be really honest, I’d have said I don’t love anyone in the world.
I’m only twenty-five and I could honestly have said I felt love for no one. I thought I’d love my husband when I married him but that didn’t last five minutes. In fact, it was over that first night when he hurt me so and I thought he was a madman who was trying to kill me. I get worried about the boys if they’re ill or I can’t find them in the street but I don’t care about being with them. The truth is, they bore me. You can’t call that loving. As for my father and Tante Frederikke, they’re just old people who heaved sighs of relief when I was safely married and out of the way.
The friends I had at school have all disappeared. Well, they got married too. When women get married they’ve no time for friendship. A woman I talked to before I came to this country told me her husband was her best friend. I ask you! So I’d come to the conclusion I didn’t love anyone and it frightened me a bit, thinking like that. It seemed wrong, it seemed wicked, even though I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t anything I’d done but just something which was.
As I wrote that last word Swanhild started crying upstairs. She always cries at the right time, when my breasts are getting uncomfortable and too heavy with milk.
I’m coming!
October 15th, 1905
The trial has begun of the man who murdered his wife in Navarino Road. Hansine is fascinated by all of it. She has begged me to read the account of it to her from the Hackney and Kingsland Gazette but of course I won’t. I didn’t know these people and I don’t want to read about them. The next thing was that I came upon her asking Mogens to read it to her. He can read anything, both in Danish and English, I think he’s going to be a bright boy, but naturally I said no, on no account. I’ve told her not to mention anything about that trial or those people in this house. I was so fierce I frightened her. Anyway, she was quiet.
Rasmus might murder me if he knew everything about me, if he knew everything that goes on in my heart. For that’s where I’m free, free to be myself, to do as I like, to think as I wish and not pretend. There are no noisy schoolboys there and no screaming baby—not that I’m complaining about Swanny, she’s the best thing in my life—no chattering thick-headed maid and no absent wandering husband who may be anywhere.
I know he’s all right, though. More money has come, another 500 kroner, so we’re safe and can pay the rent and eat plenty of good food. We shall have a fat goose for Christmas and a kransekage. As soon as the money was in my hand I went to Matthew Rose’s store and bought material to make clothes for Swanny. I haven’t written in this diary for days because I’ve been sewing, doing drawn thread work and making fine tucks on her long gowns.
This afternoon Mrs Gibbons called to see me. I think she only comes here to find out if I’ve really got a husband, she’s always asking about him. First she wanted to know when Swanny was going to be christened. She’s very religious (though that doesn’t stop her laughing at my accent) and she’s always hob-nobbing with the curate at St Philip’s. I said, never, I didn’t believe in god. (See how I write it with a small g.) ‘I don’t believe in god,’ I said, ‘or any of that. It’s all the invention of ministers and vicars.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ she says, ‘you shock me, you really do.’
She didn’t look shocked, she looked greedy for more. So I gave it her.
‘You people talk about god being a loving father,’ I said, ‘but even a bad father wouldn’t kill his daughter’s babies.’
She gave me a funny look because I had Swanny on my lap. My right hand was under her head and my left hand lying lightly on her chest and I could see Mrs Gibbons start looking at my hand. She’s so plain you really want to laugh. For one thing she’s very stout and the way her corsets push up the top half of
I’m only twenty-five and I could honestly have said I felt love for no one. I thought I’d love my husband when I married him but that didn’t last five minutes. In fact, it was over that first night when he hurt me so and I thought he was a madman who was trying to kill me. I get worried about the boys if they’re ill or I can’t find them in the street but I don’t care about being with them. The truth is, they bore me. You can’t call that loving. As for my father and Tante Frederikke, they’re just old people who heaved sighs of relief when I was safely married and out of the way.
The friends I had at school have all disappeared. Well, they got married too. When women get married they’ve no time for friendship. A woman I talked to before I came to this country told me her husband was her best friend. I ask you! So I’d come to the conclusion I didn’t love anyone and it frightened me a bit, thinking like that. It seemed wrong, it seemed wicked, even though I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t anything I’d done but just something which was.
As I wrote that last word Swanhild started crying upstairs. She always cries at the right time, when my breasts are getting uncomfortable and too heavy with milk.
I’m coming!
October 15th, 1905
The trial has begun of the man who murdered his wife in Navarino Road. Hansine is fascinated by all of it. She has begged me to read the account of it to her from the Hackney and Kingsland Gazette but of course I won’t. I didn’t know these people and I don’t want to read about them. The next thing was that I came upon her asking Mogens to read it to her. He can read anything, both in Danish and English, I think he’s going to be a bright boy, but naturally I said no, on no account. I’ve told her not to mention anything about that trial or those people in this house. I was so fierce I frightened her. Anyway, she was quiet.
Rasmus might murder me if he knew everything about me, if he knew everything that goes on in my heart. For that’s where I’m free, free to be myself, to do as I like, to think as I wish and not pretend. There are no noisy schoolboys there and no screaming baby—not that I’m complaining about Swanny, she’s the best thing in my life—no chattering thick-headed maid and no absent wandering husband who may be anywhere.
I know he’s all right, though. More money has come, another 500 kroner, so we’re safe and can pay the rent and eat plenty of good food. We shall have a fat goose for Christmas and a kransekage. As soon as the money was in my hand I went to Matthew Rose’s store and bought material to make clothes for Swanny. I haven’t written in this diary for days because I’ve been sewing, doing drawn thread work and making fine tucks on her long gowns.
This afternoon Mrs Gibbons called to see me. I think she only comes here to find out if I’ve really got a husband, she’s always asking about him. First she wanted to know when Swanny was going to be christened. She’s very religious (though that doesn’t stop her laughing at my accent) and she’s always hob-nobbing with the curate at St Philip’s. I said, never, I didn’t believe in god. (See how I write it with a small g.) ‘I don’t believe in god,’ I said, ‘or any of that. It’s all the invention of ministers and vicars.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ she says, ‘you shock me, you really do.’
She didn’t look shocked, she looked greedy for more. So I gave it her.
‘You people talk about god being a loving father,’ I said, ‘but even a bad father wouldn’t kill his daughter’s babies.’
She gave me a funny look because I had Swanny on my lap. My right hand was under her head and my left hand lying lightly on her chest and I could see Mrs Gibbons start looking at my hand. She’s so plain you really want to laugh. For one thing she’s very stout and the way her corsets push up the top half of
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