Meanwhile another little sister had arrived, and (I believe it was for that reason) our lodging grew too small. The furniture-van stopped once more in front of our door, and two men carried everything away. Our new lodging was most beautiful. At least I thought so. It consisted of four rooms and a large kitchen. My mother took a maid to help her with the house-work, and my father employed a young fellow in his shop. The business did well, better than it had done in the beginning, and my parents began to be regarded as "well-to-do" people.

The house we now occupied stood almost next to the house of my friend Hilda, a circumstance deeply appreciated by me. Once when she came to see me, I showed her all over the place, and directed her special attention to a few new pieces of furniture which my mother had bought in order to furnish all the rooms. There was one room that my mother called the "drawing-room," and of which I was extremely proud, although it had nothing in it but a table, a few pictures and a cheap flower-stand.

Whenever I went into this "drawing-room" I felt as if I was entering a church. The same sensation took hold of me when I showed Hilda in, and I was not surprised that she left the room immediately, believing her to be dazzled and overwhelmed.

There was also a courtyard belonging to the house; it was a very large one with chestnut-trees growing in it. The trees were old and had wide-spreading branches. We children loved the place and enjoyed it with all our hearts. In one of the corners there stood a carriage, or rather a manure-cart, which attracted us greatly. One day we pretended to have a wedding. Leopoldine's brother was the bridegroom and I the bride. I twisted a bunch of buttercups into a wreath and took a towel for a veil. After that we took our seats in the cart and pretended to drive to church. With the assistance of the bridegroom I got out again, and the priest (one of the children) performed the ceremony. We had seen many weddings in the village church and did everything in the proper way. When the decisive question was put at last, we both looked very solemn and said gravely, "I will."

On another day I quarrelled with Hilda, I must have said or done something that she did not like, and it was evident that she wanted to make me cross. It happened towards sunset. Hilda stood with her back against the wall of the house opposite to ours and looked at me scornfully. Her mouth was twisted contemptuously, her whole attitude expressed deliberate challenge. For one brief moment we looked at each other like two embittered opponents, but all at once I felt confounded by her words:

"Your drawing-room looks ridiculous."

Never, never before did I feel so utterly unhappy, and I turned away with burning cheeks. My mother was about to call me in, so I hastened towards her. "Mother," I cried, half choked with tears, "Hilda said our drawing-room looks ridiculous." My mother smiled, and as she took me up the stairs into the little parlour, she said: "That does not matter, dear."

Like a child I soon forgot that incident, but afterwards whenever I entered the room in question, I was struck with its emptiness, and tried hard to understand how it was that I had ever found it beautiful; and although my mother had bought a green cover for the table, the reverential feeling that I had experienced so often returned no more.

After a time I no longer liked to go to school, and I do not think that I made any progress with my lessons. My exercises were done only because I was afraid of getting punished. Ambition I had none. Geography and history I did not care for, and doing sums I positively hated. Furthermore, my teacher had found out that I had no voice and consequently excluded me from singing. The only thing that I really liked was to form sentences. But that subject we had only once a week, and it was done in the following manner.—The teacher wrote with his chalk different words on the blackboard, and we had to use them in simple or compound sentences. There was not one word which I could not have brought into a sentence somehow, whereas all the other children sat silent, and never showed any aptitude for the subject. During the rest of the lessons I was inattentive and tried continually to chat with my neighbours. Very often I was punished.

We were also taught scripture every Friday. A young priest whom we called "catechist" came to the school and read the catechism to us. I do not remember whether I behaved any better during that lesson, the only thing I know is that I felt strangely moved when the tall figure of the catechist, clad in a long black gown, entered our schoolroom and took his seat with an air of dignity. In my opinion the young catechist was a handsome man. His eyes were blue, his hair was thick and brown, but his mouth was always shut tightly, and he struck me as hard and proud. When I think of that time, I can see the schoolroom again. None of the children were more than ten years old, and while we sat perfectly still the catechist asked one question after another.

"Who created the world?" Whereupon a young voice answered:

"God created the world."

"What does that mean—to create?" Another voice:

"To create means to produce something out of nothing."

"Must all people die?"

"All people must die."

These last words always occupied my thoughts, and constantly worried me. Sometimes I woke at nights from my slumber, and imagined that I heard the question, "Must all people die?" whereupon a voice answered: "All people must die." After that I felt inexpressibly sad. I sat up in my bed, listened to the gentle breathing of my sisters, and wondered which of us would be the first to die. A maddening fear rushed to my heart when I thought that my father and my mother had also to die some day. I could not go to sleep again, but thought about what might happen if such were the case, and suffered so intensely that I screamed aloud. Then one of my parents came to my bed and tried to comfort me, thinking that I had a nightmare.

