For me, it felt as if life itself, the true, vital life, my life, were calling to me when I saw my husband weep. I touched his head, his wrist, bent over him and murmured his name. Then he turned around and pulled me down next to him on the sofa, hiding his face in my lap so I could feel his tears and his burning breath against my skin through my nightgown. It was my own self that came back to me then, the part that had merged with this man, and I wept because he wept. The tears poured from the very depths of my being, the way water bursts out across melting snow.
Otto sat up a bit, rested his head against the back of the sofa, and pulled himself together. He cupped my face in his hands and then gently wiped away my tears.
“Poor, poor Marta. How I’ve frightened you. Hush, hush, no, don’t cry.”
After he was calmer he said, “I started coughing up blood in London. Just a little. I went to see a doctor at once, of course. ‘Acute catarrh,’ he said. Good Lord, that’s not so serious, I thought. It’s just nervousness on my part. I lay in bed and couldn’t sleep . . . and then . . .”
We sat for hours in the dimly lit parlor and talked, trying to reassure each other. Worn out, shivering with cold, damp with tears, I sat with him and spoke comforting, encouraging words, while the memory of what the last month had made of me hovered like a monster spying on me. No, don’t look over there, I told myself.
I whispered to Otto and patted his hot, ashen face, as if I were trying to flee from myself and go to him. With my weak hands I tried to hold him up and support him every time I noticed his fear take hold.
Then he told me to go back to bed.
“You’re sitting here catching cold, you poor thing.”
He put his arm around me and pulled me close. Then in the bedroom doorway he stopped, looked around at the three little beds in the glow of the nightlight, and raised his arms slightly.
“Oh, it’s the children that I think about—and you, Marta. What’s going to happen to all of you?”
I put my arms around his neck and kissed him.
“My dear, dear Otto . . . acute catarrh? The doctors say that most people have had it and didn’t even know.”
I told him to go back to bed. I arranged his pillows and covers and talked to him.
“But the thing is, Marta, that Mother died from it . . . and Lydia and Magda. I’ve never given it a thought before. I’ve always been so strong and healthy. I always thought that if the two of us couldn’t marry with good conscience, then who in the world could?”
I went back to bed but had to get up again to see if Otto had fallen asleep, and I tucked him in as if he were a child. It was daylight by the time I fell asleep.
I didn’t wake up until eleven o’clock. When I asked about Otto, the maid said that Mr. Oulie had left for his office at the usual time.
May God in heaven spare everyone from such a night as that.
I wrote a few lines to Henrik, telling him that the whole thing was over, that I was in despair and felt ashamed. Nothing more. I didn’t write that I hated him, or that I wished him dead. But that is what I wished with all my soul. If he were gone, it would be as if he had never existed. I longed for Otto with every hour that passed, and I was filled with dread. I imagined that he would somehow find out about the affair. I contemplated all the ways he might find out.
The mere thought of Otto made the old tenderness bleed inside me, a tenderness that is completely physical though it’s not desire—the urge to touch, stroke, caress his head, his brow, eyes, lips, hands. A maternal tenderness that had now turned strangely fearful and timid.
IN THE PERIOD THAT FOLLOWED, I lived a life that was like balancing my way along a very, very narrow ledge. It was impossible to look in any direction but forward—otherwise I might grow dizzy and plunge over the side.
I lived from day to day, so to speak. Each morning, as best I could, I would forcibly stifle any thoughts except those concerning the day’s work, gathering all my strength around one goal: to keep my courage up during the day and display a calm face to Otto and the children.
I could tell that I was pregnant, and I’m sure I felt despair, but it wasn’t a new kind of despair—it merely seemed as if the ratchet on the torture rack had been tightened.
Worst of all was Otto’s concern for the poor little baby to be born. I could see how he suffered at the thought of it . . . even though after that night he never again showed any sign of weakness or ever complained. And he was feeling tolerably well. He was very careful, and all of us showed as much consideration for his illness as we could. But he kept on coughing, although he was no longer spitting up blood.
We rented a cabin at Vettakollen, as usual, and Otto spent only the mornings at his office.
Fortunately I saw little of Henrik. I actually can’t comprehend how I could control myself and act so naturally when we were together. But it was easier for me than I had thought possible.
August 20, 1902
Mia Bjerke came to visit this morning. We talked about my taking a teaching position again.
“I must say it’s brave of you, Marta,” said Mia. “But it can’t possibly be necessary—and besides, Otto is doing so well these days.”
I suppose it does seem senseless. Otto doesn’t like the idea either.
The others probably suspect that I’m just acting eccentric. That’s what they always think.
They have always noticed that I don’t really feel at ease with them. And yet they have always been so pleasant toward me. Mostly for Otto’s sake, of course, but also because they’re nice people.
I was invited to visit the Jensens on the island of Snarøen last Sunday. I sat there thinking the whole time how pleasant it all was—with the overstuffed furniture and the urns and palms and pedestals. But that’s not what counts in a home. What matters is not the decor, but what the people are like.
