Marta Oulie: A Novel of Betrayal

by Sigrid Undset

  AND SO I DRIFTED quite passively with the current, nursing my moods.

  HENRIK HAD FURNISHED a charming bachelor’s home in a garret apartment on Munkedamsveien. Otto and I frequently spent our evenings there, with me sitting on the old corner sofa or on the balcony, talking to Henrik, who showed me his maps and art objects, while Otto sat at the piano. Back then he was quite diligent about his music, taking lessons from Mrs. Onarheim and practicing difficult pieces. For me, those evenings in Henrik’s quiet, stylish rooms were sheer pleasure.

  “What a damned elegant place Henrik has, my dear,” said Otto one evening as we walked home. “It’s certainly different, for example, from . . . our home.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Well, you’re the one who has to take credit for our place. So if you don’t like it, then . . .”

  “Good heavens! Of course our home is charming, and comfortable, too. I just meant that it’s not as . . . original as Henrik’s.” After a moment he added, “I’m not accustomed to paying attention to such things, you know. But actually, I can’t understand it, Marta. I would have thought that you, of all people, could have created a home that was equally stylish.”

  I DON’T EVEN KNOW what we had argued about that afternoon. Some trivial matter. But I was feeling churlish because I’d had a difficult time getting the children properly dressed for a party. We were sitting on the balcony, drinking coffee, and I was acting stubborn, so Otto finally exclaimed:

  “Forgive me, damn it, but surely you must admit that there’s something that you don’t know better than everyone else!”

  Henrik arrived at that moment, and right afterward the merchant Høidahl’s children arrived to play with ours. I had often been annoyed by Otto’s naive admiration for these upper-class offspring, especially for the precocious little ladies over in Westend. He seemed to feel honored that his children were allowed to play with them. Now he was perched on the veranda railing, listening to little Judith give an account of all the dances she had attended during the winter. I found it amusing to hear the girl boast and make up things, but Otto listened with obvious interest.

  At that instant Halfred screamed. He and Einar had apparently gotten into a fight, and Otto rushed inside to see what was going on.

  As he ran off, Henrik and I looked at each other and smiled. And there was something in that smile that made me feel ashamed of myself. I sensed that Henrik felt the same. In my own defense, I started talking—for the first time directly about my relationship with Otto. It was practically an indictment of my husband. “He doesn’t see anything,” I said, trying to make excuses for him. But it was an indictment.

  “No, he doesn’t see that you’re different,” said Otto’s friend, and he too attempted to muster some sort of defense, but it sounded strangely half-hearted.

  Otto came back. He stood next to my chair, kissed me, and pulled me to my feet.

  “Don’t you think Marta looks nice in this dress? Isn’t she charming?”

  That was to make me forget that he had lost his temper. Then he left.

  “Well, congratulations on the new dress,” said Henrik and looked at me for a moment. Then he quickly looked away.

  But not quickly enough. I’d heard how strange his voice sounded, and my heart gave a leap. He’s in love with me! I thought.

  I didn’t think anything of it, except that I found it amusing. A naive seventeen-year-old couldn’t have been more insensitive, or rejoiced in a more cynical fashion.

  I flirted with Henrik that evening, consciously and even quite openly. I had a nail in my shoe that was hurting me, and I kicked off the shoe and asked Henrik to pound the nail in with a rock. He did as I asked and then handed the shoe back to me.

  “How elegant you look,” said Henrik. “Do you wear silk stockings every day?”

  “Otto gives me so many pairs,” I said. “He acquired a taste for them in Paris.” And I told him about dancing the can-can for Otto.

  Henrik looked as if he had swallowed something bitter. “You really ought to try that again.”

  “I don’t think it would help matters now,” I said. We were strolling back and forth in the garden. “There’s a time and place for everything—that’s what Otto thinks, you see. He, at least, is done with the can-can. Now we’re supposed to live pleasantly in our cozy home. And if I don’t find it pleasant, that’s too bad for me, because he doesn’t even notice. It’s not that he doesn’t think about me, because he most certainly does, but he thinks of me as his own particular possession.”

