The forest belongs to me....

The piano is closed.  I never use it now.  The sound of the wind in the trees is music enough for me.  I rise from my bed and listen until I am half frozen.  I, who was never stirred or pleased by the playing of virtuosi!

I have no more desires.  Past and future both repose beneath a shroud of soft, mild fog.  I am content to live like this.  But the least event indoors wakes me from my lethargy.  Yesterday Torp sent for the sweep.  Catching sight of him in my room, I could not repress a scream.  I could not think for the moment what the man could be doing here.

Another time a stray cat took refuge under my table.  I was not aware of it, but no sooner had I sat down than I felt surcharged with electricity.  I rang for Jeanne, and when she came into the room the creature darted from its hiding-place, and I was panic-stricken.

Jeanne carried it away, but for a long time afterwards I shivered at the sight of her.

Whence comes this horror of cats?  Many people make pets of them.  Personally I should prefer the company of a boa-constrictor.

* * * * *

A man whose vanity I had wounded once took it upon himself to tell me some plain truths.  He did me this honour because I had not sufficiently appreciated his attentions.

He assured me that I was neither clever nor gifted, but that I was merely skilful at not letting myself be caught out, and had a certain quickness of repartee.  He was quite right.

What time and energy I have spent in trying to keep up this reputation of being a clever woman, when I was really not born one!

My vanity demanded that I should not be run after for my appearance only; so I surrounded myself with clever men and let them call me intellectual.  It was Hans Andersen’s old tale of “The King’s New Clothes” over again.

We spoke of political economy, of statesmanship, of art and literature, finance and religion.  I knew nothing about all these things, but, thanks to an animated air of attention, I steered safely between the rocks and won a reputation for cleverness.

* * * * *

In English novels, with their insipid sweetness that always reminds me of the smell of frost-bitten potatoes, the heroine sometimes permits herself the luxury of being blind, lame, or disfigured by smallpox.  The hero adores her just the same.  How false to life!  My existence would have been very different if ten years ago I had lost my long eyelashes, if my fingers had become deformed, or my nose shown signs of redness....

A red nose!  It is the worst catastrophe that can befall a beautiful woman.  I always suspected this was the reason why Adelaide Svanstroem took poison.  Poor woman, unluckily she did not take a big enough dose!

* * * * *

JANUARY.

My senses are reawakening.  Light and sound now bring me entirely new impressions; what I see, I now also feel, with nerves of which hitherto I did not suspect the existence.  When evening draws on I stare into the twilight until everything seems to shimmer before my eyes, and I dream like a child....