If I were truly talented, as I once imagined I was, then I would have understood long ago that life is just about people. Fate is nothing more than people’s lives becoming intertwined with each other. And I, who ended up living among such wholesome, nice, clever people, which Otto’s friends all are, I had figured out how I could fit in with them. I was able to do it without harming my own being. That is possible—there’s nothing wrong with choosing and cultivating those parts of yourself that are useful on a daily basis.
But I’ve been going around without thinking, precisely when I thought I actually was thinking. I’ve never tried to see these people from the inside. I judged them from the outside, based on what is not their true selves by any means: their manners and tastes and ideas, which they in turn have acquired from the outside. Take Mia, for example . . . she considers beautiful whatever is modern and on display in the elegant shops. I’ve latched onto that kind of thing about her and decided that the two of us have nothing in common, yet we’re both married and have children.
I was deeply ashamed of myself when she came to see me today. For at least two months I’ve been thinking about going to visit her but kept putting it off. Then here she comes, bringing me raspberry jam, and strawberries and roses to take to Otto.
Poor Mia. Things aren’t much fun for her, either, considering the constant troubles with her children. If I were Mia, I wouldn’t be the one bringing roses and strawberries to my sick friends. But as we were coming back from Grefsen and sat down in the tram, she simply said: “Well, you know, Marta, someone has to endure the worst of things in this world.”
Oh, life, life, life!
All those wasted and squandered years when I did nothing but go around looking inside myself until I ended up alone even though I was surrounded by people. But I paid attention only to what was happenstance about them—not their true selves.
Even if I’ve been trained to see things they don’t see, and if people have filled my brain with things they don’t think about—what does that have to do with life? What does it matter if one person has black hair and another brown, one has a straight back and another stoops? Our bodies brea
the life in the same fashion; blood runs through our veins, and we require food and drink. Our souls need the same things, suffer the same hunger and thirst, even though they may have been taught to desire nourishment that is slightly different. Surely we have no other soul than the life of our body—it lives within us like the fire in flammable substances.
So many paths have led me astray . . . But now things are going to be different. I don’t know what life is, but it is not loneliness.
Just as we are conceived and born from the lives of others, we must sustain our daily lives with what we receive from others. And we must pay for it by giving of ourselves every single day.
Sometimes when I’m sitting with Otto, I have such a desire to slide down next to him, rest my head on his knee, and say . . . I don’t know what. Maybe nothing at all.
I can never talk to him about this. That’s why I’ve written it all down. It’s the part of myself that I have separated out and now pushed aside. It’s of no use to me in the life that I’m going to live.
I’ve paid more for my experiences than any person can afford, but there’s no use in regretting that now.
The day after tomorrow my boys will be home, and the following day I’ll start teaching again. There’s nothing to do now but to work for my family, nothing more than that, but nothing less, either. And then Otto will be coming home soon. My own, own, own dear husband!
I feel a stabbing pain that will never stop tormenting me every time I see Henrik and every time Otto caresses little Åse. Maybe I’ll get used to it, over time. Others have had to do so. The only thing I know is that I must be able to create happiness for my family—and then everything will be all right. It has to be.
Part II
New Year’s Day, 1903
I’ve been sitting here, paging through what I wrote last summer. Only four months ago, but it feels as if it were at least four years. Back then I was so certain that everything would work out.
In some ways the autumn has flown by faster than any period in my life, from one Sunday to the next, without my being aware of where the days have gone. I thought the school year had just started, and then Halfred said one day, “Mamma, today it’s only three weeks until Christmas Eve.”
Einar and Halfred were very quiet on Christmas Eve—especially at first. After I lit the candles on the tree, I couldn’t help crying. This year there were too few of us to dance around the tree holding hands. I went into the dining room because I didn’t want the maid to see me, or the children, either. Poor things, they should be allowed to forget all their sorrows as much as they can. I remember how it was for me when Pappa died. Even though it made me ashamed and upset with myself, I felt almost angry when, after a couple of months had passed, Mamma would still weep or lament. Children should be spared from grief; that’s what Otto says, too.
Halfred came over to me and put his arms around my neck and kissed me. He bravely tried to hold back his own tears. After he left, Einar came in.
They had bought so many presents, my boys. Grapes and flowers for Otto; and for me, in addition to the woodwork crafts they had made, they had bought a pair of elegant, lined leather gloves. I thought it was sheer madness for them to spend so much money on me. But Halfred proudly told me how they had been saving money all autumn.
“And then we met Uncle Henrik on the street last Sunday, and he gave each of us two kroner.”
I had the greatest urge to put the gloves away, along with my guilty conscience. But for the sake of the boys, I’ll have to keep wearing them as long as even a shred of leather remains.
January 3, 1903
Otto doesn’t want to come home. Ever since he had that first violent coughing fit and vomited blood, I think he has understood that he will never return home.