  And once again we were talking about Otto.

  “He actually thinks much more about others than about himself,” said Henrik. “But the others have to belong to him in some manner. That’s also why he works so hard, because in a way he’s working for himself—and for those who belong to him. I don’t think he would be capable of doing work for the sake of the work alone. He would give his life at once, and gladly, for you or the children—but for some cause? Never!”

  A lowly crofter! The phrase raced through my mind. And then I instantly thought: no, you have no right to say that. How ugly and mean—shame on you. I tried to erase the phrase, but not its effect. I wanted to look down on Otto for a bit.

  “Poor man, he tries to fulfill everyone’s wishes so swiftly that they hardly even have time to make a wish,” said Henrik. “And it never occurs to him that anyone might wish for something different from what he does. You see, he forgot long ago that you weren’t born Marta Oulie.”

  “Henrik,” I said. “Sometimes I wish that he wasn’t so terribly nice. I almost wish he would beat me. Because I don’t know what to do about the way things are now.”

  “I think you have to take a little of the blame, too. Surely you could stand up for yourself more.”

  “No. I couldn’t do it when we fell in love. And now, afterward . . .”

  “Afterward . . .” said Henrik, in a tone of voice that suddenly made me uncertain. I lowered my eyes and said softly, “Afterward is afterward. There’s nothing to be done about it now.”

  “Be more like Otto,” said Henrik vehemently. “That’s something you can do. Let me tell you, Otto is someone who knows how to live, that he does. People call it ‘living’ when a fellow goes off on a spree to find a release for some of the energy he can’t use at home doing decent work. But Otto . . . he knows how to work. He’s full of vim and vigor. You obviously have no idea what a good businessman he is. He has a drive for business, you see, and whatever he gets involved with succeeds, it always does. The trick is that Otto would never set his mind to do anything that couldn’t succeed. People can sense that; they trust him. He never, ever wastes his efforts on something. And people always feel that whatever he takes on will be fair. In reality, I’m nothing but a poor devil compared to him—a complete incompetent as a businessman.”

  “You! If that were true, do you think you would have had such success over in England?”

  “Oh, that was mostly luck. By the way, things are more difficult here in Norway; I’ve noticed that. Out in the world it’s easier to hold your own. No, someone like Otto is always moving forward; he lets what’s done be done and then seizes hold of the next chapter in life, absolutely convinced that it will be even better. People like him are right—not those of us who sit at the side of the road, pondering about what has happened, dreaming about how it would be to achieve what we know it’s impossible to achieve.”

  “People like you and me,” I said.

  “Yes, like you and me.”

  “Henrik,” I said, “you should see about settling down.”

  “Oh? And just what do you mean by that?”

  “Well, for example . . . you could get married.”

  Henrik laughed softly. “And that’s actually something you of all people would recommend?”

  “I don’t think a man is ever truly unhappy in a marriage,” I hastily replied, “as long as he doesn’t have a bad wife, that is. For instance, I don’t think a man suffers if he marries one pers
on but is in love with another—as long as his wife is attractive and nice.”

  Henrik glanced at me. “That’s not something you know anything about.”

  I was horrified by what I’d just said—or rather by Henrik’s interpretation of what I’d said. I hadn’t intended to speak of anything that might refer directly to Henrik and me. At the same time I felt a great satisfaction that the words had slipped out, however much against my will.

  That feeling grew stronger as Henrik sat and looked at me, forgetting to avert his gaze. We were sitting on the balcony in the twilight.

  “You know,” Henrik said very quietly, “if I had told you when you got engaged that things would end up like this, you wouldn’t have believed me. Occasionally I thought: it won’t work, they’re too different. But you were so happy back then. You wouldn’t have listened to me, and I thought to myself that things might work out fine after all. I also thought it would be wrong to say anything—and it would have been. You have been happy, at any rate.”

