Part 3

September 26th. To-day we had Professor Riegel for the first time in natural history. He wears eye-glasses and never looks any of us in the face. And in French Madame A. said that my accent was the best. We’ve got an awful lot on and I don’t know whether I shall be able to write every day. The younger girls say Professor Igel instead of Riegel and the Weinmann girl said Nikel.

September 30th. I’ve had simply no time to write. Hella hasn’t written anything since the 24th. But I must write to-day for I met Robert in Schottengasse. Good morning, Miss, you needn’t be so stuck up, he said as he went by. And when I turned round he had already passed, or I would have given him a piece of my mind. I must go to supper.

October 1st. I can’t write, Oswald has come from S., he has sprained his ankle, but I’m not so sure because he can get about. He is awfully pale and doesn’t say a word about the pain.

October 4th. To-day is a holiday, the emperor’s birthday. Yesterday Resi told me something horrid. Oswald can’t go back to S. He has been up to something, I wish I knew what, perhaps something in the closet. He always stays there such a long time, I noticed that when I was in the country. Or perhaps it may have been something in his society. Inspee pretends she knows what it is but of course it isn’t true, for she doesn’t know any more than I do. Father is furious and Mother’s eyes are all red with crying. At dinner nobody says a word. If I could only find out what he’s done. Father was shouting at him yesterday and both Dora and I heard what he said: You young scamp (then there was something we couldn’t understand) and then he said, you attend to your school books and leave the girls and the married women alone you pitiful scoundrel. And Dora said. Ah, now I understand and I said: Please tell me, he is my brother as well as yours. But she said: “You wouldn’t understand. It’s not suitable for such young ears.” Fancy that, it’s suitable for her ears, but not mine though she’s not quite three years older than I am, but because she no longer wears a short skirt she gives herself the airs of a grown-up _lady_. Such airs, and then she sneaks a great spoonful of jam so that her mouth is stuffed with it and she can’t speak. Whenever I see her do this, I make a point of speaking to her so that she has to answer. She does get in such a wax.

October 9th. I know all about it now. . . That’s how babies come. And _that_ is what Robert really meant. Not for me, thank you, I simply won’t marry. For if one marries one has to do it; it hurts frightfully and yet one has to. What a good thing that I know it in time. But I wish I knew exactly how, Hella says she doesn’t know exactly herself. But perhaps her cousin who knows everything about it will tell her. It lasts nine months till the baby comes and then a lot of women die. It’s horrible. Hella has known it for a long time but she didn’t like to tell me. A girl told her last summer in the country. She wanted to talk about it to Lizzi her sister, really she only wanted to ask if it was all true and Lizzi ran off to her mother to tell her what Hella had said And her mother said; “These children are awful, a corrupt generation, don’t you dare to repeat it to any other girl, to Grete Lainer, for instance,” and she gave her a box on the ear. As if she could help it! That is why she didn’t write to me for such a long time. Poor thing, poor thing, but now she can tell me all about it and we won’t betray one another. And that deceitful cat Inspee has known all about it for ages and has never told me. But I don’t understand why that time at the swing Robert said: You little fool, you wont get a baby simply from that. Perhaps Hella knows. When I go to the gymnastic lesson to-morrow I shall talk to her first and ask her about it. My goodness how curious I am to know.

October 10th. I’m in a great funk, I missed my gymnastic lesson yesterday. I was upstairs at Hella’s and without meaning it I was so late I did not dare to go. And Hella said I had better stay with her that we would say that our sum was so difficult that we had not got it finished in time. Luckily we really had a sum to do. But I said nothing about it at home, for to-morrow Oswald is going to G. to Herr S’s. I thought that I knew all about it but only now has Hella really told me everything. It’s a horrible business this . . . I really can’t write it. She says that of course Inspee has it already, had it when I wrote that Inspee wouldn’t bathe, did not want to bathe; really she had it. Whatever happens one must always be anxious about it. _Streams of blood_ says Hella. But then everything gets all bl . . . That’s why in the country Inspee always switched off the light before she was quite undressed, so that I couldn’t see. Ugh! Catch me looking! It begins at 14 and goes on for 20 years or more. Hella says that Berta Franke in our class knows all about it. In the arithmetic lesson she wrote a note: Do you know what being un . . . is? Hella wrote back, of course I’ve known it for a long time. Berta waited for her after class when the Catholics were having their religion lesson and they went home together. I remember quite well that I was very angry, for they’re not chums. On Tuesday Berta came with us, for Hella had sent her a note in class saying that I knew _everything_ and she needn’t bother about me. Inspee suspects something, she’s always spying about and sneering, perhaps she thinks that she’s the only person who ought to know anything.

