Part 12

July 18th. Something splendid, we are -- -- -- But no, I must write it all out in proper order. Oswald came home yesterday, he is in great form and said jokingly to Dora that she is so pretty he thinks he would fall in love with her if she were not his sister. Just before it was time to go to supper, Mother called us in, and I was rather annoyed when I saw that it was only a quarter to 8. Then Father came in with a paper in his hand as he often does when he comes back from the office, and said: “Dear Oswald and you two girls, I wanted to give you and especially Oswald a little treat because of the matriculation.” Aha, I thought, the great prize after all! Then Father opened the paper and said: “You have often wondered as children why we have no title of nobility like the other Lainers. My grandfather dropped it, but I have got it back again for you Oswald, and also for you two girls. Henceforward we shall call ourselves Lanier von Lainsheim like Aunt Anna and your uncles.” Oswald was simply speechless and I was the first to pull myself together and give Father a great hug. But first of all he said: “Do credit to the name.” Oswald went on clearing his throat for a frightfully long time, and then he said: Thank you, Father, I shall always hold the name in trust, and then they kissed one another. We were on our best behaviour all through the evening, although Mother had ordered roast chicken and Father had provided a bottle of champagne. I am frightfully happy; it’s so splendid and noble. Think of what the girls will say, and the staff! I’m frantically delighted. To-morrow I must write and tell Hella all about it.

July 19th. I’ve managed it beautifully. I did not want to write just: We are now noble, so I put it all in the signature, simply writing Always your loving friend Rita Lainer von Lainsheim. I told Resi about it first thing this morning, but Father scolded me about that at dinner time and said it was quite unnecessary; it seems the nobility has gone to your head. Nothing of the sort, but it’s natural that I should be frightfully glad and Dora too has covered a whole sheet of paper writing her new name. Father says it does not really make us any different from what we were before, but that is not true, for if it were he would not have bothered to revive the title. He says it will make it easier for Oswald to get on, but I’m sure there’s more in it than that. Resi told the landlord about it and in the afternoon he and his wife called to congratulate us.

July 20th. Oswald says he won’t stay here, it’s much too dull, he is going for a walking tour through the Alps, to Grossglockner, and then to the Karawanken. He will talk of Father as the “Old Man,” and I do think it is so vulgar. Dora says it is absolutely _flippant_.

July 24th. Hella’s answer came to-day; she congratulates me most heartily, and then goes on to write that at first she was struck dumb and thought I’d gone crazy or was trying to take her in. But her mother had already heard of it from her father for it had been published in the Official Gazette. Now we are both noble, and that is awfully nice. For I have often been annoyed that she was noble when I was not.

July 25th. Oswald left to-day. Father gave him 300 crowns for his walking tour, because of the matriculation. I said: “In that case I shall matriculate as soon as I can” and Oswald said: “For that one wants rather more brains in one’s head than you girls have.” What cheek, Frau Doktor M. passed the Gymnasium matriculation and Frau Doktor Steiner passed it too as an extra. Dora said quietly: Maybe I shall show you that your sister can matriculate too; anyhow you have always said yourself that the chief thing you need to get through the matriculation is cheek. Then I had a splendid idea and said: “But we girls have not got cheek, we _study_ when we have to pass an examination!” Mother wanted us to make it up with him, but we would not. In the evening Dora said to me: Oswald is frantically arrogant, though he has had such a lot of Satisfactories and has only just scraped through his exam. By the way here’s another sample of Oswald’s stupidity; directly after the wire: “Finis with Jubilation” came another which ought to have arrived first, for it had been handed in 4 hours earlier, with nothing but the word “Through” [Durch]. Mother was frightfully upset by it for she was afraid it really meant _failed_ [durchgefallen], and that the other telegram had been only an idiotic joke. Dora and I would never condescend to such horseplay. Father always says Oswald will sow all his wild oats at the university, but he said to-day that he was not going to the university, but would study mining, and then perhaps law.

July 29th. It’s sickeningly dull here, I simply don’t know what to do; I really can’t read and swing the whole day long, and Dora has become as dull as she used to be; that is, even duller, for not only does she not quarrel, but she won’t talk, that is she won’t talk about _certain things_. She is perfectly crazy about the baby of the young couple in the mezzanin; he’s 10 months old, and I can’t see what she sees to please her in such a little pig; she’s always carrying him about and yesterday he made her all wet, I wished her joy of it. It made her pretty sick, and I hope it will cure her infatuation.

