home to go—where? The first I cannot do, and the second I dare not; yet if he should say 'come to me.' But he will never, never do that. I would not ask such a sacrifice of him. Therefore I have no choice, and I must lie and lie again, steal away to my happiness, sneak away from home with terror in my heart, being prepared on my return to be received with the awful words: 'You are found out.'
I lie till I am hot all over with shame. I lie madly, unable any longer to find reasonable excuses for my constantly going out. I cannot understand that mother has not yet noticed anything.
The most revolting thing is that I have to hide my love for him under a mask of friendship for Christiane. To have to deny him, who is my pride, and swear allegiance to Christiane, to force myself to be nice to her to secure her help.
Already, knowing how necessary she is to me, she has started to treat me in a conceited and aggressive manner. With her questions she offends what seems most sacred to me, and with her coarse, plebeian greediness she fumbles all over the dearest secrets of my soul; those I hardly dare to reveal to myself. I get so angry with her that I could hit her round, fat face.
Even you, my not-much-loved papa, I could have kissed yesterday, when you said at dinner: 'What on earth does your sudden passion for Christiane mean? She looks. Heaven help her, nothing more than a vegetable marrow on two sticks.'
