; “Yes, the chief offender is Lainer, _the girl whose mother died recently_.” Then I choked down my tears, and said: “We should never have said a word about these matters unless Anneliese had kept on at us.” After that I would not answer any more questions. Then Hella was called in. She told me afterwards that she knew what was up directly she saw my face. “What have you been talking about to Zerkwitz?” Hella would not say at first, but then she said in as few words as possible: “About getting babies, and about being married!” “Gracious goodness, such little brats, and to talk about _such_ things,” said Anneliese’s mother. “Such corrupt minds.” “We did not believe that Anneliese did not _really_ know, or we should never have told her anything,” said Hella just as I had; she was simply splendid. “As regards Alfred, we have nothing to do with that, and we have often advised her not to allow him to meet her coming home from school; but she would not listen to us.” “I am talking about your conversations with which you have corrupted the poor innocent child,” said Frau von Zerkwitz. “She certainly must have known something about it before, or she would not have gone with Alfred or wanted to talk about it with us,” said Hella. “Heavenly Father, that is worse still; such corruptness of mind!” Then we were sent out of the room. Outside, Hella cried frightfully, and so did I, for we were afraid there would be a row at home. We could not go back into the Mathematic lesson because we had been crying such a lot. In the interval Hella walked past Anneliese and said out loud: “Traitress!!” and spat at her. For that she was ordered out of the ranks. I stepped out of the ranks too, and when Frau Professor Kreindl said: “Not you, Lainer, you go on,” I said: “Excuse me, I spat at her _too_,” and went and stood beside Hella. All the girls looked at us. It was plain that Frau Prof. Kreindl knew all about it already for she did not say any more. In the German lesson from 11 to 12 Frau Doktor M. said: “Girls, why can’t you keep the peace together? This continual misconduct is really too bad, and serves only to make trouble for you and for your parents and for us.” Just before 12 Hella and I were summoned to the head’s room again. “Girls,” she said, “it’s a horrible business this. Even if your own imaginations have been prematurely poisoned, why should you try to corrupt others? As for you, Lainer, you ought to be especially ashamed of yourself that such complaints should be made of you when your mother has been buried only a few weeks.” “Excuse me,” said Hella, “all this happened in the spring, and even earlier, in the winter, for we were still skating at the time. Rita’s mother was pretty well then. Besides, Zerkwitz was continually pestering us to tell her. I often warned Rita, and said: “Don’t trust her,” but she was quite infatuated with Zerkwitz. Please, Frau Direktorin, don’t say anything about it to Rita’s father, for he would be frightfully upset.”

Hella was simply splendid, I shall never forget. She does not want me to write that; we are writing together. Hella thinks we must write it all down word for word, for one never can tell what use it may be. No one ever had a friend like Hella, and she is so brave and clever. “You are just as clever,” she says, “but you get so easily overawed, and besides you are still quite nervous because of your mother’s death. I only hope your father won’t hear anything about it.” That stupid idiot dug up the old story about the two students on the ice, a thing that was over and done with ages ago. “You should never trust anyone,” says Hella, and she’s perfectly right. I never could have believed Anneliese would be such a sneak. We don’t know yet what was up with Franke. As she came in she put her finger to her lips, meaning of course “Betray nothing!”

