Tove Ditlevsen - Dependency

Everything in the living room is green the carpet, the walls, the curtains and I am always inside it, like in a picture. I wake up every morning around five oclock and sit down on the edge of the bed to write, curling my toes because of the cold. Its the middle of May, and the heating is off. I sleep by myself in the living room, because Viggo F. has lived alone for so many years that he cant get used to suddenly sleeping with another person. I understand, and its fine with me, because now I have these early morning hours all to myself. Im writing my first novel, and Viggo F. doesnt know. Somehow I think that if he knew, he would correct it and give me advice, like he does all the other young people who write in Wild Wheat, and then that would block the flow of sentences coursing through my brain all day long. I write by hand on cheap yellow vellum, because if I used his noisy typewriter, which is so old it belongs in the National Museum, it would wake him up. He sleeps in the bedroom looking out on the courtyard, and I dont wake him until eight oclock. Then he gets up in his white nightshirt with the red trim, and with an annoyed look on his face, he walks out to the bathroom. Meanwhile I make coffee for both of us and butter four pieces of bread. I put a lot of butter on two of them, because he loves anything fattening. I do whatever I can to please him, because Im so thankful he married me. Although I know something still isnt quite right, I carefully avoid thinking about that. For some incomprehensible reason, Viggo F. has never taken me in his arms, and that does bother me a little, as if I had a stone in my shoe. It bothers me a little because I think there must be something wrong with me, and that in some way I havent lived up to his expectations. When we sit across from one another, drinking coffee, he reads the newspaper, and Im not allowed to talk to him. Thats when my courage drains away like sand in an hourglass; I dont know why. I stare at his double chin, vibrating weakly, spilling out over the edge of his wing-tip collar. I stare at his small, dainty hands, moving in short, nervous jerks, and at his thick, gray hair which resembles a wig, because his ruddy, wrinkle-free face would better suit a bald man. When we finally do talk to one another, its about small, meaningless things what he wants for dinner, or how we should fix the tear in the blackout curtains. I feel glad if he finds something cheerful in the newspaper, like the day when it said people could buy alcohol again, after the occupying forces had forbidden that for a week. I feel glad when he smiles at me with his single tooth, pats my hand, says goodbye and leaves. He doesnt want false teeth, because he says that in his family men die at fifty-six, and thats only three years away, so he doesnt want the expense. Theres no hiding the fact that hes stingy, and that doesnt really match the high value my mother put on being able to provide. Hes never given me a piece of clothing, and when we go out in the evening to visit some famous person, he takes the streetcar, while I have to ride my bicycle alongside it, speeding along so I can wave to him when he wants. I have to keep a household budget, and when he looks at it, he always thinks everything is too expensive. When I cant get it to add up, I write miscellaneous, but he always makes a fuss about that, so I try not to miss any expenses. He also makes a fuss about having a housekeeper in the mornings, since Im home anyway, doing nothing. But I cant and wont keep house, so he has no choice. I feel glad when I see him cut across the green lawn toward the streetcar, which stops right in front of the police station. I wave to him, and when I turn away from the window, I completely forget about him until he shows up again. I take a shower, look in the mirror, and think to myself that I am only twenty years old, and that it feels like I have been married for a generation. It feels like life beyond these green rooms is rushing by for other people as if to the sound of kettledrums and tom-toms. Meanwhile I am only twenty years old, and the days descend on me unnoticeably like dust, each one just like the rest.

After I get dressed, I talk with Mrs Jensen about lunch and I make a list of what needs to be purchased. Mrs Jensen is taciturn, introverted and a bit insulted that shes not alone in the house anymore, like she used to be. What nonsense, she mumbles, that a man of his age would marry such a young girl. She doesnt say it so loud that I have to answer, and I cant be bothered to listen to what she says. Im thinking about my novel all the time, which I know the title of, though Im not completely sure what it will be about. Im just writing; maybe it will be good; maybe not. The most important thing is that I feel happy when Im writing, just as I always have. I feel happy and I forget everything around me, until I pick up my brown shoulder bag and go shopping. Then Im gripped again by the mornings vague gloom, because all I see in the streets are loving couples walking hand in hand and looking deep into one anothers eyes. I almost cant bear the sight of it. I realize Ive never been in love, except for a brief episode two years before, when I walked home from the Olympia Bar with Kurt, who was going to be leaving the following day for Spain to take part in the civil war. He might be dead now, or maybe he came back and found himself another girl. Maybe I didnt really have to marry Viggo F. to make it in the world. Maybe I only did it because my mother wanted me to so badly. I poke a finger into the meat to see if it feels tender. This is something my mother has taught me. And I write on my little notepaper what it costs, because Ill forget before I get home. When the shopping is done and Mrs Jensen has left, I put everything out of my mind so I can hammer away at the typewriter, now that it wont disturb anyone.

My mother comes and visits me regularly, and together we can be pretty silly. A couple of days after I got married, she opened up the closet and looked through Viggo F.s clothes. She calls him Viggomand, because she has just as much trouble as other people calling him by his real name. I cant do it either, because there is something immature about the name Viggo when its not referring to a child. She held all his green clothing up to the light and found a set that was so moth-eaten, she thought it couldnt be worn anymore. Mrs Brun could use this to sew me a dress, she concluded. It was never any use to oppose my mother when she made a decision like that, so offering no resistance, I let her leave with the clothes, hoping that Viggo F. wouldnt ask about it. Sometime later we visited my parents. We dont do that very often, because theres something about the way Viggo F. talks to them that I cant stand. He speaks loudly and slowly, as if to mentally disabled children, and he searches carefully for subjects he thinks might interest them. We visited them, and suddenly he prodded me with a confidential elbow in my side. What a coincidence, he said, twirling his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. Did you notice that the fabric of your mothers dress exactly matches a set of clothes I have hanging in the closet at home? Then my mother and I dashed from the room and burst out laughing.