Part 8

March 12th. Hella is not straightforward. We met a gentleman to-day, very fashionably dressed with gold-rimmed eyeglasses and a fair moustache. Hella blushed furiously, and the gentleman took off his hat and said: Ah, Fraulein Helenchen, you are looking very well. How are you? He never looked at me, and when he had gone she said: “That was Dr. Fekete, who assisted at my operation.”--“And you tell me _that_ now for the first time?” Then she put on an innocent air and said: “Of course, we’ve never met him before,” but I said: “I don’t mean _that_. If you knew how red you got you would not tell me a lie.” Then she said: “What am I telling you a lie about? Do you think I’m in love with him? Not in the very least.”--But when one is _not_ in love one does not blush like that. Anyhow I shan’t tell everything now either; I can hold my tongue too.

March 14th. Yesterday we did not talk to one another so much as usual; I especially was very silent. When the bell rang at 5 and I had just been doing the translation Hella came and begged my pardon and brought me some lovely violets, so of course I forgave her. This is really the first time we’ve ever quarrelled. First she wanted to bring me some sweets, but then she decided upon violets, and I think that was much more graceful. One gives sweets to a little child when it has hurt itself or been in a temper. But flowers are not for a child.

March 19th. Frieda Belay is dead. We are all terribly upset. None of us were very intimate with her, but now that she is dead we all remember that she was a schoolfellow. She died of heart failure following rheumatic fever. We all attended her funeral, except Hella who was not allowed to come. Her mother cried like anything and her grandmother still more; her father cried too. We sent a wreath of white roses with a lovely inscription: Death has snatched you away in the flower of your youth--Your Schoolfellows.

I have no pleasure in anything to-day. I did not see Frieda Belay after she was dead, but Franke was there yesterday and saw her in her coffin. She says she will never forget it, it gave her such a pang. In the church Lampl had a fit of hysterics, for her mother was buried only a month ago and now she was reminded of it all and was frightfully upset. I cried a lot too when I was with Hella. She fancied it was because I was thinking she might have died last Dec. But that wasn’t it, I don’t think about that sort of thing. But when anyone dies it is so awfully sad.

March 24th. I never heard of such a thing. I can’t go to Cilli with Hella. Her mother was at her cousin’s, and when she heard that she was going to Cilli at Easter she asked her to take Melanie with her. That is, she didn’t ask straight out, but kept on hinting until Hella’s mother said: Let Melanie come with us, it will help to set her up after her illness. In the winter she had congestion of the lung. Hella and I can’t bear her because she’s always spying on us and is so utterly false. So of course I can’t go. Hella says too she’s frightfully sorry, but when _she_ is about we could never say a word about anything, it would drive us crazy. She quite agrees that I had better not come. But oh I’m so annoyed for first of all I do so like going away with Hella and secondly I should like to go away in the holidays anyhow for nearly all the girls in our class are going away. Still, there’s nothing to be done. Hella’s mother says she can’t see why we can’t all 3 go though it simply would not work. But we can’t explain it to her. Hella is so poetical and she says “A beautiful dream vanished.”

In Hella’s mouth such fine words sound magnificent, but when Dora uses such expressions they annoy me frightfully because they don’t come from her heart.

March 26th. The school performances finish today with Waves of the Sea and Waves of Love. I’m awfully fond of the theatre, but I never write anything about that. For anyhow the play is written by a poet and one can read it if one wants to, and one just sees the rest anyhow. I can’t make out what Dora finds such a lot to scribble about always the day after we’ve been to the theatre. I expect she’s in love with one of the actors and that’s why she writes such a lot. Besides we in the second class did not get tickets for all the performances, but only the girls from the Fourth upwards. Still, it did not matter much to me anyhow for we often go in the evening and on Sunday afternoons. But unfortunately I mayn’t go in the evening as a rule.

