I’ve betrayed my husband—who is young and handsome and kind and faithful and noble and dear—with his best friend Henrik, who is his partner and my cousin. I’ve known Henrik since we were children, and he was the one who brought me and Otto together. And now Otto is lying up there at Grefsen with consumption, and my lover is paying his expenses and supporting all the rest of us. And Otto hasn’t a clue in the world. I can’t go and visit him without hearing him talk about what an excellent friend Henrik is, and what an excellent wife he has. When all is said and done, it seems the child we’ve foisted on him is dearest to his heart. She’s the one he always asks about.
I found out about the whole wretched business when I went to visit Otto during Easter week. He wanted to come home, but when I said that I thought he had better stay there until he was well, he replied that he couldn’t keep on accepting financial support from Henrik. When Otto first went there, he thought he would be well in a couple of months, at least well enough to be able to start back at the office. Then I learned that when Otto and Henrik started the company, Henrik invested all his capital in Otto’s fledgling business. I had always thought that Otto had inherited something from his father, even though it might not have been much. But it turned out there was nothing. The business did well, and he had good connections, but there was too little money to work with. Even though Otto is a very clever businessman, he says that Henrik acted as a good friend back then.
“I worked like a horse as long as I had my health,” said Otto. “And I had no qualms about leaving when Henrik suggested it, but I can’t just stay here for years in practically the most expensive health resort in the whole country.”
I almost told him everything. It was so horrible the minute I heard that. I could only agree with Otto. I suggested that we could rent a place outside the city, and I would take such good care of him, such good care . . . Dear God, how I begged him. It was also because I wanted so much to do something for him, and Otto was very touched. He wept with his head on my shoulder and kept patting my cheek and hands. But he refused, for the sake of the children. The poor man. I realized that he didn’t dare attempt to live with us under such straitened circumstances. It’s terrible to see how he suffers and clings to life. He’s frightened.
He came back with me and was home for three weeks. I was happy to have him here, because I can hardly bear to be alone anymore. But my God, how dreadful it was, all the same. And to see how scared he was that he might infect the children, and yet they clung to him, as he did to them.
He went to the office every day, and I constantly had to hear about Henrik. Otto often brought him home for both the midday meal and supper. It wasn’t any better for Henrik, and that gave me some comfort. How pathetic I’ve become. In silence I would look to see if Henrik had gotten more gray in his hair during the past couple of years, but no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see that he has changed at all since he came back from England.
Otto is back at Grefsen now. He started spitting up great quantities of blood right after he returned and is still in bed.
I’ve taken a teaching position at my old school, starting after the holidays. Of course I’m overjoyed about it. The children and I will be able to live with almost no financial help from the business. On the other hand, I’ve grown so lazy from living as well as I have over the past few years. At heart I suppose I’d prefer to sit in an armchair and brood all day long. I dread having to pull myself together and start working again.
On the afternoon when it was decided that Otto should go to Grefsen, Henrik came to see me in the children’s room where I was sitting.
“As long as Otto is ill, we must try to pretend that there was never anything between us, Marta,” he said. “We must!”
He’s right, and he ought to be hanged—as the saying goes.
June 25, 1902
Tomorrow is Åse’s first birthday. This has been the longest year of my life. I feel so guilty about my little girl. I don’t think I’ve been a good enough mother for her, or for the other three either—no doubt our home is far from what it ought to be.
Oh, my sweet children. I really must pull myself together. You should see only smiles and sunshine and hear kind words spoken at home. But lately things have already begun to go downhill. And not only because the boys are getting bigger and don’t come to me to be cuddled like they used to do. When I gather all three of the older children around me in the afternoon, they no longer lay their heads on my lap or snuggle close; they no longer compete for their mother’s attention.
I’m dreading tomorrow. I can’t very well cheat the children out of the traditional birthday party with hot chocolate. Einar and Halfred came to me, asking for help in wriggling some coins out of their piggy banks. They wanted to buy presents for their baby sister. I had to force myself to be patient, and of course they noticed that. They crept away, looking so crestfallen. Poor little things . . .