It’s my misguided idea to start teaching again that is to blame for his decision to stay up there. But now Otto views it as wise foresight on my part. He has convinced himself that neither I nor the doctor ever believed he would get well last summer, and he has given up all hope. I’m at an utter loss. I can’t tell him the real reason for going back to work, and my explanations sound so hollow. But I can’t give up my job, which I was so lucky to get. It wouldn’t do to keep changing my mind like that, and I have to be prepared to support my children.
Someday when it’s all over, I’ll have to have a talk with Henrik. So far we’ve been avoiding each other. One day he said—this was before Otto got sick again—“When Otto is well, I’m going to take a position in London.”
If only I could stop thinking about such things, about trying to make a living and financial troubles and drudgery and school, and instead just grieve and grieve, clinging to every minute we have together, the two of us who will soon be parted.
I walk around in a perpetual fever and anguish, tormented by every hour that is wasted when I can’t be with Otto. And when I’m there, I sit and grieve and suffer, almost too frightened to speak. I take along my sewing and talk about the children and acquaintances and news from town, or I read aloud from stories that he likes to hear, by Jonas Lie or Alexander Kielland or Rudyard Kipling, deathly afraid to touch on the one topic that we are both thinking about. Then I acknowledge that it does no good, no good at all, this miserly clutching at every drop of dwindling vitality—not the least bit of good.
January 8, 1903
We love each other, and we know that we’re going to be parted. There’s not a scrap of hope left, no mercy for all our despair. And so we say nothing. We don’t scream at life’s lack of compassion or weep together. Today we talked about the Bjerke christening.
February 3, 1903
I keep wondering and wondering about how I might be able to get Otto home. Surely it should be possible to find a substitute teacher. But he refuses. He says that he’s frightened for the children.
He always asks about Ingrid with such concern since she often has an upset stomach. And the day before yesterday, he finally said (and I could see that he had been thinking about this for a long time), “Are you sure that it’s not tubercular? I’ve been so worried. I beg you to have her properly examined.”
I spoke to our family doctor as soon as I got home, and yesterday I took Ingrid to a specialist. They say that it has nothing to do with tuberculosis, but now I feel thoroughly frightened.
March 8, 1903
“I wish that I could stay alive at least until spring,” Otto said today.
He can hardly speak anymore. He complains about the pain in his throat, and his eyes hurt, too. His face seems to have shrunk so small, and every time he takes a breath, a horrible big hollow appears under his chin.
March 12, 1903
I get annoyed whenever people try to be sympathetic, and annoyed when they don’t. The older teachers at school show such concern for me, and I find that vexing. But the new, young women teachers sit in the teachers’ room, laughing and carrying on, nearly bursting with inner merriment. They infuriate me. I begrudge them their joy, and I smile bitterly whenever they talk about life’s delights and offer them sharp and scornful words of wisdom. Fortunately, my words don’t seem to make the slightest impression on them.
How far I’ve come from all that. In reality, I don’t have the least bit of interest in my job, nor does it give me any joy. I work in a purely automatic fashion. An entirely different world preoccupies me now.
March 19, 1903
The pastor has paid a visit to Otto.
After I took off my coat, Otto took my hand and held it tight. He wanted me to sit down on the edge of the bed.
“Pastor Løkke came to see me today, Marta.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Otto went on: “I sent word for him to come. You see, Marta, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I’ve been struggling with this ever since fall, when I realized that . . . I don’t sleep much at night, and when a person lies awake like that . . . Every night I thought to myself: I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow. But then when you came and I saw how tired and worn out and n
ervous you were . . . then I couldn’t do it. I thought you had enough to deal with as it was. And I thought to myself: it’s because you’re frightened, my boy, that you lie here thinking about all these matters.
“Oh, but that’s not the only reason, Marta. Because I didn’t think about such matters while I was strong and healthy and had plenty of other things to think about—my business and my home, as they say. But when someone lands in this situation, oh, you can be sure that he knows he has a soul!
“No, Marta, a human life is something very different from all other life on earth. Just the fact that I’m lying here and know that I’m going to die, and have to think about it for months in advance, fully aware that it is going to happen . . . And those who are left behind, what’s going to happen to them? Because, you see, it won’t do us any good to pretend to hope any longer, will it?”
I knelt beside his bed and wept. And Otto pressed my hand to his poor, sick chest for a moment.
“Maybe you can’t understand this . . . but for me, at any rate . . .”
He lay there, his tears preventing him from saying anything more for a while. Then he whispered in a voice that was even hoarser:
“There has to be someone who is stronger than us, stronger than human beings.”
I couldn’t bear to keep quiet any longer. I felt that I had to help him in some way, and I whispered, “Oh, Otto, I’ve been thinking the same thing!”
Then he moved the hand he had placed around my waist to my cheek, and he looked into my eyes and gave me a little smile.
I stayed with him for a long time, such a long time that it was quite dark when I left. Fortunately, I had the company of a lady and gentleman down to the tram. Grefsenveien is so eerie in the dark.
Pastor Løkke had given Otto great solace and comfort with his words. He’s apparently such a thoroughly nice and kind man. I agreed with everything that Otto said, and I think it did him good.
Marta Oulie: A Novel of Betrayal Page 7