June 15th. The school inspector came to-day. I was at the blackboard in the Maths lesson, when there was a knock at the door and the head came in with the Herr Insp. For a moment I thought he had come about _that matter_, and I went as white as a sheet (at least the girls say I did; Hella says I looked like Niobe mourning for her children). Thank goodness, the sum was an easy one, and besides I can always do sums; in Maths and French I am the best in the class. But the Herr Insp. saw that I had tears in my eyes and said something to the head; then the head said: “She has recently lost her mother.” Then the Herr Insp. praised me, and like a stupid idiot I must needs begin to howl. The head said: “It’s all right L., sit down,” and stroked my hair. She is so awfully sweet, and I do hope that she and Frau Doktor M. will say a word for me at the Staff Meeting. And I do hope that Father won’t hear anything of it, for of course he would reproach me dreadfully because it all comes so soon after Mother’s death. But really it all happened long before that. The way it all happened was that Hella’s mother went away to see Emmy, her married niece, who was _having her first baby_. And then it was that we told the “innocent child” (that’s what we call the deceitful cat) everything. Hella still thinks that the “innocent child” was a humbug. That is quite likely, for after all she is nearly fourteen; and at 14 one must _surely_ know a great deal already; it’s impossible that at that age a girl can continue to believe in the stork story, as Anneliese is said!!! to have done. Hella thinks that I shall soon be “developed” too, because I always have such black rings under my eyes. I overheard Frau von Zerkwitz say, “Little brats;” but Hella says that the head _hemmed loudly to drown it_. Afterwards Hella was in fits of laughter over the expression “little brats” for her mother always says about _such_ things; _Little brats_ like you have no concern with such matters. Good Lord, when is one to learn all about it if one does not know when one is nearly 14! As a matter of fact both Hella and I learned these things _very early_, and it has not done us any harm. Hella’s mother always says that if one learns such things too early one gets to look old; but of course that’s nonsense. But why do mothers not want us to know? I suppose they’re just ashamed.

June 16th. Yesterday evening after we had gone to bed, Dora said: “What were you really talking about to Z., or whatever her name is? The head called me into the office to-day and told me that you had been talking of improper matters. She said I must watch over you in _Mother’s place!_” Well that would be a fine thing! Besides, it all happened when Mother was still alive. A mother never knows what children are talking of together. Dora thinks that I shall have a written Reprimand from the Staff Meeting. I should hate that because of Father; that would mean another fearful row; although Father is really awfully sweet now; I have not had a single rowing since Mother first got ill. It’s quite true that death makes people gentle, but why? Really one would have thought people would get disagreeable, because they’ve been so much distressed. Last week the tombstone was put up and we all went to see it. I should like to go alone to the cemetery once at least, for one does not like to weep before the others.

June 18th. The “innocent child” does not come to gym. any longer, at least she has not been since _that affair_. We think she’s afraid, although we should not say anything to her. We punish her with _silent contempt_, she’ll _feel_ that _more than anything_. And thank goodness she does not come to play tennis. I do hate people who are _deceitful_, for one never knows where to have them. When a girl tells an outright cram, then I can at least say to her: Oh, clear out, don’t tell such a frightful whacker; I was not born yesterday. But one has no safeguard against _deceitfulness_. That’s why I don’t like cats. We have another name for the “innocent child,” we call her the “red cat.” I think she knows. Day after tomorrow is the school outing to Carnuntum. I am so excited. We have to be at the quay at half past 7.

