navel.
‘Imagine my surprise when he was born the usual way.’
All this is in the diaries of course, but we knew nothing of that then. It saddens me sometimes to think that my mother never knew, that she died before the diaries were found. Some of Asta’s stories could be disproved. The anecdote about Hansine, asking as she cleared the dinner table when guests were present, ‘Are we gentlefolk or do we stack?’, I later found out had originated in a Punch cartoon from the twenties or thirties. The birth of Mogens coming as a surprise to his mother was perhaps another fantasy that had found its way into her mythology. A lot of her stories were funny, some bizarre or grotesque. The biggest one from her past she might never have told but for a malicious intervention, and then she did no more than put up a kind of defence.
It was good for old people to have something left to tell, as Mormor herself had said, for otherwise they might become boring to their poor children.
4
August 30th, 1905
IGAAR VAR DER SOLFORMØRKELSE . Vi havde fortalt Drengene at det vilde blive mørkt—Lærerne giver dem ikke altid de rigtige Oplysninger – saa de var meget skuffede over at det var bare Tusmørke og at det ikke varede længe.
Yesterday there was an eclipse of the sun. The boys had been told it would get dark—these teachers don’t always give accurate information—and were very disappointed when it only became twilight and that not for very long.
Things are getting worse in Russia and now they are having riots against the Jews. There is cholera in Berlin. I haven’t heard from my husband since he sent the money and that was before Swanhild was born. But I don’t care. We’re all right on our own, the boys and the baby and Hansine and me. In fact we’re a lot better without him and but for the money, which we’ll soon need, I’d as soon he never came back.
For one thing, he won’t like the baby’s name. He’ll say it’s a Norwegian name and it is, but so what? Just because he has a lot of stupid prejudices and despises the Norwegians. I expect he will want her called Vibeke after his ugly old mother. Even if he makes me have her christened Vibeke or Dagmar I’ll still call her Swanhild. And when I cuddle her and put her to the breast I’ll call her Swanny. There’s no one can stop another person calling someone what she wants.
I’ve loved the name since I was a young girl and read the Volsunga Saga. Svanhild was the daughter of Gudrun and Sigurd Fafnersbane. When Gudrun killed her second husband, Atle, she tried to drown herself but the waves took her to a land where King Jonakr ruled. She married him and Svanhild grew up at his court and was later wooed by the mighty King Jormunrek.
He sent his son Randver to ask for her hand in marriage, she accepted and followed him home on his ship. But Bikke, the evil servant, tried to persuade her to take him for her husband instead and when she refused told Jormunrek she had been unfaithful.
Jormunrek hanged his son and sentenced Svanhild to be trampled to death by wild horses, but the horses could not touch her so long as they could see her beautiful eyes. Bikke blindfolded her and then nothing could stop the horses. There were more terrible revenges and Wotan came into it all somewhere. I was romantic when I was young and I liked the idea of beauty taming wild beasts. It’s all so ancient too, lost in the mists of antiquity, as Onkel Holger says, a favourite phrase of his.
September 1st, 1905
We weighed Swanhild on the kitchen scales this morning, Hansine and I. They belong to the man who owns this house and they weigh in pounds and ounces, not kilograms. It sounds strange to me, nine pounds, two ounces, it doesn’t mean anything much, but it must be all right because it’s a lot more than when she was weighed at the chemist’s a month ago. I’m proud of her. I love her. I like writing that down because a few weeks ago, if anyone had asked me and asked me to
‘Imagine my surprise when he was born the usual way.’
All this is in the diaries of course, but we knew nothing of that then. It saddens me sometimes to think that my mother never knew, that she died before the diaries were found. Some of Asta’s stories could be disproved. The anecdote about Hansine, asking as she cleared the dinner table when guests were present, ‘Are we gentlefolk or do we stack?’, I later found out had originated in a Punch cartoon from the twenties or thirties. The birth of Mogens coming as a surprise to his mother was perhaps another fantasy that had found its way into her mythology. A lot of her stories were funny, some bizarre or grotesque. The biggest one from her past she might never have told but for a malicious intervention, and then she did no more than put up a kind of defence.
It was good for old people to have something left to tell, as Mormor herself had said, for otherwise they might become boring to their poor children.
4
August 30th, 1905
IGAAR VAR DER SOLFORMØRKELSE . Vi havde fortalt Drengene at det vilde blive mørkt—Lærerne giver dem ikke altid de rigtige Oplysninger – saa de var meget skuffede over at det var bare Tusmørke og at det ikke varede længe.
Yesterday there was an eclipse of the sun. The boys had been told it would get dark—these teachers don’t always give accurate information—and were very disappointed when it only became twilight and that not for very long.
Things are getting worse in Russia and now they are having riots against the Jews. There is cholera in Berlin. I haven’t heard from my husband since he sent the money and that was before Swanhild was born. But I don’t care. We’re all right on our own, the boys and the baby and Hansine and me. In fact we’re a lot better without him and but for the money, which we’ll soon need, I’d as soon he never came back.
For one thing, he won’t like the baby’s name. He’ll say it’s a Norwegian name and it is, but so what? Just because he has a lot of stupid prejudices and despises the Norwegians. I expect he will want her called Vibeke after his ugly old mother. Even if he makes me have her christened Vibeke or Dagmar I’ll still call her Swanhild. And when I cuddle her and put her to the breast I’ll call her Swanny. There’s no one can stop another person calling someone what she wants.
I’ve loved the name since I was a young girl and read the Volsunga Saga. Svanhild was the daughter of Gudrun and Sigurd Fafnersbane. When Gudrun killed her second husband, Atle, she tried to drown herself but the waves took her to a land where King Jonakr ruled. She married him and Svanhild grew up at his court and was later wooed by the mighty King Jormunrek.
He sent his son Randver to ask for her hand in marriage, she accepted and followed him home on his ship. But Bikke, the evil servant, tried to persuade her to take him for her husband instead and when she refused told Jormunrek she had been unfaithful.
Jormunrek hanged his son and sentenced Svanhild to be trampled to death by wild horses, but the horses could not touch her so long as they could see her beautiful eyes. Bikke blindfolded her and then nothing could stop the horses. There were more terrible revenges and Wotan came into it all somewhere. I was romantic when I was young and I liked the idea of beauty taming wild beasts. It’s all so ancient too, lost in the mists of antiquity, as Onkel Holger says, a favourite phrase of his.
September 1st, 1905
We weighed Swanhild on the kitchen scales this morning, Hansine and I. They belong to the man who owns this house and they weigh in pounds and ounces, not kilograms. It sounds strange to me, nine pounds, two ounces, it doesn’t mean anything much, but it must be all right because it’s a lot more than when she was weighed at the chemist’s a month ago. I’m proud of her. I love her. I like writing that down because a few weeks ago, if anyone had asked me and asked me to
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