The summer always brought to us a most beautiful event. As soon as the long school holidays began, my mother took us to relations of hers, who lived at a distant village. The journey lasted six hours, and we travelled in the post-coach. In reality one could not even call the place a village, because there was only one house, the home of our relations. It was a mill, and all around it stretched the glorious woods of the lower parts of Austria, sometimes interrupted by lovely meadows, where the grass used to grow to such a height that it towered above our heads. Close by the mill flowed a clear, narrow brook, so narrow in some places that we could quite easily jump over it, in others so wide that we had to wade through it whenever we wanted to cross. In front of the house there was a large kitchen-garden that adjoined a still larger orchard, a spot full of ever new delights. At one time an apple-tree, as if to tease us, would let a beautiful apple fall to our feet; at another time the berries of a shrub would at last begin to show their colouring, and then, again, a wild flower that had opened overnight. At the very end of the garden there was also a beehive. Although afraid of the bees we dared to approach them cautiously, and even advanced to the back of the hive, where little glass windows enabled us to observe the dear, diligent creatures quite closely.

Later on, when the children were many and my fathers business slack, these visits had to cease owing to the fact that my parents could no longer afford the price of the post-coach. But the memory of that lovely, quiet spot, connected so closely with a sweet and careless childhood, still arouses sudden sadness and makes me yearn for it.

My mother used to take my brother and myself to church every Sunday, and that place so lofty, so dark, so doleful, and always smelling strongly of incense, made me strangely shy and still. My mother sat upon one of the benches, but my brother and I had to stand with the school children. We were right in front of the altar, and the priest, together with the sacristan, had to pass us when they left the vestry. The priest was the same priest who taught us scripture at school, and I thought him even more handsome in his surplice, made of white lace. As I never managed to remember when we were to kneel during the Mass, I simply imitated the others; but no matter whether I knelt or stood up, I always watched the priest, and followed all his movements. With a feeling of profoundest reverence I looked at him, and saw how he mixed the wine and drank it, how he swung the censer solemnly, how he prayed, with folded hands, out of the holy book, and kissed it reverently at the end....

My brother, as a matter of course, had also started school, and spent most of the time with his schoolfellows. We were not so much together now, but had, nevertheless, plenty of opportunity to quarrel; he grew naughtier from day to day, and my poor mother was unable to manage him. When my father came home in the evening I, in my little bedroom, could hear my mother crying and declaring that she could stand it no longer. Then my father used to grow angry and say that he could not possibly undertake both the education of the children and his business. So everything remained as it had been.

When I was twelve years old a great change happened. My father sold his business, and bought a house (including a business) in a distant little town. Once more all our furniture was removed, but on this occasion it was carried to the station. Strange to say we children were not informed about it until the last hour, so that I had left the church-square the previous evening in the usual manner and never said good-bye to anyone.

It was getting dark when we arrived at Hohenburg; a carriage drove us home from the station, and my father showed us all the rooms of the first floor. Another floor had been added according to my father's orders, but he would not let us go upstairs that evening. My mother put us to bed and told us not to forget our dreams, since dreams dreamt the first night at a place one has never seen before come true. I listened attentively to what my mother said, and on the morrow I pondered over my dream. "Mother," I said, "I dreamt that we had gone back again to Langenau." My mother smiled, shook her head, and said she did not think that my dream could come true.

The first days and weeks passed quickly, and were full of sweet excitement. My brother and my sisters, as well as myself, made new friends immediately, and I do not think that at this time I thought much about my old friends. The people who lived in the house beside us called my mother "landlady," and I believe my mother liked to hear that. She also took a new maid, whom I thought to be a person of great importance. Very often she used to tell me stories about men, and confided in me her approaching marriage. Whenever she mentioned that coming event she looked exceedingly happy and proud, so I came to the conclusion that "to marry must be something beautiful," and wished to marry too. I confessed it to our maid, but she said that I was not old enough.

"How old, then, must a girl be to be able to marry?"

And to this question she replied:

"I cannot say for certain; some girls marry early, some marry late."

I decided to marry early.

After we had been at the new place for a considerable time, I began to notice that something was going wrong. I could see that my father looked thoughtful, even sad, and that my mother cried often. Then my father went away suddenly, and did not return for many weeks. When he came back again, he looked pale and troubled, and my mother never ceased to cry.

One day I went into the little kitchen-garden and wanted to sit down on an old chair which happened to be there. But another girl of my age, who was the daughter of one of our tenants and had hitherto treated me very politely, was already sitting on the chair. She did not get up as I had expected her to do, but crossed her arms above her head and looked at me sleepily.

"Get up!" I demanded sullenly.