March 29th. To-day something horrible happened to Dora and me. I simply can’t write it down. She was awfully nice and said: Two years ago on the Metropolitan Railway the same thing had happened when she was travelling with Mother on February 15th, she can never forget the date, to Hietzing to see Frau v. Martini. Besides her and Mother there was only one gentleman in the carriage, Mother always travels second class. She and Mother were sitting together and the gentleman was standing farther down the carriage where Mother could not see him but Dora could. And as Dora was looking he opened his cloak and -- -- --! just what the man did to-day at the house door. And when they got out of the train Dora’s boa got stuck in the door and she had to turn round though she did not want to, and then she saw again -- -- --! She simply could not sleep for a whole month afterwards. I remember that time when she could not sleep but I did not know why it was. She never told anyone except Erika and the same thing happened to her once. Dora says that happens at least once to nearly every girl; and that such men are “_abnormal_.” I don’t really know what that means, but I did not like to ask. Perhaps Hella will know. Of course I did not really look, but Dora shivered and said: “And _that_ is what one has to endure.” And then, when we were talking it over she said to me that _that_ was why Mother was ill and because she has had five children; Then I was very silly and said: “But how from _that_? one does not get children from that?” “Of course,” she said, “I thought you knew that already. That time there was such a row with Mali about the waistband, I thought you and Hella had heard all about everything.” Then I was silly again, really frightfully stupid; for instead of telling her what I really knew I said: “Oh, yes, I knew all about it except just that.” Then she burst out laughing and said: “After all, what you and Hella know doesn’t amount to much.” And in the end she told me a _little_. If it’s really as Dora says, then she is right when she says it is better not to marry. One can fall in love, one must fall in love, but one can just break off the engagement. Well, that’s the best way out of the difficulty for then no one can say that you’ve never had a man in love with you. We walked up and down in front of the school for such a long time that we were very nearly late and only got in just as the bell rang. On the way home I told Hella the awful thing we’d seen the man do. She does not know either what “abnormal” really means _as far as this is concerned_. But now we shall use it as an expression for something horrible. Of course no one will understand us. And then Hella told me about a drunken man who in Nagy K. . . . was walking through the streets _like that_ and was arrested. She says _too_ that one can never forget seeing anything like _that_. Perhaps the man this morning was drunk too. But he didn’t look as if he were drunk. And if he hadn’t done _that_ one would really have taken him for a fine gentleman. Hella knows too that it is from _that_ that one gets children. She explained it all to me and now I can quite understand that _that_ must make one ill. Yesterday it was after 11 at night and so I’m finishing to-day. Hella says: _That_ is the original sin, and _that_ is the sin which Adam and Eve committed. Before I had always believed the original sin was something quite different. But that--that. Since yesterday I’ve been so upset I always seem to be seeing _that_; really I did not look at all, but I must have seen it all the same.

March 30th. I don’t know why, but in the history lesson to-day it all came into my head once more what Dora had said of Father. But I really can’t believe it. Because of Father I’m really sorry that I know it. Perhaps it does not all happen the way Dora and Hella say. Generally I can trust Hella, but of course she may be mistaken.

April 1st. To-day Dora told me a lot more. She is quite different now from what she used to be. One does not say P[eriod], but M[enstruation]. Only common people say P--. Or one can say one’s _like that_. Dora has had M-- since August before last, and it is horribly disagreeable, because men always know. That is why at the High School we have only three men professors and all the other teachers are women. Now Dora often does not have M-- and then sometimes it’s awfully bad, and that’s why she’s anemic. That men always know, that’s frightfully interesting.

April 4th. We talk a lot about such things now. Dora certainly knows more than I do, that is not more but better. But she isn’t quite straightforward all the same. When I asked her how she got to know about it all, whether Erika told her or Frieda, she said: “Oh, I don’t know; one finds it all out somehow; one need only use one’s eyes and one’s ears, and then one can reason things out a little.” But seeing and hearing don’t take one very far. I’ve always kept my eyes open and I’m not so stupid as all that. One must be told by some one, one _can’t_ just happen upon it by oneself.

April 6th. I don’t care about paying visits now. We used always to like going to see the Richters, but to-day I found it dull. Now I know why Dora hates going second class on the Metropolitan. I always thought it was only to spite me because I like travelling second. She never likes going second since _that_ happened. It seems one is often unjust to people who never meant what one thought. But why did she not tell me the truth? She says because I was still a child then. That’s all right, but what about this winter when I was cross because we went Third class to Schonbrunn; I really believed she did it to annoy me, for I could not believe she was afraid that in the second class, where one is often alone, somebody would suddenly attack her with a knife. But now I understand quite well, for of course she could not tell Mother the truth and Father still less. And in winter and spring there are really often no passengers to speak of on the Metropolitan, especially on the Outer Circle.