June 21st. The outing was lovely. Hella was to come and fetch me. But she overslept herself, so her mother took a taxi; and luckily I had waited for her. I should like to be always driving in a taxi. Dora would not wait, and went away at a quarter to 7 by electric car. At a quarter to 8 Hella came in the taxi, and just before the ship weighed anchor (I believe one ought only to say that of a sailing ship at sea, but it does not matter, I’m not Marina who knows _everything_ about the navy), that is just at the right moment, we arrived. They all stared at us when we came rushing up in the taxi. I tumbled down as I got out of the car, it was stupid; but I don’t think they all noticed it. Aunt Dora said that for this one day we had better put off our mourning, and Father said so too, so we wore our white embroidered frocks and Aunt Dora was awfully good and had made us black sashes; it looked frightfully smart, and they say that people wear mourning like that in America. I do love America, the land of liberty. Boys (that is young students) and girls go to school _together_ there!! — — — But about the outing. In the boat we sat next Frau Doktor M., she was awfully nice; Hella was on the right and I was on the left, and we sat so close that she said: “Girls, you’re squashing me, or at least you’re crushing my dress!” She was wearing a white frock and had a coral necklace which suited her simply splendidly. When we were near Hainburg Hella’s hat fell into the Danube, and all the girls screamed because they thought a child had fallen overboard. But thank goodness it was only the hat. We went up the Schlossberg and had a lovely view, that is, _I_ did not look at anything except Frau Doktor M. because she was so lovely; Professor Wilke was with us, and he went about with her all the time. The girls say he will probably marry her, perhaps in the holidays. Oh dear, _that_ would be horrid. Hella thinks that is quite out of the question because of the German professor; at any rate it would be better for her to marry Professor W. than the other, because he is said to be a Jew. “Still, with regard to all the things that hang upon marriage, it’s the same with every man,” said I. “That’s just the chief point, you little goose,” said Hella. And Frau Doktor M. said: “Do you allow your chum to talk to you like that? What is the chief point?” I was just going to say: “We _can’t_ tell you _that_,” when Hella interrupted me and said: “Just because I’m her chum I can talk to her like that; she would not let anyone else do it.” Then we went to dinner. Unfortunately we did not sit next “_her_.” We had veal cutlets and four pieces of chocolate cake, and as the Herr Religionsprof. went by he said: “How many weeks have you been fasting?” Before dinner we went to the museum to see the things they had dug up in the Roman camp. The head mistress and Fraulein V. explained everything. It was most instructive. In the afternoon we went to Deutsch- Altenburg. It was great fun at tea. Then we had games and all the staff joined in, the Fifth had got up a comedy by one of the girls. We were all in fits of laughter. Then suddenly there came along a whole troop of officers of the flying corps, frightfully smart, and one of them sat down at the piano and began to play dance music. Another came up to the head and begged her to allow the “young ladies” to dance. The head did not want to at first, but all the girls of the Fifth and Sixth begged her to, and the Herr Rel. Prof. said: “Oh, Frau Direktorin, let them have the innocent pleasure,” and so they really were allowed to dance. The rest of us either danced with one another or looked on. And then, when Hella and I were standing right in front, up came a splendid lieutenant and said: “May I venture to separate the two friends for a little dance?” “If you please,” said I, and sailed off with him. To dance with a lieutenant is glorious. Then the same lieutenant danced with Hella and in the evening on the way home she said that the lieutenant had really wanted to dance with her first, but I had been so prompt with my “If you please” and had placed my hand on his shoulder. Of course that’s not true, but it is not a thing one would quarrel about with one’s best friend, and anyhow he danced with both of us. Unfortunately we were not able to dance very long because we got so hot. Oh, and I had almost forgotten, a captain with a black moustache saluted Frau Doktor M., for they know one another. She blushed furiously; so he is probably the man she will marry, and not Herr Prof. Wilke and not the Jewish professor. He would please me a great deal better. They were all so awfully smart! Before we left a lieutenant brought in a huge bunch of roses, and the officers gave a rose to each member of the staff, the ladies I mean. Then something awfully funny happened. There is a girl in the Sixth who looks quite old, as if she might be 24, and “our” lieutenant offered her a rose too. And then she said: “No thank you, I am not one of the staff, I’m in the Sixth.” Everyone burst out laughing, and she was quite abashed because the lieutenant had taken her for one of the staff. And the Herr Rel. Prof. said to her: “Tschapperl, you might just as well have taken it.” But really she was quite right to refuse. I think there must have been 20 officers at least. Of course Hella told the lieutenant that she was a colonel’s daughter. I wonder if we shall ever see him again.