"Why should I get up?"

"Because I want to sit down."

"Well, sit down on the ground."

That answer made me terribly angry.

"Get up!" I shouted, and stamped with my foot; "that chair belongs to us!"

The girl laughed, and after a while she said, still laughing:

"Nothing whatever belongs to you; everything has been seized from your people; all you have left is debts."

Then she sprang to her feet, pushed the chair back with such violence that it fell to the ground, and ran off.

I stood like one stunned and could not for a while understand what she had said; but then I remembered how often my mother cried, how sad my father looked, and all at once my veil of ignorance was lifted. I went back into the house, but as shyly and softly as if I were a criminal, and sat down silently on a chair. My mother sat at the table with the youngest child in her arms, and looked at me in surprise. I was generally very noisy, and upset a chair three times before I sat down.

"Have you quarrelled with someone?" she asked.

"No; but I should like to know whether what everyone says is true."

My mother trembled a little.

"What nonsense! What does everyone say?"

"That we have nothing left but debts."

My mother got up from the chair and put the child on the bed; then she pulled the table-cover straight, and stared hard at an empty corner of the room.

"By-the-by," she said, as if she was really thinking of something quite different, "who said that?"

When I had told her she sighed deeply. No other sound was heard in the room.

"Should you like to go back to Langenau?" she asked after a while.

I felt surprised and delighted. Hilda, Leopoldine, the old church, and lots of other things came into my thoughts and made me long for them boundlessly.

"Oh, mother," I cried, "it would make me so happy!"

During the following week all our furniture was moved again and sent away. We were all frightfully excited; only my father was quiet, and looked grave and pale. We arrived at Langenau late in the evening, and drove to a new lodging. The whole village seemed to be asleep, and nobody saw our arrival. We had been away for a year.

I did not like the new lodging; it was underground, and the water dripped down the walls, leaving trails of a dark brown colour behind. I could hear my mother say that the lodging was damp and unhealthy, and that she had never thought one could become so poor. Then my father answered that she must not lose courage, but have a little patience, and he would try to find something better as soon as his business proved to be satisfactory. They spoke for a long time upon this subject, and I understood that the business in question was a new one, and that most probably it would take a little while to get customers.

My chief reason for thinking the lodging horrible was that we were a long way from the house of my friend Hilda. Furthermore there was no pretty courtyard, nor any other place in which we could run about and play. Three other tenants lived in the same house, and my mother told us to keep very quiet, because, if we made too much noise, the people might complain about us to the landlord.

As soon as breakfast was over, I wanted to run to the church-square, partly to see whether everything was the same as it had been before, and partly to speak, if possible, to my friends. Just as I was about to close the door, my mother called me back.

"Where do you want to go?"

"I am going out."

"That won't do," my mother's troubled voice rang; "the whole place looks untidy, and you know that I have no maid. If you want to go out, you must at least take the two little ones with you."

"I will certainly not take them," I said, and tears filled my eyes. "They are far too small for our games."

"I am very sorry, but you will have to play something that the little ones can play also."

At first I would not consent, and decided to stay in; but as it was nearly eleven o'clock, the time when I knew that my friends left the school, I could resist no longer. I took the two little ones, not very gently I believe, and went away. My sister was about two years old and was able to walk, while my brother was still quite small and had to be carried. My sister clung to my skirt, and so we walked along slowly, much too slowly for my impatience. A few people, mostly those who were about to go to their work in the vineyards, looked at me strangely, spoke to each other, and laughed as they passed. I felt as if they were laughing at me, and I was terribly ashamed because I thought they all believed me to be the mother of the two children. It was very foolish of me to think such a thing, but at that time I did not know that a girl of my age could never be suspected of being the mother of children; all I knew was that it was considered a disgrace for an unmarried girl to have a child. My anger concentrated therefore on the two innocent little creatures, and I felt very much inclined to beat them.

We got to the school at last, and I noticed with great satisfaction that the lessons were not finished, and that I was likely to catch my friends. After a few minutes I heard the great noise that was made when the boys were getting ready to go. Then they appeared, pair after pair, and my heart beat faster. After the boys came the girls. First the very small ones, then the class I had been in. Hilda and Leopoldine appeared at the same time, and I trembled with joy and excitement when I saw them coming along in the gay, careless fashion characteristic of children. My time seemed to have arrived. I stepped out of the corner in which I had hidden myself, and called their names aloud. Both of them turned round at once, and dragging my little sister behind me, I ran towards them.

"Anna!" they called, but then they looked at each other and kept silent. I knew at once that something was the matter, and the blood mounted into my cheeks. In order not to let them see my embarrassment I controlled myself, and asked with apparent indifference:

"Where shall we go?"

