it hasn’t already gone out of fashion. There are fashions here that
scarcely have time to come in properly. Last year all the children, and also many
grownups, played Diabolo. Now this game is out of fashion, no one wants to play it.
That’s how everything changes. Berlin always sets the fashion. No one is obliged to
imitate, and yet Madam Imitation is the great and exalted ruler of this life. Everyone
imitates.
Papa can be charming; actually, he is always nice, but at times he becomes angry about
something—one never knows—and then he is ugly. I can see in him how secret anger,
just like discontent, makes people ugly. If Papa isn’t in a good mood, I feel as cowed
as a whipped dog, and therefore Papa should avoid displaying his indisposition and
his discontent to his associates, even if they should consist of only one daughter.
There, yes, precisely there, fathers commit sins. I sense it vividly. But who doesn’t
have weaknesses—not even one, not some tiny fault? Who is without sin? Parents who
don’t consider it necessary to withhold their personal storms from their children
degrade them to slaves in no time. A father should overcome his bad moods in private—but
how difficult that is!—or he should take them to strangers. A daughter is a young
lady, and in every cultivated sire should dwell a cavalier. I say explicitly: living
with Father is like Paradise, and if I discover a flaw in him, doubtless it is one
transferred from him to me; thus it is his, not my, discretion that observes him closely.
But Papa may, of course, conveniently take out his anger on people who are dependent
on him in certain respects. There are enough such people fluttering about him.
I have my own room, my furniture, my luxury, my books, etc. God, I’m actually very
well provided for. Am I thankful to Papa for all this? What a tasteless question!
I am obedient to him, and then I am also his possession, and, in the last analysis,
he can well be proud of me. I cause him worries, I am his financial concern, he may
snap at me, and I always find it a kind of delicate obligation to laugh at him when
he snaps at me. Papa likes to snap; he has a sense of humor and is, at the same time,
spirited. At Christmas he overwhelms me with presents. Incidentally, my furniture
was designed by an artist who is scarcely unknown. Father deals almost exclusively
with people who have some sort of name. He deals with names. If hidden in such a name
there is also a man, so much the better. How horrible it must be to know that one
is famous and to feel that one doesn’t deserve it at all. I can imagine many such
famous people. Isn’t such a fame like an incurable sickness? Goodness, the way I express
myself! My furniture is lacquered white and is painted with flowers and fruits by
the hands of a connoisseur. They are charming and the artist who painted them is a
remarkable person, highly esteemed by Father. And whomever Father esteems should indeed
be flattered. I mean, it is worth something if Papa is well-disposed toward someone,
and those who don’t find it so and act as if they didn’t give a hoot, they’re only
hurting themselves. They don’t see the world clearly enough. I consider my father
to be a thoroughly remarkable man; that he wields influence in the world is obvious.—Many
of my books bore me. But then they are simply not the right books, like, for example,
so-called children’s books. Such books are an affront. One dares give children books
to read that don’t go beyond their horizons? One should not speak in a childlike manner
to children; it is childish. I, who am still a child myself, hate childishness.
When shall I cease to amuse myself with toys? No, toys are sweet, and I shall be playing
with my doll for a long time yet; but I play consciously. I know that it’s silly,
but how beautiful silly and useless things are. Artistic natures, I think,
scarcely have time to come in properly. Last year all the children, and also many
grownups, played Diabolo. Now this game is out of fashion, no one wants to play it.
That’s how everything changes. Berlin always sets the fashion. No one is obliged to
imitate, and yet Madam Imitation is the great and exalted ruler of this life. Everyone
imitates.
Papa can be charming; actually, he is always nice, but at times he becomes angry about
something—one never knows—and then he is ugly. I can see in him how secret anger,
just like discontent, makes people ugly. If Papa isn’t in a good mood, I feel as cowed
as a whipped dog, and therefore Papa should avoid displaying his indisposition and
his discontent to his associates, even if they should consist of only one daughter.
There, yes, precisely there, fathers commit sins. I sense it vividly. But who doesn’t
have weaknesses—not even one, not some tiny fault? Who is without sin? Parents who
don’t consider it necessary to withhold their personal storms from their children
degrade them to slaves in no time. A father should overcome his bad moods in private—but
how difficult that is!—or he should take them to strangers. A daughter is a young
lady, and in every cultivated sire should dwell a cavalier. I say explicitly: living
with Father is like Paradise, and if I discover a flaw in him, doubtless it is one
transferred from him to me; thus it is his, not my, discretion that observes him closely.
But Papa may, of course, conveniently take out his anger on people who are dependent
on him in certain respects. There are enough such people fluttering about him.
I have my own room, my furniture, my luxury, my books, etc. God, I’m actually very
well provided for. Am I thankful to Papa for all this? What a tasteless question!
I am obedient to him, and then I am also his possession, and, in the last analysis,
he can well be proud of me. I cause him worries, I am his financial concern, he may
snap at me, and I always find it a kind of delicate obligation to laugh at him when
he snaps at me. Papa likes to snap; he has a sense of humor and is, at the same time,
spirited. At Christmas he overwhelms me with presents. Incidentally, my furniture
was designed by an artist who is scarcely unknown. Father deals almost exclusively
with people who have some sort of name. He deals with names. If hidden in such a name
there is also a man, so much the better. How horrible it must be to know that one
is famous and to feel that one doesn’t deserve it at all. I can imagine many such
famous people. Isn’t such a fame like an incurable sickness? Goodness, the way I express
myself! My furniture is lacquered white and is painted with flowers and fruits by
the hands of a connoisseur. They are charming and the artist who painted them is a
remarkable person, highly esteemed by Father. And whomever Father esteems should indeed
be flattered. I mean, it is worth something if Papa is well-disposed toward someone,
and those who don’t find it so and act as if they didn’t give a hoot, they’re only
hurting themselves. They don’t see the world clearly enough. I consider my father
to be a thoroughly remarkable man; that he wields influence in the world is obvious.—Many
of my books bore me. But then they are simply not the right books, like, for example,
so-called children’s books. Such books are an affront. One dares give children books
to read that don’t go beyond their horizons? One should not speak in a childlike manner
to children; it is childish. I, who am still a child myself, hate childishness.
When shall I cease to amuse myself with toys? No, toys are sweet, and I shall be playing
with my doll for a long time yet; but I play consciously. I know that it’s silly,
but how beautiful silly and useless things are. Artistic natures, I think,
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