I am writing this four days after the outing. Dora told me yesterday that when I was dancing with the lieutenant the Herr Rel. Prof. said to the Frau Direktorin: “Do just look at that young Lainer; little rogue, see what eyes she’s making.” Making eyes, forsooth! I did not make eyes, besides, what does it mean anyhow to make eyes!! Of course I did not shut my eyes; if I had I should probably have fallen down, and then everyone would have laughed. And I don’t like being laughed at. I hardly saw Dora all through the outing, and she did not dance. She said very cuttingly: “Of course not, for after all we _are_ in mourning, even if we did wear white dresses; you are only a child, for whom that sort of thing does not matter.” _That sort of thing_, as if I had done something dreadful! I don’t love Mother any the less, and I don’t forget her. Father was quite different; the day before yesterday evening he said: “So my little witch has made a conquest; you’re beginning early. But it’s no good taking up with an officer, little witch, they’re too expensive.” But I would like to have the lieutenant, I would go up with him in an aeroplane, up, up, till we both got quite giddy. In the religion lesson yesterday, when the Herr Prof. came in he laughed like anything and said: “Hullo, Lainer, is the world still spinning round you? The Herr Leutnant has not been able to sleep since.” So I suppose he knows him. Still, I’m quite sure that he has not lost his sleep on my account, though very likely he said so. If I only knew what his name is, perhaps Leo or Romeo; yes, Romeo, that would suit him admirably!

June 26th. When I was writing hard yesterday Aunt Alma came with Marina and that jackanapes Erwin who was really responsible for all the row that time. Since Mother died we have been meeting again. I don’t think Mother liked Aunt Alma much, nor she her. Just as Father and Aunt Dora are not particularly fond of one another. It is so in most families, the father does not care much for the mother’s brothers and sisters and vice versa. I wonder why? I wonder whether _He_ has a fiancee, probably he has, and what she looks like. I wish I knew whether He likes brown hair or fair hair or black hair best. But about the visit! Of course Marina and I were _very_ standoffish. She is so frightfully conceited because she goes to the Training College. As if that were something magnificent! The High School is much more important,
for from the High School one goes on to the university, but not from the Training College; and they don’t learn English, nor French properly, for it is only optional. Aunt Alma knows that it annoys Father when anyone says we don’t look well, so she said: “Why, Dora looks quite overworked; thank goodness it’s nearly over, and she won’t get much out of it after all, it’s really better for a girl to become a teacher.” Erwin lounged in his chair and said to me: “Do you dare me to spit on the carpet?” “You are ill-bred enough to do it; I can’t think why Marina, the future schoolmistress, does not give you a good smacking,” said I. Then Aunt Alma chimed in: “What’s the matter children? What game are you playing?” “It’s not a game at all; Erwin wants to spit on the carpet and he seems to think that would be all right.” Then Aunt said something to him in Italian, and he pulled a long nose at me behind Father’s back, but I simply ignored it; little pig, and yet he’s my cousin! Kamillo is supposed to have been just as impudent as Bub. But we have never seen him, for he has been in Japan as an ensign for the last two years. Mourning does not suit Marina at all; there’s a provincial look about her and she can’t shake it off. Her clothes are too long and she has not got a trace of b–, although she was 17 last September; she is disgustingly thin.

June 27th. The Herr Insp. came to our class to- day, in French this time. Frau Doktor Dunker is always frightfully excited by his visits, and at the beginning of the lesson she said: “Girls, the Inspector is coming to-day; pull yourselves together; please don’t leave me in the lurch.” So it must be true what Oswald always says that the inspectors come to inspect the teachers and not the pupils. “At the inspection,” Oswald often says, “every pupil has the professor in his hands.” Being first, of course I was called upon, and I simply could not think what “trotteur” meant. I would not say “Trottel” [idiot], and so I said nothing at all. Then Anneliese turned round and whispered it to me, but of course I was not going to say it after her, but remained speechless as an owl. At length the Herr Inspektor said: “Translate the sentence right to the end, and then you’ll grasp its meaning.” But I can’t see the sense of that; for if I don’t know one of the words the sentence has no meaning, or at least not the meaning it ought to have. If Hella had not been absent to-day because of — –, she might have been able to whisper it to me. Afterwards Frau Doktor Dunker reproached me, saying that no one could ever trust anyone, and that I really did not deserve a One. “And the stupidest thing of all was that you laughed when you did not know a simple word like that.” Of course I could not tell her that my first thought had been to translate it “Trottel.” Unseen translation is really too difficult for us.