"We are not allowed to speak to you," said Leopoldine at last; "your father is locked up."

"Was," corrected Hilda softly, and then they ran away before I even knew what they meant. A little boy, whom I had seen in the company of my brother many times before, came along, said something very rude as he passed and put his tongue out at me. But what did that boy matter? What did the whole world matter now? I stood as if I was dazed, and might have stood there longer if my little brother had not begun to cry. That made me conscious of a terrible shame and of a sharp pain in my arm, and I felt that the child was heavy. I noticed also that it was nearly dinnertime and knew that my mother was waiting for me. I called my little sister, who had been ceaselessly picking up stones from the ground, and, avoiding the crowded streets as much as I could, I made for home. My mother was standing in front of our gate, and looking searchingly up and down the street. Having caught sight of us she came to meet me and took the boy from my arms.

"Where have you been?" she asked; "you look hot."

"I am terribly hungry," I said, and slipped into the house while my mother followed slowly with the children. Soon afterwards we sat down to dinner, and my mother was busily preparing the food for the little ones. I helped her a little, handing her a fork, a spoon, or anything that was beyond her reach. After a pause of some length my mother said: "Did you see any of your friends?"

"No," I replied without hesitation, hastily swallowing a large mouthful. I could feel how the blood rushed back into my cheeks, not because I had told a lie (I often told lies), but because I heard the cruel words hum in my head again.

"You are getting quite a big girl now," my mother continued after a pause, "and you could make yourself very useful at home, if it were not that you have to go to school again."

A silly, incomprehensible fear immediately gripped me. Until that moment I had not thought of having to go to school again. "Mother," I said, and lifted up my arms imploringly, "pray do not send me to school again."

"You are getting more and more lazy; you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"So I am," I answered rudely.

My mother got up from the chair suddenly, and I thought that she was going to beat me for such an impudent answer. But she did not beat me; she bent down to one of the little ones and, with her face turned away, told me to clear the things from the table.

During our stay at Hohenburg I had scarcely learnt anything, and when my mother took me to school the next day, the headmaster found that out at once. He declared that I was not by any means able to join the fourth class, but must take up the third class once more. My mother never understood why I looked so exceedingly happy when the headmaster told me that.... I was now at least spared the company of those "two." The mere thought of them became unbearable to me. I decided never to go near them again, and to avoid everything that could bring me into touch with them. But if it happened now and then that we met during the recreation, which we had all to spend out in the garden, I quickly looked in another direction. Hilda and Leopoldine were together almost constantly, and it was only sometimes that I met Hilda by herself. She passed me then with eyes cast down, but inwardly I felt that she loved me still and only did not speak because she was forbidden to do so. At such moments I loved her more than I had ever done before; I even thought of walking up to her and speaking to her again. But whenever I wanted to put that thought into action, my feet refused to move; I stood like one rooted to the ground, and all that I was able to do was to look after her and watch how she went away slowly, sometimes very slowly.

One day I heard from a schoolfellow that Hilda had been sent to Krems in order to join a seminary for school-teachers. After that I felt as lonely and wretched as a child has ever felt. It is true that she had never spoken to me again, but her figure was the most vivid picture in my mind, and to watch her secretly from behind a quiet corner had filled my heart with a happiness strangely sweet and sad.... "Why," I thought angrily—"why was Hilda sent away? why not Leopoldine?" Whenever we met, her face wore a malicious smile, the very smile it had worn when she had said those terrible words to me. I began to hate her, and prayed every night to God that He might cause her mother (she had no father) to be locked up too. But her mother never got locked up. One day when I accidentally passed their house I saw a lot of labourers busying themselves over it, and when I, driven by curiosity, stole by in the dusk another evening, the house looked more beautiful than ever. Henceforth Leopoldine was dressed in very pretty clothes, and the smile on her face grew more and more malicious.

I had no pretty clothes, and my parents had no pretty house. My father's business went from bad to worse, and he himself grew to be taciturn and did not speak to us children for weeks. Another little brother had arrived too, and my mother worked incessantly. I assisted her by minding the children and carrying about the baby, but I did not like doing it and felt utterly unhappy.

My brother had been sent to the High School at Krems because my mother had set her heart upon it. My father used to point out to her that he was hardly able to afford the expense, but my mother responded that Charlie was the cleverest boy that could be found, and that it would be an everlasting pity to bring him up otherwise. After these explanations my father was silent, but I am perfectly convinced that he would have much preferred to apprentice my brother to some trade. Charlie came home every Sunday and left again on the Monday. On these visits he treated us all in a most conceited manner, and even declared one day that country-folk were fools. In spite of that I used to see him off each time he went away, and felt like crying when the train had steamed out of the little station.