I also have to go visit Otto tomorrow.
July 3, 1902
Today is my wedding anniversary.
I took the three older children with me to visit him. I simply didn’t dare go there alone. I noticed that Otto wasn’t really pleased that I had brought them along. It was pouring rain, and that was also one reason why they shouldn’t have come, according to Otto. “They’re warmly dressed, aren’t they, dear? Let me feel your legs, children—you’re not cold, are you? What about you, Marta? Oh, my dear, I’m sure that you’re careful. I suppose you know how necessary it is. For God’s sake, take care that they don’t catch cold.”
He was up and sitting in an armchair. I almost cried every time I looked at him. How pitifully thin he has become, and his clothes are much too big for him. He tried to converse with me and the children, but it wasn’t really successful. Einar and Halfred and Ingrid sat on their chairs, hanging their heads. We had to have a glass of wine, and after I clinked glasses with Otto, he took both of my hands in his and kissed them quietly. “Thank you, my Marta,” was all he said. That was too much for me. I burst into tears, and Ingrid promptly started crying. She ran over and hid her face in my lap. I had to take her in my arms and comfort her. When I glanced over at Otto again, he was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. His lips were quivering.
Fortunately the weather cleared and the children could be sent to the park. From the window we could see the three small figures moving along the lane of birches.
“It’s a pity to bring them with you, Marta,” said Otto. “It’s no fun for them to come here.”
I didn’t reply.
“I said it’s no fun for them to come here,” he repeated, annoyed.
That’s almost the saddest thing of all, that peevish, tormented tone of voice that he sometimes uses. He never talked like that before he fell ill.
“If only we’d had some inkling about this eleven years ago, you and I,” he said quietly. “I wish we had. Then you wouldn’t be sitting here with four young children and a wreck of a husband. How different everything looked back then, Marta. This wasn’t what we were expecting . . . Do you remember,” he said as he squeezed my hands so hard that it hurt, “it was eleven years ago today . . . and how marvelous you have been all this time. Marta, my own dear heart. I wonder if you know how much I love you? I thank you for all these years . . .”
IT STARTED RAINING AGAIN, and the children came back upstairs. It was so late that the doctor appeared, making his evening rounds. As we were about to leave, Otto drew the children close.
“I suppose you’re all behaving nicely and obeying your mother while Father is away? You’re being very sweet, aren’t you? You must never, ever cause your mother any trouble, children. Do you hear me, Einar? You’re big enough to remember what Father tells you. You must always be a good, well-mannered boy, always do whatever you can for your mother and your brother and sisters. You too, Halfred, my boy.”
They cried and I cried. We were a sorry procession as we walked back down the road under our umbrellas to the tram. And t
hen Ingrid wet herself and I had to pick her up and carry her, otherwise we would never have reached town. I had my hands full, holding the child and the umbrella, the hem of my skirts wet and both boys trudging behind me on that abysmal road in the pouring rain.
A year ago today I was recovering from the birth of my little girl. Otto sat beside me and comforted me—we might still be a happy couple on our golden wedding anniversary. He couldn’t honestly have imagined for even an instant that he was not going to regain his health.
Two years ago we were staying at the cabin, as we always did on our wedding anniversary. We toasted each other and drank champagne, and Otto said that he thought he was the happiest man in Norway. I sat there thinking about how boundlessly unhappy I was—how estranged we had become from one another—back then he had no idea. I didn’t know what real unhappiness could be!
By next year I may be a widow.
We’ve put the cabin up for sale. I can only hope it won’t sell too quickly in these hard times—at least not while Otto is still alive.