Thank goodness to-morrow is my birthday, that will be a bit of a change. To-morrow we are going to the Parapluie Berg, but I hope we shan’t want our umbrellas. Father is coming back at 1 so that we can get away at 2 or half past. Hella has sent me to-day a lock-up box for letters, etc.!!! of course filled with sweets and a tremendously long letter to tell me how _she_ is getting on in Gastein. But they are only going to stay a month because it is frantically expensive, a roll 5 krenzer and a bottle of beer 1 crown. And the rolls are so small that one simply has to eat 3 for breakfast and for afternoon tea. But it’s awfully smart in the hotel, several grooms; then there are masses of Americans and English and even a consul’s family from Sydney in Australia.--I spend most of the day playing with two dachshund puppies. They are called Max and Moritz, though of course one of them is a bitch. That is really a word which one ought not to write, for it means something, at least in its other meaning.

THIRD YEAR, AGE THIRTEEN TO FOURTEEN

THIRD YEAR

July 31st. Yesterday was my birthday, the thirteenth. Mother gave me a clock with a luminous dial which I wanted for my night-table. Of course that is chiefly of use during the long winter nights; embroidered collars; from Father, A Bad Boy’s Diary, which one of the nurses lent Hella when she was in hospital; it’s such a delightfully funny book, but Father says it’s stupid because no boy could have written all that, a new racquet with a leather case, an awfully fine one, a Sirk, and tennis balls from Dora. Correspondence cards, blue-grey with silver edge. Grandfather and Grandmother sent a basket of cherries, red ones, and a basket of currants and strawberries; the strawberries are only for me for my birthday. Aunt Dora sent three neckties from Berlin for winter blouses. In the afternoon we went to the Par.-Berg. It would have been awfully jolly if only Mother could have gone too or if Hella had been there.

August 1st. I got a letter from Ada to-day. She sends me many happy returns, for she thinks it is on the 1st of August, and then comes the chief thing. She is frightfully unhappy. She writes that she wants to escape from the cramping environment of her family, she simply can’t endure _the stifling atmosphere of home_. She has been to St. P. to see the actor for whom she has such an admiration, he heard her recite something and said she had real dramatic talent; he would be willing to train her for the stage, but only with her parents’ consent. But of course they will never give it. She writes that this has made her _so nervous_ she feels like crying or raving all day long, in fact she can’t stand so dismal a life any longer. _I_ am her last hope. She would like me to come to stay with them, or still better if she could come and stay with us for two or 3 weeks, then she would tell Mother about everything, and perhaps it might be possible to arrange for her to live with us in Vienna for a year; in the autumn Herr G., the actor, is coming to the Raimund Theatre and she could begin her training there. At the end of her letter she says that it rests with my discretion and my tact to make her the happiest creature in the world! I don’t really know what I shall be able to do. Still, I’ve made a beginning; I said I found it so frightfully dull--if only Hella were here, or at least Ada, or even Marina. Then Mother said: But Marina is away in the country, in Carinthia, and it’s not likely that Ada will be able to come. Father, too, is awfully sorry that I find it so dull, and so at supper he said: Would you really like Ada to come here? Certainly her age makes her a better companion for you than Dora. You seemed to get on better together last year. And then he said to Mother: Do you think it would bother you, Berta, to have Ada here? and Mother said, “Not a bit; if Gretel would like it; it’s really her turn now, Dora came with me to Franzensbad, Oswald is having his walking tour, and only our little pet has not had anything for herself; would you like it Gretel?” “Oh yes, Mother, I should like it awfully, I’ll write directly; it’s no fun to me to carry about that little brat the way Dora does, and jolly as the Bad Boy’s Diary is I can’t read it all day.” So I am writing to Ada directly, just as if _I_ had thought of it and wanted her to come. I shall be so frightfully happy if it all comes off and if Ada really becomes a great actress, like Wolter whom Mother is always talking of, then I shall have done something towards helping Vienna to have a great actress and towards making Ada the happiest creature in the world instead of the unhappiest.

