Chapter 16

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.

LAST HALF-YEAR, AGE FOURTEEN AND A HALF

LAST HALF-YEAR