Night of 25-26 January 1942

It’s lucky I’m not married. For me, marriage would have been a disaster.

There’s a point at which misunderstanding is bound to arise between husband and wife; it’s when the husband cannot give his wife all the time she feels entitled to demand. As long as only other couples are involved, one hears women say: “I don’t understand Frau So-and-so, I wouldn’t behave like that.” But when she herself is involved, every woman is unreasonable to the same degree. One must understand this demandingness. A woman who loves her husband lives only for his sake. That’s why, in her turn, she expects her spouse to live likewise for her sake. It’s only after maternity that the woman discovers that other realities exist in life for her.

The man, on the other hand, is a slave to his thoughts. The idea of his duties rules him. He necessarily has moments when he wants to throw the whole thing overboard, wife and children too. When I think of it, I realise that during the year 1932, if I’d been married, I’d scarcely have spent a few days in my own home. And even during these few days, I’d have not been my own master. The wife does not complain only of her husband’s absence. She also resents him being preoccupied, having his mind somewhere else. In a woman, the grief of separation is associated with a certain delight. After the separation, the joy of meeting again! When a sailor returns home, after a long voyage, he has something like a new marriage. After months of absence, he enjoys some weeks of complete liberty. That would never have been the case with me, and my wife would justly have been bored to death. I’d have had nothing of marriage but the sullen face of a neglected wife, or else I’d have skimped my duties.

That’s why it’s better not to get married.

The bad side of marriage is that it creates rights. In that case, it’s far better to have a mistress. The burden is lightened and everything is placed on the level of a gift.

The Fuehrer noticed two guests who looked somewhat crestfallen, J. W. and Chr. Schr. He turned towards Schr. and explained:

What I’ve said applied only to men of a higher type, of course!

Relieved, Schr. exclaimed: “That’s just what I was thinking, my Fuehrer.”

I don’t believe that W. H. will ever get married. He has created an ideal image of a woman, taking her silhouette from one, her hair from the next, her intelligence from a third, from still another her eyes – and it’s with this image in his mind that he approaches every woman; but there’s nothing like it in nature. One must declare oneself satisfied when one finds one perfect detail in a woman. A girl of eighteen to twenty is as malleable as wax. It should be possible for a man, whoever the chosen woman may be, to stamp his own imprint upon her. That’s all the woman asks for, by the way.

Dora’s a sweet girl, but I don’t think that Kempka and she will be happy. For a girl like her, it seems to me that Kempka is too exclusively interested in mechanics. She’s too intelligent for him!

What lovely women there are in the world!

We were sitting in the Ratskeller at Bremen. A woman came in. One would truly have thought that Olympus had opened its gates. Radiant, dazzling. The diners unanimously put down their knives and forks, and all eyes were fixed on her.

Another time, at Brunswick, a young girl rushed towards my car to offer me a bouquet. She was blonde, dashing, wonderful. Everyone around me was amazed, but not one of these idiots had the idea of asking the girl for her address, so that I could send her a word of thanks. I’ve always reproached myself most bitterly.

On yet another occasion, I was at a reception at the Bayrischer Hof. There were splendid women there, elegant and covered with jewels. A woman entered who was so beautiful that all the others were eclipsed. She wore no jewels. It was Frau Hanfstängl. I saw her again just once, with Mary Stuck at Erna Hanfstängl’s. Three women together, one more beautiful than the others. What a picture!

In my youth, in Vienna, I knew a lot of lovely women.