June 28th. The Staff Meeting is to-day. I’m on tenter hooks to know whether I shall have a Reprimand, or a bad conduct mark in my report. That would be awful. It does not matter so much to Hella, for her father has just gone away to manoeuvres in Hungary or in Bosnia, and by the time he is back the holidays will have begun and no one will be bothering about reports any more. So I shall know to-morrow. Oh bother, to-morrow is a holiday and next day is Sunday. So for another 2 1/2 days I shall have “to linger in suspense,” but a different sort of suspense from what Goethe wrote about.

June 30th. We were at home yesterday and this afternoon because of Dora’s matriculation. The Bruckners went to Breitenstein to visit an aunt, who is in a convalescent home, and so I could not go with them. In the evening we went to Turkenschanz Park to supper, but there was nothing on. By the way, I have not written anything yet about the “innocent child” at the outing. On the boat she began fussing round Hella and me and wanted to push into the conversation, indirectly of course! But she did not succeed; Hella is extraordinarily clever in such matters; she simply seemed to look through her Really I’m a little sorry for her, for she hasn’t any close friends beyond ourselves; but Hella said: “Haven’t you had enough of it yet? Do you want to be cooked once more with the same sauce?” And when Hella’s hat fell into the water and we were still looking after it in fits of laughter, all of a sudden we found Anneliese standing behind us offering Hella a fine lace shawl which she had brought with her for the evening because she so readily gets earache. “Wouldn’t you like to use this shawl, so that you won’t have to go back to Vienna without a hat?” “Please don’t trouble yourself, I’m quite used to going about bare-headed.” But the _way_ she said it, like a queen! I _must_ learn it from her. She is really shorter than I am, but at such moments she looks just like a grown- up lady. I told her as much, and she rejoined: “Darling Rita, you can’t _learn_ a thing like that; it’s _inborn_.” She rather annoyed me, for she always seems to think that an officer’s daughter is a thing apart.

July 1st. Thank goodness, everything has passed off without a public scandal. Frau Doktor M. spoke to me in the corridor, saying: “Lainer, you’ve had a narrow escape. If certain voices had not been raised on your behalf, I really don’t know — — –.” Then I said: “I’m quite certain, Frau Doktor, that you alone have saved me from a Bad Conduct Mark.” And I kissed her hand. “Get along, you little baggage, for the one part simply a child, and for the other with your head full of thoughts which grown-ups would do well to dispense with.”

After all, one can’t help one’s _thoughts_, and we shall be more careful in future as to the persons to whom we talk about _that sort of thing_. Here’s another thing I forgot to mention about the outing: When we got back into Vienna by rail, most of the parents came to meet us at the station; Father was there too, and so was the “innocent child’s” mother. Thank goodness Father did not know her. When we got out of the train there was a great scrimmage, because we were all trying to sort ourselves to our parents, and suddenly I heard Hella’s voice: “No, Madam, your child is not in our bad company.” I turned round sharply, and there was Hella standing in front of Frau von Zerkwitz who had just asked her: “Hullo, _you_, what has become of my little Anneliese?” The answer was splendid; I should never have been able to hit upon it; I always think of good repartees after the event. It was just the same that time when the old gentleman in the theatre asked Hella if she was alone there, and she snapped at him. He said: Impudent as a Jewess, or an impudent Jewess! It was too absurd, for first of all it’s not impudent to make a clever repartee, and secondly it does not follow because one can do it that one is a Jewess. So Hella finished up by saying to him: “No, you’ve made a mistake, you are not speaking to one of your own sort.”

We break up on the 6th; but because of Dora’s matriculation we are staying here until the 11th. Then we are going to Fieberbrunn in Tyrol, and this year we shall stay in a hotel, so I am awfully pleased. Hella had a splendid time there last year

July 2nd. My goodness, to-day I have . . . ., no, I can’t write it plain 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.




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.

July 31st. The family is called Scharrer von Arneck, and the father is 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 unhappi- ness, 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.