  “It might be better if I’d never been happy.”

  “No,” said Henrik. “It would be miserable, my dear, to have to say to yourself: happiness is something that I’ve never known.”

  I stood and went over to him.

  “Poor Henrik,” I said, stroking his cheek.

  I felt truly sorry for him—and very touched that he was so distressed on my behalf.

  Suddenly Henrik grabbed my wrist hard, his hand burning hot. Then he abruptly stood up and muttered something that ended with “good night.” He took his hat from the table and fled.

  I was still standing there, completely bewildered, gazing after him, when the nursemaid came to tell me that Ingrid was sick and I needed to come in. Ingrid had thrown up; she had a stomachache and was crying. I cleaned her up and changed her bedding and tried to soothe her. She refused to let me go, so I had to hold her and rock her until she fell asleep on my lap.

  I was sitting with her on the parlor sofa when I suddenly gave a start. Someone was standing outside the window. I put the sleeping child on the sofa and went out.

  It was Otto. My voice shook with fright and an irrational, guilt-ridden confusion.

  “But my dear, what in the world . . . why are you standing out here?”

  Then Baby Sister woke up and allowed her father to tuck her into bed. After that Otto came back outside to find me. I was still standing in the dark garden.

  “What a peculiar idea you had, to stand here, peering in the window,” I told him crossly.

  Otto laughed and pulled me into a tight embrace.

  “Yes, I know. Sometimes such odd ideas occur to me. I was passing the garden gate, and I saw the light in the parlor. Then I happened to think about what it would be like if I were a stranger walking past on such a beautiful summer night and I saw the light coming from a cozy house in a lovely garden. So that’s what I pretended, just for fun. I decided to walk through the garden to see what kind of people lived there. I saw all the beautiful flowers in their garden, I noticed the scent of petunias and mignonettes. Then I peeked inside and saw a charming young woman sitting in the parlor with a lovely child on her lap. God help me if I didn’t stand there, envying myself.”

  And Otto laughed his loud, merry, boyish laugh and again pulled me close. I returned his kiss. We gave each other long, warm, tender kisses, and he put his arm around my waist as we walked among the rose beds.

  “It’s about time we went to bed, sweetheart,” whispered Otto. And arm in arm we walked back. Then, between two kisses, he said:

  “It’s obvious that Ingrid is too young to go to children’s parties.”

  His criticism felt like a dousing of cold water on top of all the shifting emotions of the day.

  Gently I pulled myself free and went inside. When Otto came in, I rejected any further embraces. I had a headache.

  “Henrik was here for supper. He had a headache, too. The air was so oppressive. I suppose we’re in for a thunderstorm.”

  Otto agreed quite affably that yes, we were in for a thunderstorm. And he gave me antipyrine tablets and wondered whether he should leave the window open. If we had a thunderstorm he would certainly wake up. I lay in bed with my eyes closed, smiling wanly, and turned my cheek for him to kiss me good night. And so he kissed my cheek, patted my forehead, and told me to get well. Then he stretched out in his own bed, making it creak.

  I WAS REMINDED OF THAT SHIRT in the fairy tale when the girl spills tallow on it and then tries to wash it clean. The more she washes and scrubs, the blacker it gets.

  No doubt it was partially due to inexperience, because I had absolutely no experience beyond Otto. I had ended up seeing myself with his eyes, and when the relationship between us became mundane and routine, I was convinced that whether I liked it or not, life would never have any purpose for me except through Otto and the children.

  Then I discovered that Henrik was in love with me. I was literally struck dumb with surprise. And I saw that for him, I was my own person, not just Mrs. Oulie and the mother of three little Oulies. I began to observe myself. I was aware that I was what is called an attractive young wife. But I don’t think I really gave that any further thought—except to acknowledge that the young girl in the photographs on Otto’s desk had disappeared like the snow of last year. Nor was I unaware of the ravages that three childbirths had caused to my charms. Now I discovered for the first time when I looked in the mirror, tightly laced up in a new, light-colored summer dress, with my hair curled and pinned up, that I was really and truly both young and beautiful, in spite of my thirty-three years, three children, and a recently filled canine tooth.

