the arm of the green plush sofa, admiring her cute Pierrot outfit. While the girls aren’t as beautiful as Aunt Hetty says, they’re not quite as washed-out and unattractive as Frau Kron privately believes.
It’s really time to go to bed, but they want to stay up until Herr Kron comes home. Aunt Hetty is lying on the sofa. She’s been exhausted by the journey, her feet have swollen up—“quite takes it out of you, a train trip like that.” Frau Kron is tired too. Young Gerda and Young Irene are still hopping around rather listlessly in their costumes. Gilgi borrowed a travel book from the library that morning—she’d like to read, but that would be considered impolite. Everyone is getting on everyone else’s nerves a little, everyone would like to do something other than what she’s doing just now. But everyone keeps smiling, preserving the impression that they have lots and lots in common.
Gilgi is kept awake half the night. Her cousins are overcome by the need to talk which usually arises when young women are lying in bed. Gilgi is on the chaise longue. There’s a bed on her right—and a bed on her left. Young Gerda is lying on her right—and Young Irene on her left. The two silly cows fill the space above her with their mooing—chatter about dancing and men and maybe-they’ll-get-engagedments. Whenever Young Irene mentions a certain Arthur, Young Gerda squeaks like a frog that’s in the middle of being run over. Gilgi is vouchsafed confusedexplanations: well, Arthur is—and Arthur was—and Arthur will—“no, no, no, Renie, don’t tell!” Gilgi tosses from one side to the other. Holds her nose: before Young Gerda went to bed, she made liberal applications of an anti-freckle ointment which is now polluting the whole room with its stink.
In the morning, Gilgi staggers out of her temporary bed, tired to death. Frau Kron had tapped on the door. Gilgi had turned off her alarm, because of course Young Gerda and Young Irene aren’t to be woken. They’re to have a nice long sleep in. Gilgi does her exercises. Now and then she casts baleful glances on the two sleeping beauties, with their knotted straw-blond hair, pasty faces, and slightly oily noses. Layabouts! An incitement to class hatred! These people who don’t work, ambling so idiotically, frivolously, dozily through their lives—Gilgi can’t stand them.
When she arrives at the office she feels good, and happy. She didn’t ride on the streetcar, but walked, which takes just under an hour. Her clothes smell of the fresh air, and her face, which is usually pale brown, has a touch of red.
She’s the first. She’s come ten minutes too early. Oh, she’s often there too early, and never a minute too late. She takes her steno pad out of the drawer almost lovingly. Slips the cloth cover off her typewriter, cleans the typeface of each key, and puts in a new ribbon. A new ribbon always gives her a little lift.
Fat Müller arrives, followed closely by little Behrend. “Morn’.”—“Morn’.” They sit next to Gilgi. They’re both nice girls—a bit cheeky and careless, but not nasty.
Fat Müller puts a pile of sandwiches, a vacuum flask with coffee, and a cup without a handle on the table in front of her. Little Behrend is talking about last night.“So then he says to me …” she whispers to Müller, which doesn’t bother Gilgi a bit, the two are great friends, and anyway Behrend’s experiences aren’t of the kind to be confided to people who are just colleagues. Sometimes you might think that Behrend only has adventures the night before so that she can tell Müller about them the morning after. Müller is too fat and too passive to have adventures herself, she’s satisfied just to hear about them—as though Behrend lives for her too. Crazy kid. Cute, with her curly black hair and her round brown eyes—a face like a squirrel. And she’s always on the move, always has something going on, always has the latest hit song in her head and
It’s really time to go to bed, but they want to stay up until Herr Kron comes home. Aunt Hetty is lying on the sofa. She’s been exhausted by the journey, her feet have swollen up—“quite takes it out of you, a train trip like that.” Frau Kron is tired too. Young Gerda and Young Irene are still hopping around rather listlessly in their costumes. Gilgi borrowed a travel book from the library that morning—she’d like to read, but that would be considered impolite. Everyone is getting on everyone else’s nerves a little, everyone would like to do something other than what she’s doing just now. But everyone keeps smiling, preserving the impression that they have lots and lots in common.
Gilgi is kept awake half the night. Her cousins are overcome by the need to talk which usually arises when young women are lying in bed. Gilgi is on the chaise longue. There’s a bed on her right—and a bed on her left. Young Gerda is lying on her right—and Young Irene on her left. The two silly cows fill the space above her with their mooing—chatter about dancing and men and maybe-they’ll-get-engagedments. Whenever Young Irene mentions a certain Arthur, Young Gerda squeaks like a frog that’s in the middle of being run over. Gilgi is vouchsafed confusedexplanations: well, Arthur is—and Arthur was—and Arthur will—“no, no, no, Renie, don’t tell!” Gilgi tosses from one side to the other. Holds her nose: before Young Gerda went to bed, she made liberal applications of an anti-freckle ointment which is now polluting the whole room with its stink.
In the morning, Gilgi staggers out of her temporary bed, tired to death. Frau Kron had tapped on the door. Gilgi had turned off her alarm, because of course Young Gerda and Young Irene aren’t to be woken. They’re to have a nice long sleep in. Gilgi does her exercises. Now and then she casts baleful glances on the two sleeping beauties, with their knotted straw-blond hair, pasty faces, and slightly oily noses. Layabouts! An incitement to class hatred! These people who don’t work, ambling so idiotically, frivolously, dozily through their lives—Gilgi can’t stand them.
When she arrives at the office she feels good, and happy. She didn’t ride on the streetcar, but walked, which takes just under an hour. Her clothes smell of the fresh air, and her face, which is usually pale brown, has a touch of red.
She’s the first. She’s come ten minutes too early. Oh, she’s often there too early, and never a minute too late. She takes her steno pad out of the drawer almost lovingly. Slips the cloth cover off her typewriter, cleans the typeface of each key, and puts in a new ribbon. A new ribbon always gives her a little lift.
Fat Müller arrives, followed closely by little Behrend. “Morn’.”—“Morn’.” They sit next to Gilgi. They’re both nice girls—a bit cheeky and careless, but not nasty.
Fat Müller puts a pile of sandwiches, a vacuum flask with coffee, and a cup without a handle on the table in front of her. Little Behrend is talking about last night.“So then he says to me …” she whispers to Müller, which doesn’t bother Gilgi a bit, the two are great friends, and anyway Behrend’s experiences aren’t of the kind to be confided to people who are just colleagues. Sometimes you might think that Behrend only has adventures the night before so that she can tell Müller about them the morning after. Müller is too fat and too passive to have adventures herself, she’s satisfied just to hear about them—as though Behrend lives for her too. Crazy kid. Cute, with her curly black hair and her round brown eyes—a face like a squirrel. And she’s always on the move, always has something going on, always has the latest hit song in her head and
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