August 2nd. In my letter I did not say anything to Ada about our having been ennobled, or as Dora says _re-ennobled_, since the family has been noble for generations; she will find out about it soon enough when she comes here. Mother keeps on saying: Don’t put on such airs, especially about a thing which we have not done anything particular to deserve. But that’s not quite fair, for unless Father had done such splendid service in connection with the laws or the constitution or something two years ago, sometimes sitting up writing all night, perhaps he would never have been re-ennobled. Besides, I really can’t see why Father and Mother should have made such a secret about it last winter. They might just as well have let us know. But I suppose Father wanted to give us a real surprise. And he did too; Dora’s face and the way Oswald cleared his throat!! As far as I can make out no one seems to have noticed what sort of a face I was making.

August 3rd. I’ve found out now why Dora is so different, that is why she is again just as she was some time ago, before last winter. During the 4 weeks in Fr. she has _found a real friend in Mother!_ To-day I turned the conversation to Viktor, and all she said at first was: Oh, I don’t correspond with him any more. And when I asked: “Have you had a quarrel, and whose fault was it?” she said: “Oh, no, I just _bade him farewell_.” “What do you mean, bade him farewell; but he’s not really going to America, is he?” And then she said: “My dear _Rita_, we had better clear this matter up; I parted from him upon the well-justified wish of our _dear Mother_.” I must say that though I’m _awfully, awfully_ fond of Mother, I really can’t imagine having her as a _friend_. How can one have a true friendship with one’s own mother? Dora really can’t have the least idea _what_ a _true friendship_ means. There are some things it’s impossible for a girl to speak about to her mother, I could not possibly ask her: Do you know what, _something has happened_, really means? Besides, I’m not quite sure if she does know, for when she was 13 or 15 or 16, people may have used quite different expressions, and the modern phrases very likely did not then mean what they mean now. And what sort of a friendship is it when Mother says to Dora: You must not go out now, the storm may break at any moment, and just the other evening: Dora you _must_ take your shawl with you. Friendship between mother and daughter is just as impossible as friendship between father and son. For between friends there can be no orders and forbiddings, and what’s even more important is that one really can’t talk about all the things that one would like to talk of. All I said last night was: “Of course Mother has forbidden you to talk to me about _certain things_; do you call that a friendship?” Then she said very gently: “No, Rita, Mother has not forbidden me, but I recognise now that it was thoughtless of me to talk to you about those things; one learns the seriousness of life quite soon enough.” I burst out laughing and said: “Is _that_ what you call the seriousness of life? Have you really forgotten how screamingly funny we found it all? It seemed to me that your memory has been affected by the mud baths.” She did not answer that. I do hope Ada will come. For _I_ need _her_ now just as much as _she_ needs _me_.

August 4th. Glory be to God, Ada’s coming, but not directly because they begin their family washing on the 5th and no one can be spared to come over with her till the 8th. I am so glad, the only thing I’m sorry about is that _she_ will sleep in the dressing-room and not Dora. But Mother says that Dora and I must stay together and that Ada can leave the door into the dining-room open so that she won’t feel lonely.

August 7th. The days are so frightfully long. Dora is as mild and gentle as a nun, but she talks to me just as little as a nun, and she’s eternally with Mother. The two dachshunds have been sold to some one in Neulengbach and so it is so horribly dull. Thank goodness Ada is coming to-morrow. Father and I are going to meet her at the station at 6.

August 8th. Only time for a word or two. Ada is more than a head taller than I am; Father said: “Hullo you longshanks, how you have shot up. I suppose I must treat you as a grown-up young lady now? And Ada said: Please, Herr Oberlandesgerichtsrat; please treat me just as you used to; I am so happy to have come to stay with you.” And her mother said: “Yes, unfortunately she is happy anywhere but at home; _that is the way with young people to-day_.” Father helped Ada out and said: “Frau Haslinger, the sap of life was rising in us once, but it’s so long ago that we have forgotten.” And then Frau Dr. H. heaved a tremendous sigh as if she were suffocating, and Ada took me by the arm and said under her breath: “Can you imagine what my life is like _now_? Her mother is staying the night here, and she spent the whole evening lamenting about everything under the sun” (that’s what Ada told me just before we went to bed); but I did not pay much attention to what Frau H. was doing, for I’m positively burning with curiosity as to what Ada is going to talk to me about. To-morrow morning, directly after breakfast!

