July 21st. Hella has written to me, 4 pages, and such a jolly letter. I don’t know what I should do without her! Perhaps she will come here in August or perhaps I shall go to stay with her. I think I would rather go to stay with her. I like paying long visits. Father said: “We’ll see,” and that means he’ll let me go. When Father and Mother say We’ll see it really means Yes; but they won’t say “yes” so that if it does not come off one can’t say that they haven’t kept their word. Father really lets me do anything I like, but not Mother. Still, if I practice my piano regularly perhaps she’ll let me go. I must go for a walk.
July 22nd. Hella wrote that I positively must write every day, for one must keep a promise and we swore to write every day. I. . . .
July 23rd. It’s awful. One has no time. Yesterday when I wanted to write the room had to be cleaned and D. was in the arbour. Before that I had not written a single word and in the front veranda all my pages blew away. We write on loose pages. Hella thinks it’s better because then one does not have to tear anything out. But we have promised one another to throw nothing away and not to tear anything up. Why should we? One can tell a friend everything. A pretty friend if one couldn’t. Yesterday when I wanted to go into the arbour Dora glared at me savagely, saying What do you want? As if the arbour belonged to her, just as she wanted to bag the front veranda all for herself. She’s too sickening.
Yesterday afternoon we were on the Kolber-Kogel. It was lovely. Father was awfully jolly and we pelted one another with pine-cones. It was jolly. I threw one at Dora and it hit her on her padded bust. She let out such a yell and I said out loud You couldn’t feel it there. As she went by she said Pig! It doesn’t matter, for I know she understood me and that what I said was true. I should like to know what she writes about every day to Erika and what she writes in her diary. Mother was out of sorts and stayed at home.
July 24th. To-day is Sunday. I do love Sundays. Father says: You children have Sundays every day. That’s quite true in the holidays, but not at other times. The peasants and their wives and children are all very gay, wearing Tyrolese dresses, just like those I have seen in the theatre. We are wearing our white dresses to-day, and I have made a great cherrystain upon mine, not on purpose, but because I sat down upon some fallen cherries. So this afternoon when we go out walking I must wear my pink dress. All the better, for I don’t care to be dressed exactly the same as Dora. I don’t see why everyone should know that we are sisters. Let people think we are cousins. She does not like it either; I wish I knew why.
Oswald is coming in a week, and I am awfully pleased. He is older than Dora, but I can always get on with him. Hella writes that she finds it dull without me; so do I.
July 25th. I wrote to Fraulein Pruckl to-day. She is staying at Achensee. I should like to see her. Every afternoon we bathe and then go for a walk. But to-day it has been raining all day. Such a bore. I forgot to bring my paint-box and I’m not allowed to read all day. Mother says, if you gobble all your books up now you’ll have nothing left to read. That’s quite true, but I can’t even go and swing.
Afternoon. I must write some more. I’ve had a frightful row with Dora. She says I’ve been fiddling with her things. It’s all because she’s so untidy. As if her things could interest me. Yesterday she left her letter to Erika lying about on the table, and all I read was: He’s as handsome as a Greek god. I don’t know who “he” was for she came in at that moment. It’s probably Krail Rudi, with whom she is everlastingly playing tennis and carries on like anything. As for handsome—well, there’s no accounting for tastes.
July 26th. It’s a good thing I brought my dolls’ portmanteau. Mother said: You’ll be glad to have it on rainy days. Of course I’m much too old to play with dolls, but even though I’m 11 I can make dolls’ clothes still. One learns something while one is doing it, and when I’ve finished something I do enjoy it so. Mother cut me out some things and I was tacking them together. Then Dora came into the room and said Hullo, the child is sewing things for her dolls. What cheek, as if she had never played with dolls. Besides, I don’t really play with dolls any longer. When she sat down beside me I sewed so vigorously that I made a great scratch on her hand, and said: Oh, I’m so sorry, but you came too close. I hope she’ll know why I really did it. Of course she’ll go and sneak to Mother. Let her. What right has she to call me child. She’s got a fine red scratch anyhow, and on her right hand where everyone can see.
July 27th. There’s such a lot of fruit here. I eat raspberries and gooseberries all day and Mother says that is why I have no appetite for dinner. But Dr. Klein always says Fruit is so wholesome. But why should it be unwholesome all at once? Hella always says that when one likes anything awfully much one is always scolded about it until one gets perfectly sick of it. Hella often gets in such a temper with her mother, and then her mother says: We make such sacrifices for our children and they reward us with ingratitude. I should like to know what sacrifices they make. I think it’s the children who make the sacrifices. When I want to eat gooseberries and am not allowed to, the sacrifice is mine not Mother’s. I’ve written all this to Hella. Fraulein Pruckl has written to me. The address on her letter to me was splendid, “Fraulein Grete Lainer, Lyzealschulerin.” Of course Dora had to know better than anyone else, and said that in the higher classes from the fourth upwards (because she is in the fourth) they write “Lyzeistin.” She said: “Anyhow, in the holidays, before a girl has attended the first class she’s not a Lyzealschulerin at all.” Then Father chipped in, saying that we (I didn’t begin it) really must stop this eternal wrangling; he really could not stand it. He’s quite right, but what he said won’t do any good, for Dora will go on just the same. Fraulein Pruckl wrote that she was delighted that I had written. As soon as I have time she wants me to write to her again. Great Scott, I’ve always time for her. I shall write to her again this evening after supper, so as not to keep her waiting.