  It all began with a secret sort of freemasonry between me and Henrik from that evening on—a melancholy, kindly empathy. For my part, the whole episode has never really had anything to do with eroticism or love. Our meetings, our walks together at dusk, the visits I paid him—when I noticed the danger of what was unforgivable starting to settle over us, making the air heavy—and all of Henrik’s caresses. I desired none of these things for his sake but for my own. Me, me, me. I wanted to be adored by his eyes and hands and lips. It was not that I had to surrender myself to the one who had become master of my will—rather, I was the one who wanted him, body and soul.

  It was a natural instinct that broke open inside me, raw and insatiable. And I, the proper little merchant’s wife who went around so nice and quiet, tending to my house, became in reality an evil and dangerously noxious creature. It wasn’t exactly vanity but something more intense, maybe whatever is the soul of vanity or the vanity of the soul.

  I had no thought for anything in the world but myself. My children . . . I felt it was enough if I saw to it that they had food and clothing, and I wasn’t beyond shaming myself with my lover two rooms away from where they lay in bed asleep. Henrik was actually the one I thought about the least. In truth, I cared no more for him than for the mirror on my dressing table. I never thought about what torment our relationship must have caused him. Of course he was a much better person than I was, because he truly loved me, and if only I could have left him in peace, the whole affair would never have happened. It’s actually quite unreasonable for me to hate him now. And yet . . . a man of thirty-eight is no naive schoolboy, and he should have respected his friend’s wife, for the sake of his friend, even if the wife deserved anything but respect.

  Otto . . . I dismissed him with that single phrase: lowly crofter. I went to pick him up when he returned from London, practically gloating, without feeling a scrap of guilt or shame.

  I DIDN’T GIVE A THOUGHT to Otto’s restless, nervous state during those first days after he returned from his annual business trip. One day he said that he was going to move into his smoking room to sleep, “until I recover from this cough. It will just wake you up, and disturb everyone else.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’m very sorry about your cough. I think you’ve had it ever since spring. You really ought to see a doctor.”

  I AWOKE
ONE NIGHT with the feeling that Otto had been in the bedroom. I noticed that the door to his room stood open—he usually closed it so as not to disturb me or the children with his coughing. I turned over to go back to sleep, but as I lay there half-awake, I could hear that he was up and moving in the next room.

  Now wide awake and strangely anxious, I sat up in bed. I saw by the light of the night lamp that it was two-thirty in the morning.

  After a few minutes I got up and tiptoed to the door. Otto’s bed was empty, and he wasn’t in the room. I peeked into the parlor. There he stood, fully dressed, by the window in the corner. He must have heard me come in, because he turned around.

  At that instant I saw his face.

  Darkness and terror suddenly seemed to flow from every corner of our pleasant, peaceful parlor filled with the gentle glow from the gas lamp outside the bay window.

  I looked at Otto’s face: pale, despairing, contorted. I saw that he had been crying. “He knows.” That was the thought that raced through me.

  My heart seemed to split apart, and I couldn’t feel the floor under my feet. Then my heart began to pound as a clammy sweat poured from my body, and my hands and feet turned deathly cold. We stood there staring at each other.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” said Otto in an oddly husky and halting voice. “It’s nothing. Then I got dressed and went for a walk in the garden. Go back to bed, Marta. It’s nothing.”

  He took a few steps forward and then sank onto the sofa, as if he felt faint. His head fell forward, and his arm and hand rested lifelessly on the table.

  Frightened and dumbfounded, I went over to him.

  “My dear, what is it? Are you ill, Otto?”

  Then he put his head down on the table and wept.