October 16th. To-morrow is Father’s and Dora’s birthday. Every year it annoys me that Dora should have her birthday on the same day as Father; What annoys me most of all is that she is so cocky about it, for, as Father always says, it’s a mere chance. Besides, I don’t think he really likes it. Everyone wants to have their own birthday on their own day, not to share it with someone else. And it’s always nasty to be stuck up about a thing like that. Besides, it’s not going to be a real birthday because of the row about Oswald. Father is still furious and had to stay away from the office for 2 days because he had to go to G. to see about Oswald going there.

October 17th. It was much jollier to-day than I had expected. All the Bruckners came, so of course there was not much said about Oswald only that he has sprained his ankle, (I know quite well now that that’s not true) and that he is probably going to G. Colonel B. said: The best thing for a boy is to send him to a military academy, that keeps him in order. In the evening Oswald said: That was awful rot what Hella’s father said, for you can be expelled from a military academy just as easily as from the Gymnasium. That’s what happened to Edgar Groller. Oswald gave himself away and Dora promptly said: Ah, so you have been expelled, and we believed you had sprained your ankle. Then he got in an awful wax and said: O you wretched flappers, I’ve gone and blabbed it all now, and he went away slamming the door, for Mother wasn’t there.

October 19th. If we could only find out what Oswald really did. It must have been something with a girl. But we can’t think what Father meant about a married woman. Perhaps a married woman complained of him to the head master or to the school committee and that’s how it all came out. I feel awfully sorry for him, for I think how I should have felt myself if everything had come out about Robert and me. Of course I don’t care now. But in the summer it would have been awful. Oswald hardly says a word, except that he has talks with Mother sometimes. He always pretends that he wants to read, but it’s absurd, for with such a love trouble one can’t really read. I have not told Berta Franke all about it, but only that my brother has had an unhappy love affair and that is why he is back in Vienna. Then she told us that this summer a cousin of hers shot himself because of her. They said in the newspapers that it was because of an actress, but really it was because of her. She is 14 already.

October 20th. We spend most of our time now with Berta Franke. She says she has had a tremendous lot of experience, but she can’t tell us yet because we are not intimate enough. By and by she says. Perhaps she is afraid we shall give her away. She wants to marry when she is 16 at latest. That’s in 2 years. Of course she won’t have finished school by then, but she will have left the third class. She has three admirers, but she has not yet made up her mind which to choose. Hella says I mustn’t believe all this, that the story about the three admirers at once is certainly a cram.

October 21st. Berta Franke says that when one is dark under the eyes one has it and that when one gets a baby then one doesn’t have it any more until one gets another. She told us too how one gets it, but I didn’t really believe what she said, for I thought she did not know herself exactly. Then she got very cross and said: “All right, I won’t tell you any more. If I don’t know myself.” But I can’t believe what she said about husband and wife. She said it must happen every night, for if not they don’t have a baby; if they miss a single night they don’t have a baby. That’s why they have their beds so close together. People call them _marriage beds!!!_ And it hurts so frightfully that one can hardly bear it. But one has to for a husband can make his wife do it. I should like to know how he can make her. But I didn’t dare to ask for I was afraid she would think I was making fun of her. Men have it too, but very seldom. We see a lot of Berta Franke now, she is an awfully nice girl, perhaps Mother will let me invite her here next Sunday.

October 23rd. Father took Oswald away to-day. Mother cried such a lot. When Oswald was leaving I whispered to him: I know what’s the matter with you. But he did not understand me for he said: Silly duffer. Perhaps he only said that because of Father who was looking on with a fearful scowl.

October 27th. Everything seems to have gone wrong. Yesterday I got unsatisfactory in history, and in arithmetic to-day I couldn’t get a single sum right. I’m frightfully worried about missing that gymnastic lesson. It will be all right if Mother gives me the money to-morrow, for if she goes herself she will certainly find out about it.