April 7th. Mother said to-day that at the Richters yesterday we, especially I, had been frightfully dull and stupid. Why had we kept on exchanging glances? We had been most unmannerly. If she had only known what we were thinking of when Frau Richter said, the weather to-day is _certainly quite abnormal_; we have not had such _abnormal_ heat for years. And then when Herr Richter came home and spoke about his brother who had spent the whole winter at Hochschneeberg and said: Oh, my brother is a little _abnormal_, I think he’s got a tile loose in the upper storey, I really thought I should burst. Luckily Frau R. helped us once more to a tremendous lot of cake and I was able to lean well forward over my plate. And Mother said that I ate like a little glutton and just as if I never had any cake at home. So Mother was _very_ unjust to me, for the cake had nothing at all to do with it. Dora says too that I must learn to control myself better, that if I only watch her I’ll soon learn. That’s all very well, but why should one have to bother? If people did not use words that really mean something quite different then other people would not have to control themselves. Still, I must learn to do it somehow.

April 8th. We were terribly alarmed to-day; quite early, at half past 8, they telephoned from the school that Dora had suddenly been taken ill in the Latin lesson and must be fetched in a carriage. Mother drove down directly in a taxi and I went with her because anyhow my lessons began at 9 and we found Dora on the sofa in the office with the head sitting by her and the head’s friend, Frau Doktor Preisky, who is a medical doctor, and they had loosened her dress and put a cold compress on her head for she had suddenly fainted in the Latin lesson. That’s the third time this year, so she must really have anemia. I wanted to drive home with her, but Mother and Frau Dr. P. said I’d better just go to my lessons. And as I went out I heard Frau Dr. P. say: “That’s a fine healthy girl, a jolly little fellow.” Really one should only use that word of boys and men, but I suppose she has got into the way of using it through being with men so much. If one studies medicine one has to learn all about _that_ and to look at everything. It must be really horrid.

Dora is kept in bed to-day and our Doctor says too that she’s anemic. To-morrow or the day after Mother is going to take her to see a specialist. Dora says it’s a lovely feeling to faint. Suddenly one can’t hear what people are saying and one feels quite weak and then one does not know anything more. I wonder if I shall ever faint? Very likely when -- -- -- We talked a lot about everything we are interested in. In the afternoon Hella came to ask after Dora, and she thinks she looks awfully pretty in bed, an interesting invalid and at the same time so distinguished looking. It’s quite true, we all look distinguished.

April 9th. To-day is Father and Mother’s _wedding day_. Now I know _what_ that really means. Dora says it can’t really be true that it is the most lovely day in one’s life, as everyone says it is, especially the poets. She thinks that one must feel frightfully embarrassed because after all everyone knows. . . . That’s quite true, but after all one need not tell anyone which one’s wedding day is. Dora says she will never tell her children which her wedding day is. But it would be a great pity if parents always did that for then in every family there would be one anniversary the less. And the more anniversaries there are, the jollier it is.

April 10th. To-morrow I’m going with Father to Salzburg. Dora can’t come, for they think she might faint in the train. I’m rather glad really, though I’ve nothing against her and I’m sorry for her, but it’s much nicer to go with Father alone. It’s a long time since I was in Salzburg. I’m so awfully glad to go. Our spring coats and skirts are so pretty, dark green with a silk lining striped green and gold-brown, and light brown straw hats with daisies for the spring and later we shall have cherries or roses. I’m taking my diary so that I can write everything which _interests_ me.

April 12th. I slept all the way in the train. Father says I ground my teeth frightfully and was very restless: but I did not know anything about it. We had a compartment by ourselves, except just at first when there was a gentleman there. Hella did not come with us, because her aunt, who has just been married, is coming to visit them. Really I’m quite glad, for I like so much being with Father quite alone. This afternoon we were in Hellbrunn and at the Rock Theatre. It is wonderful.

April 13th. Father always calls me: Little Witch! But I don’t much like it when other people are there. To-day we went up the Gaisberg. The weather was lovely and the view magnificent. When I see so extensive a view it always makes me feel sad. Because there are so many people one does not know who perhaps are very nice. I should like to be always travelling. It would be splendid.