August 12th. For 3 days I’ve had no time to write, Ada and I have had such a lot to say to one another. She _can’t_ and _won’t_ live any longer without art, she would _rather die than give up her plans_. She still has to spend a year at a continuation school and must then either take the French course for the state examination or else the needlecraft course. But she wants to do all this in Vienna, so that in her spare time she can study for the stage under Herr G. She says she is not in love with him any longer, that he is only a _means to an end_. She would sacrifice _anything_ to reach her goal. At first I did not understand what she meant by anything, but she explained to me. She has read Bartsch’s novel Elisabeth Kott, the book Mother has too, and a lot of other novels about artistic life, and they all say the same thing, that _a woman cannot become a true artist until she has experienced a great love_. There may be something in it. For certainly a _great love_ does make one _different_; I saw that clearly in Dora; when she was madly in love with Viktor, and the way she’s relapsed now!! She is learning Latin again, to make up for lost time! Ada does not speak to her about her plans because Dora _lacks true insight!_ Only to-day she mentioned before Dora that whatever happened she wanted to come to Vienna in the autumn so that she could often go to the theatre. And Dora said: You are making a mistake, even people who live in Vienna don’t go to the theatre often; for first of all one has very little time to spare, and secondly one often can’t get a seat; people who live in the country often fancy that everything is much nicer in Vienna than it really is.

August 14th. Just a word, quickly. To-day when Ada was having a bath Mother said to _us two_: “Girls, I’ve something to tell you; I don’t want you to get a fright in the night. Ada’s mother told me that Ada is very nervous, and often walks in her sleep.” “I say,” said I, “that’s frightfully interesting, she must be _moonstruck_; I suppose it always happens when the moon is full.” Then Mother said: “Tell me, Gretel, how do you know about all these things? Has Ada talked to you about them?” “No,” said I, “but the Frankes had a maid who walked in her sleep and Berta Franke told Hella and me about it.” It has just struck me that Mother said: how do you know about all _these_ things? So it must have something to do with _that_. I wonder whether I dare ask Ada, or whether she would be offended. I’m frightfully curious to see whether she will walk in her sleep while she is staying here.

August 15th. Hella’s answer came to-day to what I had written her about the _friendship_ between Mother and Dora. Of course she does not believe either that _that_ is why Dora _bade farewell_ to Viktor, for it is no reason at all. Lizzi has never had any particular friendship with her mother, and Hella could never dream of anything of the sort; she thinks I’m perfectly right, one may be _awfully_ fond of one’s parents, but there simply can’t be any question of a friendship. She would not stand it if I were so changeable in my friendships. She thinks Dora can never have had a true friendship, and that is why she has taken up with Mother now. The Bruckners are coming back on the 19th because everything is so frightfully expensive in Gastein. After that most likely they will go to stay with their uncle in Hungary, or else to Fieberbrunn in Tyrol. For Hella’s name day I have sent her A Bad Boy’s Diary because she wanted to read it again. Now we have both got it, and can write to one another which are the best bits so that we can read them at the same time.

August 20th. _Last night Ada really did walk in her sleep_, probably we should never have noticed it, but she began to recite Joan of Arc’s speech from The Maid of Orleans, and Dora recognised it at once and said: “I say, _Rita_, Ada really is walking in her sleep.” We did not stir, and she went into the dining-room, but the dining-room door was locked and the key taken away, for it opens directly into the passage, and then she knocked up against Mother’s sofa and that woke her up. It was horrible. And then she lost her way and came into our room instead of going into her own; but she was already awake and begged our pardon and said she’d been looking for the W. Then she went back to her own room. Dora said we had better pretend that we had not noticed it, for otherwise we should upset Ada. Not a bit of it, after breakfast she said: “I suppose I gave you an awful fright last night; don’t be vexed with me, I often get up and walk about at night, I simply can’t stay in bed. Mother says I always recite when I am walking like that; do I? Did I say anything?” “Yes,” I said, “you recited Joan of Arc’s speech.” “Did I really,” said she, “that is because they won’t let me go on the stage; I’m certain I shall go off my head; if I do, you will know the real reason at any rate.” This sleep-walking is certainly very interesting, but it makes me feel a little creepy towards Ada, and it’s perfectly true what Dora has always said: One never knows what Ada is really looking at. It would be awful if she were really to go off her head. I’ve just remembered that her mother was once in an asylum. I do hope she won’t go mad while she is staying here.