October 28th. To-day the head mistress was present at our French lesson and said awfully nice things about me. She said I was good enough in French to be in the Third and then she asked me whether I was as good in the other subjects. I didn’t want to say either Yes or No, and all the other girls said Yes, she’s good at everything. The head patted me on the shoulder and said: I’m glad to hear that. When she had gone I cried like anything and Madame Arnau asked: Why, what’s the matter? and the other girls said: In arithmetic she had Unsatisfactory but she can really do her sums awfully well. Then Madame said: “You’ll soon wipe off that Unsatisfactory.”

October 30th. To-day I had a frightful bother with Fraulein Vischer in the history lesson. Yesterday when I got into the tram with Mother there was Fraulein V. I looked the other way so that Mother shouldn’t see her and so that she should not tell Mother about me. When she came in to-day she said: Lainer, do you know the rules? I knew directly what she meant and said “I did bow to you in the tram but you didn’t see me.” “That’s a fine thing to do, first you do wrong and then try to excuse yourself by telling a lie. Sit down!” I felt awful for all the girls looked at me. In the 11 interval Berta Franke said to me: Don’t worry, she’s got her knife into you and will always find something to complain of. She must have spoken to Frau Doktor M., for in the German lesson the subject for viva voce composition was Good Manners. And all the girls looked at me again. She didn’t say anything more. She’s a perfect angel, my darling E. M., her name is Elisabeth; but she does not keep her name-day because she’s a Protestant; that’s an awful shame because November 19th is coming soon.

October 31st. I’ve been so lucky. Nothing’s come out about the gymnastic lesson though Mother was there herself. And in mental arithmetic to-day I got a One. Fraulein Steiner is awfully nice too and she said: Why, L. what was the matter with you in your sums the other day, for you’re so good at arithmetic? I didn’t know what to do so I said: Oh I had such a headache the other day. Then Berta Franke nearly burst out laughing, it was horrid of her; I don’t think she’s quite to be trusted; I think she’s rather a sneak. When the lesson was over she said she had laughed because “headache” means something quite different.

November 1st. To-day we began to work at the tablecloth for Father’s Christmas present. Of course Inspee bagged the right side because that’s easier to work at and I had to take the left side and then one has the whole caboodle on one’s hand. For Mother I’m making an embroidered leather book cover, embroidered with silk and with a painted design; I can do the painting part at school in Fraulein H.’s lesson, she’s awfully nice too. But I like Frau Doktor M. best of all. I’m _not_ going to invite Berta Franke because of the way she laughed yesterday, and besides Mother doesn’t like having strange girls to the house. November 2nd. I don’t know all about things yet. Hella knows a lot more. We said we were going to go over our natural history lesson together and we went in to the drawing-room, and there she told me a lot more. Then Mali, our new servant, came in, and she told us something horrid. Resi is in a hospital because she’s ill. Mali told us that all the Jews when they are quite little have to go through a very dangerous operation; it hurts frightfully and that’s why they are so cruel. It’s done so that they can have more children; but only little boys, not little girls. It’s horrid, and I should not like to marry a Jew. Then we asked Mali whether it is true that it hurts so frightfully and she laughed and said: It can’t be so bad as all that, for if it were you wouldn’t find everyone doing it. Then Hella asked her: But have you done it already, you haven’t got a husband? She said: Go on, Miss! One mustn’t ask such questions it’s not ladylike. We were in an awful funk, and begged her not to tell Mother. She promised not to.

November 5th. Everything has come out through that stupid waist band. Yesterday when I was tidying my drawers Mali came in to make the beds and saw my fringed waistband. “I say, she said, that is pretty!” You can have it if you like, I said, for I’ve given up wearing it. At dinner yesterday I noticed that Mother was looking at Mali and I blushed all over. After dinner Mother said, Gretel, did you give Mali that waistband? Yes, I said, she asked me for it. She came in at that moment to clear away and said: “No, I never asked for it, Fraulein Grete gave it to me herself.” I don’t know what happened after that, I’d gone back to my room when Mother came in and said: A fine lot of satisfaction one gets out of one’s children. Mali has told me the sort of things you and Hella talk about. I ran straight off to the kitchen and said to Mali: How could you tell such tales of us? It was you who chipped in when we were talking. It was frightfully mean of you. In the evening _she_ must needs go and complain of me to Father and he scolded me like anything and said: You’re a fine lot, you children, I must say. You are not to see so much of Hella now, do you understand?

