vulgar to discover funny things in a fellow human being and then to laugh
at them. Young ladies should accustom themselves to the fine and the noble—I quite
see that. No one desires any work from me, no one will ever demand it of me; but everyone
will expect to find that I am refined in my ways. Shall I enter some profession in
later life? Of course not! I’ll be an elegant young wife; I shall get married. It
is possible that I’ll torment my husband. But that would be terrible. One always despises
oneself whenever one feels the need to despise someone else. I am twelve years old.
I must be very precocious—otherwise, I would never think of such things. Shall I have
children? And how will that come about? If my future husband isn’t a despicable human
being, then, yes, then I’m sure of it, I shall have a child. Then I shall bring up
this child. But I still have to be brought up myself. What silly thoughts one can
have!
Berlin is the most beautiful, the most cultivated city in the world. I would be detestable
if I weren’t unshakably convinced of this. Doesn’t the Kaiser live here? Would he
need to live here if he didn’t like it here best of all? The other day I saw the royal
children in an open car. They are enchanting. The crown prince looks like a high-spirited
young god, and how beautiful seemed the noble lady at his side. She was completely
hidden in fragrant furs. It seemed that blossoms rained down upon the pair out of
the blue sky. The Tiergarten is marvelous. I go walking there almost every day with
our young lady, the governess. One can go for hours under the green trees, on straight
or winding paths. Even Father, who doesn’t really need to be enthusiastic about anything,
is enthusiastic about the Tiergarten. Father is a cultivated man. I’m convinced he
loves me madly. It would be horrible if he read this, but I shall tear up what I have
written. Actually, it is not at all fitting to be still so silly and immature and,
at the same time, already want to keep a diary. But, from time to time, one becomes
somewhat bored, and then one easily gives way to what is not quite right. The governess
is very nice. Well, I mean, in general. She is devoted and she loves me. In addition,
she has real respect for Papa—that is the most important thing. She is slender of
figure. Our previous governess was fat as a frog. She always seemed to be about to
burst. She was English. She’s still English today, of course, but from the moment
she allowed herself liberties, she was no longer our concern. Father kicked her out.
The two of us, Papa and I, are soon to take a trip. It is that time of the year now
when respectable people simply have to take a trip. Isn’t it a suspicious sort of
person who doesn’t take a trip at such a time of blossoming and blooming? Papa goes
to the seashore and apparently lies there day after day and lets himself be baked
dark brown by the summer sun. He always looks healthiest in September. The paleness
of exhaustion is not becoming to his face. Incidentally, I myself love the suntanned
look in a man’s face. It is as if he had just come home from war. Isn’t that just
like a child’s nonsense? Well, I’m still a child, of course. As far as I’m concerned,
I’m taking a trip to the south. First of all, a little while to Munich and then to
Venice, where a person who is unspeakably close to me lives—Mama. For reasons whose
depths I cannot understand and consequently cannot evaluate, my parents live apart.
Most of the time I live with Father. But naturally Mother also has the right to possess
me at least for a while. I can scarcely wait for the approaching trip. I like to travel,
and I think that almost all people must like to travel. One boards the train, it departs,
and off it goes into the distance. One sits and is carried into the remote unknown.
How well-off I am, really! What do I know of
at them. Young ladies should accustom themselves to the fine and the noble—I quite
see that. No one desires any work from me, no one will ever demand it of me; but everyone
will expect to find that I am refined in my ways. Shall I enter some profession in
later life? Of course not! I’ll be an elegant young wife; I shall get married. It
is possible that I’ll torment my husband. But that would be terrible. One always despises
oneself whenever one feels the need to despise someone else. I am twelve years old.
I must be very precocious—otherwise, I would never think of such things. Shall I have
children? And how will that come about? If my future husband isn’t a despicable human
being, then, yes, then I’m sure of it, I shall have a child. Then I shall bring up
this child. But I still have to be brought up myself. What silly thoughts one can
have!
Berlin is the most beautiful, the most cultivated city in the world. I would be detestable
if I weren’t unshakably convinced of this. Doesn’t the Kaiser live here? Would he
need to live here if he didn’t like it here best of all? The other day I saw the royal
children in an open car. They are enchanting. The crown prince looks like a high-spirited
young god, and how beautiful seemed the noble lady at his side. She was completely
hidden in fragrant furs. It seemed that blossoms rained down upon the pair out of
the blue sky. The Tiergarten is marvelous. I go walking there almost every day with
our young lady, the governess. One can go for hours under the green trees, on straight
or winding paths. Even Father, who doesn’t really need to be enthusiastic about anything,
is enthusiastic about the Tiergarten. Father is a cultivated man. I’m convinced he
loves me madly. It would be horrible if he read this, but I shall tear up what I have
written. Actually, it is not at all fitting to be still so silly and immature and,
at the same time, already want to keep a diary. But, from time to time, one becomes
somewhat bored, and then one easily gives way to what is not quite right. The governess
is very nice. Well, I mean, in general. She is devoted and she loves me. In addition,
she has real respect for Papa—that is the most important thing. She is slender of
figure. Our previous governess was fat as a frog. She always seemed to be about to
burst. She was English. She’s still English today, of course, but from the moment
she allowed herself liberties, she was no longer our concern. Father kicked her out.
The two of us, Papa and I, are soon to take a trip. It is that time of the year now
when respectable people simply have to take a trip. Isn’t it a suspicious sort of
person who doesn’t take a trip at such a time of blossoming and blooming? Papa goes
to the seashore and apparently lies there day after day and lets himself be baked
dark brown by the summer sun. He always looks healthiest in September. The paleness
of exhaustion is not becoming to his face. Incidentally, I myself love the suntanned
look in a man’s face. It is as if he had just come home from war. Isn’t that just
like a child’s nonsense? Well, I’m still a child, of course. As far as I’m concerned,
I’m taking a trip to the south. First of all, a little while to Munich and then to
Venice, where a person who is unspeakably close to me lives—Mama. For reasons whose
depths I cannot understand and consequently cannot evaluate, my parents live apart.
Most of the time I live with Father. But naturally Mother also has the right to possess
me at least for a while. I can scarcely wait for the approaching trip. I like to travel,
and I think that almost all people must like to travel. One boards the train, it departs,
and off it goes into the distance. One sits and is carried into the remote unknown.
How well-off I am, really! What do I know of
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