April 14th. I nearly got lost to-day. Father was writing a letter to Mother and he let me go to see the salt works; I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly I found myself a long way from anywhere, in a place I did not know. Then an old gentleman asked me what I was looking for; because I had walked past the same place 3 times and I said we were staying in the “Zur Post Hotel” and I did not know how to find my way back. So he came with me to show me and as we were talking it came out that he had known Father at the university. So he came in with me and Father was awfully glad to see him. He is a barrister in Salzburg but he has a grey beard already. As he was going away he said in an undertone to Father: “I congratulate you old chap on your daughter; she’ll be something quite out of the ordinary!” He whispered it really, but I heard all the same. We spent all the afternoon with him at the Kapuzinerberg. There was a splendid military band; two young officers in the Yagers who were sitting at the next table to ours kept on looking our way; one was particularly handsome. My new summer coat and skirt is awfully becoming everyone says. Father says too: “I say, you’ll soon be a young lady! But don’t grow up too quickly!” I can’t make out why he said that; I should like to be quite grown up; but it will be a long time yet.

April 14th. It’s been raining all day. How horrid. One can’t go anywhere. All the morning we were walking about the town and saw several churches. Then we were at the pastrycook’s, where I ate 4 chocolate eclairs and 2 tartlets. So I had no appetite for dinner.

April 15th. Just as I was writing yesterday Dr. Gratzl sent up the hotel clerk to ask us to dinner. We went, they live in the Hellbrunnerstrasse. He has 4 daughters and 2 sons and the mother died three years ago. One of the sons is a student in Graz and the other is a lieutenant in the army; he is engaged to be married. The daughters are quite old already; one of them is 27 and is engaged. I think that is horrid. The youngest (!!!) is 24. It is so funny to say “the youngest” and then she is 24. Father says she is very pretty and will certainly get married At 24!! when she’s not even engaged yet; I don’t believe she will. They have a large garden, 3 dogs and 2 cats, which get on very well together. There are steps leading up and down from room to room, it is lovely, and all the windows are bow-windows. Everything is so old-fashioned, even the furniture I do think it’s all so pretty. The hall is round like a church. After tea we had candied fruits, stewed fruit, and pastries. I had a huge go of stewed fruit. They have a gramaphone and then Leni and I played the piano. Just as we were going away Fritz, the student, came in; he got quite red and in the hall Dr. Gratzl said to me: “You’ve made a conquest to-day.” I don’t really believe I have, but I do like hearing it said. I’m sorry to say we are going away to-morrow, for we are going to stay 2 days in Linz with Uncle Theodor whom I don’t know.

April 17th. Uncle Theodor is 60 already and Aunt Lina is old too. Still, they are both awfully nice. I did not know them before. We are staying with them. In the evening their son and his wife came. They are my cousins, and they brought their little girl with them; I am really a sort of aunt of hers. It’s awfully funny to be an aunt when one is only 12 and 3/4 and when one’s niece is 9. To-day we went walking along the Danube. It only rained very gently and not all the time.

April 18th. We are going home to-day. Of course we have sent a lot of picture postcards to Mother and Dora and Hella; we sent one to Oswald too. He came home for Easter. I don’t know whether he will still be there to-morrow.

April 22nd. We’ve begun school again. Dora and I generally walk to school together since she does not go to the Latin lesson now because it was too great a strain for her. The specialist Mother took her to see wanted her to give up studying altogether, but she absolutely refuses to do that. But I’m very furious with her; she’s learning Latin in secret. When I came into the room the day before yesterday she was writing out words and she shut her book quickly instead of saying openly and honestly: Rita, don’t tell Father and Mother that I’m still studying in the evening: “I trust your word.” She could trust me perfectly well. There are plenty of things I could tell if I liked! Perhaps she fancies that I don’t see that the tall fair man always follows us to school in the morning. Hella has noticed him too, besides he is frightfully bald and must be at least 30. And I’m certain she would not talk as much as she does to Hella and me if it were not that she wants to talk about _that_. But this deceitfulness annoys me frightfully. Otherwise we are now quite intimate with one another.