November 6th. A fine thing this, that I’m a silly fool now. When I gave Hella a nudge so that she should not go on talking before Mali, she laughed and said: What does it matter, Mali knows all about it, probably a great deal more than we do. It was only after that that Mali told us about the Jews. Now, if you please, I am a silly fool. All right, now that I know what I am, a silly fool. And that’s what one’s best friend calls one!

November 7th. Hella and I are very stand-offish. We walk together, but we only talk of everyday things, school and lessons, nothing else. We went skating to-day for the first time and we shall go whenever we have time, which is not very often. Mother is working at the table cloth. It’s very hard work but she has not got as much to do as we have.

November 8th. There was such a lovely young lady skating to-day, and she skates so beautifully, inside and outside edge and figures of 8. I skated along behind her. When she went to the cloak room there was such a lovely scent. I wonder if she is going to be married soon and whether _she_ knows all about everything. She is so lovely and she pushes back the hair from her forehead so prettily. I wish I were as pretty as she is. But I am dark and she is fair. I wish I could find out her name and where she lives. I must go skating again to-morrow; do my lessons in the evening.

November 9th. I’m so upset; _she_ didn’t come to skate. I’m afraid she may be ill.

November 10th. She didn’t come to-day either. I waited two hours, but it was no good.

November 11th. She came to-day, at last! Oh how pretty she is.

November 12th. She has spoken to me. I was standing near the entrance gate and suddenly I heard some one laughing behind me and I knew directly: That is _she!_ So it was. She came up and said: Shall we skate together? Please, if I may, said I, and we went off together crossing arms. My heart was beating furiously, and I wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything sensible to say. When we came back to the entrance a gentleman stood there and took off his hat and she bowed, and she said to me: Till next time. I said quickly: When? Tomorrow? Perhaps, she called back. . . . Only perhaps, perhaps, oh I wish it were to-morrow already.

November 13th. Inspee declares that her name is Anastasia Klastoschek. I’m sure it can’t be true that she has such a name, she might be called Eugenie or Seraphine or Laura, but Anastasia, impossible. Why are there such horrid names? Fancy if she is really called that. Klastoschek, too, a Czech name, and she is supposed to come from Moravia and to be 26 already; 26, absurd, she’s 18 at most. I’m sure she’s not so much as 18. Dora says she lives in Phorusgasse, and that she doesn’t think her particularly pretty. Of course that’s rank jealousy; Dora thinks no one pretty except herself.

November 14th. I asked the woman at the pay box, her name really is Anastasia Klastoschek and she lives in the Phorusgasse; but the woman didn’t know how old she is. She would not tell me at first but asked why I wanted to know and who had sent me to enquire. She wouldn’t look into the book until I told her that it was _only for myself_ that I wanted to know. Then she looked, for I knew the number of the cloak room locker: 36, a lovely number, I like it so much. I don’t really know why, but when I hear anyone say that number it sounds to me like a squirrel jumping about in the wood.

November 20th. It’s really impossible to write every day. Mother is ill in bed and the doctor comes every day, but I don’t really know what’s the matter with her. I’m not sure whether the doctor knows exactly. When Mother is ill everything at home is so uncomfortable and she always says: Whatever you do don’t get ill, for it’s such a nuisance. But I don’t mind being ill; indeed I rather like being ill, for then everyone’s so nice, when Father comes home he comes and sits by my bed and even _Dora_ is rather nice and does things for me; that is she _has_ to. Besides, when she had diptheria two years ago I did everything I could for her, she nearly died, her temperature went up to 107 and Mother was sick with crying. Father never cries. It must look funny when a man cries. When there was all that row about Oswald he cried, I think Father had given him a box on the ear. He said he hadn’t but I think he had; certainly he cried, though he said he didn’t. After all, why shouldn’t he for he’s not really grown up yet. I cry myself when I get frightfully annoyed. Still I shouldn’t cry for a box on the ear.