WHEN I THINK ABOUT OUR MARRIAGE, what happened seems somehow inevitable. But it also still seems so senseless—and stupid. All my sorrows run together into anger and bitterness, and I can’t direct them toward anyone but myself. In reality, a person doesn’t have much choice about what to do in this world. If I had known back then, when Otto and I began to slip away from each other, what I know now . . . oh, we could have been happy today! Yet if I could live the past five or six years over again, and be the same person I was then, I know that it would have all turned out the same way.
THE FIRST TIME I SAW OTTO was on September 2. I was walking along Kirkegaden in glorious sunshine, wearing my black silk dress and tasseled cap. I was going to celebrate the fourth anniversary of my graduation from secondary school with several others from the group. I ran into Henrik, and he walked along with me. At the bottom of the hill a gentleman hurried past at great speed, shouting hello. Fiery red hair, lots of freckles, superb physique—that was my impression. I asked who he was.
“Oh, that’s Oulie,” says Henrik. “He works at the offices of Berg and Bache. Wood pulp, you know.”
“What a handsome way he has of walking,” I said, turning around. The gentleman had stopped farther up the street and was looking back at us.
“He’s awfully pleasant, a decent sort of fellow,” said Henrik.
A couple of days later Henrik said, “I bring you greetings from Oulie. It looks as though you made a deep impression on him.”
Two days later I was invited to coffee and punch at Henrik’s lodgings. The first thing I saw when I came in was Otto’s red hair. The guests included the two of us and one other woman.
I was twenty-two back then, and I had never been in love. I had worked hard and been very diligent. People thought I was a cold fish. It was true that I was quiet and reserved. But really it was because I was shy.
As for Otto, I instantly felt superior to him. This was because I noticed at once, as Henrik said, that I had made a deep impression on Oulie. I also soon understood that he was the one who had asked Henrik to introduce him to me. When I thanked him for sending me his greetings, he turned bright red. “It didn’t make you mad?” he asked several times. “You see, I knew who you were. People say that you’re terribly clever. After all, you received the highest marks for both your diploma and teaching degree.”
He escorted me home that evening. After I went to bed, I discovered that I could remember in overwhelmingly sharp detail every little thing about Otto Oulie’s appearance. A thin, bony face, red hair, big, light-brown eyes, and lots of dark freckles; lips that were very delicate and beautifully shaped; and magnificent teeth, the two upper ones in front overlapping ever so slightly. I remember how clearly I could see his lips in my mind. I had noticed his physique the minute I saw him. In reality, I’ve never seen a man with so handsome a figure as Otto: slender and strong and elegant. There was something so exquisite about him and the way he carried himself. He made you think of a fine pedigreed animal, a truly delightful dog.
He looked younger than he was, because he turned twenty-six a couple of months later. But on that evening at Henrik’s, with his smooth-shaven face and turned-down collar and blue suit, I didn’t think he was more than twenty-two or three.
The next day I ran into him as I left school. After that we met daily. At first it seemed coincidental; then we agreed to meet. I told myself: “Why shouldn’t I be allowed to meet a friend?”
One afternoon we went for a walk and a fierce rainstorm blew in. We happened to be on the street where he lived. “Would it be permissible for me to invite you up to my lodgings for a while?” he asked, looking embarrassed. “I have quite a nice room, by the way,” he said as he opened the door.
In one corner stood a tall iron bedstead and a washstand made of tin. Against one wall, beneath a painting, stood a plush sofa with a table and two armchairs, just like in a pastry shop. There was also a mirror with a potted plant on a shelf underneath it in the corner, and he had a piano. He was very proud of his lodgings. He conferred at length with his landlady out in the hallway, and then she came in with coffee and fresh baked pastries. She was wearing an apron trimmed with a Hardanger border and looked unspeakably respectable. Otto introduced me as Miss Benneche, graduate and teacher.
Otto was terribly formal as a host. My hand actually shook a bit as I served the coffee. Otto’s hand did the same as he held a match to my cigarette. In the mirror I saw that my cheeks were a blazing red, and my hair was very curly. That was from the rain. I looked nice, and I could see that he thought so, too.
