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.
Without being able to give a satisfactory explanation of my feelings I grew unhappier from day to day, and at times when I was most sad I became conscious of a story in my head, and wrote it down, but tore the paper up again without ever showing it to anybody. My dearest wish was to be sent to Krems, so that I also might join the seminary for school-teachers, and I wondered in my heart of hearts whether Hilda would speak to me then. As a matter of course that secret longing was in vain.
The time when I was to leave school approached at last, and I hailed that event with great delight, for I rejoiced at the thought that in the future I should not be compelled to meet Leopoldine. I had time to spare now, but I did not help my mother with her housework any more than before. I did not like staying at home, and wanted to go away. But whenever I mentioned the subject my mother declared that she could not spare me yet, and that in any case I was too young to face the world alone. I felt exceedingly impatient, grew very discontented, silent towards my mother and my two bigger sisters, and spent, in spite of the noisy company around me, a very lonely life. My poems were the only joy I had; they used to come again and again, but I kept them as secret as before.