Afterward I persuaded him to sing. I knew that he was a member of the Professional Merchants Choir Association. “I don’t really know much,” he said as he sat at the piano. He sang “I Wonder What I’ll See.” He had a beautiful tenor voice and sang in a rather sentimental fashion.
The whole time I could feel a slight trembling inside, as if from excitement. I had an urge to walk around and touch the things that surrounded him every day. Even though we had said so little to each other, I felt as if we had grown quite close.
As I put on my hat in front of the mirror, I stole a leaf from his plant and hid it inside my glove. Otto later put it in a little gold medallion for me, and we’ve celebrated that day ever since. When Otto helped me with my jacket I had a sudden desire to tip my head back and lean it against his hand. I knew that it was up to me what would happen next. And I felt an intense, miserly joy at holding back—nothing more would happen that day.
I was invited back for his birthday. There were several other guests, but I didn’t even notice them. I sat on the folding chair by the window, and Otto pulled a footstool over and sat near me. He sat there all evening. I had his face right below me the whole time. I have no idea what we talked about; Otto doesn’t either.
“Hey, come on, Oulie,” Henrik shouted once. “What a charming host you are. We’re drinking a toast to you!”
“My dear friend,” said Otto and went over to the table. I sank back in my chair, exhausted, as if after a long period of strain. It didn’t occur to me for an instant that I ought to go over and join in the toast.
A little later he came back and sat on the footstool. I had a feeling that the air between our faces was quivering, as if around a flame.
We agreed on a sledding expedition when we parted.
OTTO INSISTED ON PULLING ME on the sled up all the hills. I sat there, lost in a daze, staring at his shoulders. How strong he is, I thought, and suddenly felt a sensual pang ripple through me. I had actually spent the past few months in an uninterrupted, nerve-wracking state of excitement. But at that moment it was as if for the first time I became aware that I loved him. Emotion overwhelmed me, and I suddenly felt quite powerless. It was fear and shyness and pride and joy all at once.
There were plenty of people in the hearth room that evening; the air was thick with tobacco smoke and cooking smells, and everyone was talking at a deafening pitch. But it all
seemed far away. Otto had sat down right across from me. He had unbuttoned his Nansen jacket. Underneath he was wearing a blue flannel shirt with a soft collar. He was hot and slightly out of breath. I suddenly felt scared and didn’t dare look at the scrap of his chest visible below his throat, but then couldn’t resist glancing at it. At that moment he looked at me, and we couldn’t take our eyes off each other but didn’t say a word.
“Skål, Marta,” said one of the women.
“Oh, excuse me,” I said, flustered and turning red.
As we left the hearth room, Otto said in a strangely husky voice—he hadn’t spoken to me since we left the town behind—“Sit down and I’ll pull you.”
We reached Frogner Hill, and he sat behind me on the sled. As I leaned against him, I felt as if I were surrendering, utterly and completely.
We parted from the others at Sporveisgaden. “I’m going to escort Miss Benneche home,” he said. We reached my front door, and I got up from the sled. I didn’t have my key.
“Maybe mine will work,” he mumbled. He unlocked the door.
“Good night!”
“Good night!” He stepped inside the door. Then he suddenly took me in his arms and kissed me. I had never kissed a man before. I felt as if I dissolved.
After I went upstairs, I sat for a long time on the edge of my bed, wearing my wet ski clothes. I sat there as if intoxicated, aware only of my own heart beating, strong and erratic, making me shake. God in Heaven, imagine that I should be allowed to feel this happy. I awoke when the clock in my landlady’s room struck four. As I got undressed, the thought raced, hot and fearful, through me several times: What if he doesn’t love me in that way? What if it’s merely passion? These words and thoughts belonged to someone else. They appeared for a second but vanished again; they had no meaning for me. I sank into my joyous intoxication.
Marta Oulie: A Novel of Betrayal Page 2
