by Lisa Strømme
Julie Ihlen did her best to allay the bickering, but never raised her honeyed voice to the girls. Now, Tullik, she would say, your sister’s writing, come away now. She drifted around them long enough to ensure peace was restored and then busied herself with her work: matters of the house, errands, meals, letters, and her involvement with a newly formed committee dedicated to the protection of animals. I overheard her telling the admiral that letters had arrived from Fru Esmark and Fru Schibsted suggesting a meeting to discuss the anti-vivisection laws, and that she might have to take a small trip back to Kristiania.
I was clearing away china plates in the dining room when the clock struck three and there was a rustle of activity in the house.
“Tullik? Are you coming?” I heard Julie call up the stairs.
“Let her stay here, if she wishes to,” said the admiral.
“Nusse! We’re leaving now.”
There was a trample of footsteps on the stairs.
“She’s not coming,” Caroline said. “She’d rather fester here.”
“Then let her fester,” Admiral Ihlen said.
“But she must meet people—socialize.”
“There’ll be plenty of time for that back in Kristiania,” the admiral said. “Tullik,” he called, “we’re going to Aunt Bolette’s.”
“Yes, Father.” I heard Tullik scramble to the top of the stairs. “May I stay here? I’m reading.”
“Very well, dearest,” he said. “We will send your aunt your best wishes.”
“I’m not lying for her,” Caroline said.
“No one is going to lie,” Fru Ihlen said. “Aunt Bolette won’t mind. Good-bye, dear.”
Tullik stomped back to her room without another word, and for a second the house was silent.
Moments later Fru Berg appeared.
“It’s calling hours,” she said. “They’ve gone to Fru Nicolaysen’s in Horten. We can sit for a while out the back. Come on.”
Fru Berg took a plate of bread and butter and two bottles of apple juice to the round table in the garden, and we sat down together, dragging the legs of the iron chairs across the grass, gouging out clumps of earth with their feet. We were concealed by the admiral’s shirts, hanging hand in hand with the girls’ petticoats on the line. The lilac scent was intense in the afternoon sun and it curled around me, easing the tension from my neck and shoulders as I inhaled it. For the first time that day my breath found the top of my lungs.
“A quick refreshment before we start the dinner,” Fru Berg said. “Ragna will be back tomorrow, thank the Lord. That means you can get on with the cleaning, I can do my washing out here, and she can deal with the dinner.”
My hands were red and stinging from the vinegar and carbolic soap they had been introduced to. I swigged my juice from the bottle and pressed the cool glass against my skin to relieve the irritation.
“You’ll soon get used to that,” Fru Berg said. “Look at these!” She thrust her fists at me and opened her hands, turning them over to reveal chapped flaky skin between her fingers. “They were soft as a baby’s bottom when I was your age,” she said. “It’s not pretty, but it won’t kill you,” she laughed. She buttered a slice of bread and took a large bite that filled both her cheeks. “Course it’s not what I imagined myself doing,” she said before swallowing, “but grand plans are wasted on youth. What you want’s a job, a steady pay—all the rest is just dreams.”
I thought of Thomas and his plans to travel the world: to sail to far-off places and return decked in jewels and riches. I wondered how it was possible to dream a future so different from the present moment and somehow be able to link the two together through the passage of time.
“And then you get the likes of Miss Tullik,” she continued, whispering while chomping through her bread. “Has all this, never has to work a day, and never will have to work a day, but is she happy?” She swallowed and shook her head at the same time. Picking up her bottle, she gulped back a long lug of juice, guzzling it like a drunkard. She stared up at Tullik’s window, and a look of bemusement crossed her chubby face. “It’s going to take far more than a husband and a nice house in Kristiania to make that one happy.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and burped through her lips, satisfied with the conversation she had just had with herself and the conclusion she had drawn. “All alone up there,” she said. “Might want a bite to eat. Why don’t you take her a bottle of juice? It’s not good for her to be cooped up inside, just like those hens of hers.” She pointed in the direction of the scullery. “There’s a crate in the store cupboard,” she said. “Take her a bottle. You know where to find the glasses.”
I finished my bread and collected my things.
“I’ll just have another few minutes,” Fru Berg said, sending me away with the sweep of her hand, “while it’s quiet.”
She clasped her fingers together on top of her protruding belly and slid down in her chair.
I returned to the house and pulled out a bottle of apple juice for Tullik. It was silent inside, and I barely breathed as I crept through the kitchen to find a glass. The cat, a plump, old tabby, was watching me from her perch on the windowsill. I pursed my lips and whispered to her, “Pusspusspuss.” She hopped down and began meowing at me, and I regretted having disturbed her. The cat followed me from the kitchen and up the stairs, rubbing her body against the steps and twisting her tail around the railings.
I didn’t know which room was Tullik’s, and I hovered on the landing for a moment, feeling lost and foolish, but the cat slipped past me and trotted to a room on my right, and I waited with her as she sat and whined at the door.
“Really, Miss Henriette pussycat, can’t you make up your mind?” Tullik said, opening the door. “Oh, Johanne, it’s you.” Her fiery hair was hanging loose about her shoulders, and a book was swinging in her hand.
“I’m sorry, Miss Ihlen. Fru Berg wondered if you might like some apple juice?” I said, offering her the bottle and the glass.
“Thank you.” She smiled. “Please, call me Tullik. Come in.”
I followed her into her room and put the juice down on her bedside table. Tullik’s bedroom was both simple and chaotic. Simple in its decoration: plain walls, plain curtains, red rug. Chaotic in its arrangement: books piled, papers scattered, clothes strewn. It was dominated by a large wardrobe at the end of the bed. The bed, framed by carved wooden boards at the head and foot, was the same. Its simplicity was the crisp white linen; its chaos the assortment of blankets heaped at the end of it and the ill-fitting coverlet sliding to the floor. The thick mahogany wardrobe stood with its back to the wall, facing into the room like a guard. Solid as a mountain range, it seemed too heavy for the floor to hold. Above it, the roof sloped down to the open window, where a pair of lifeless curtains hung. They were all that had shielded Tullik from Fru Berg’s voice.
“How has your day been?” she said as I poured her some juice.
“Quite hard,” I said. “I don’t think I’m a very good cleaner. And there’s so much to learn.” I bit my lip. I should not have criticized my own work in front of her, but Tullik just laughed her infectious, throaty giggle.
“Well, this is one room you will never have to worry about. I don’t like it to be tidy. There is an order to all this,” she said, waving a hand at the piles of books and loose papers scattered about the floor. “I know where everything is. There’s a system to it. Look at this,” she said, clearing away some papers beside her that were covered in illustrations and sketches. “I try to draw sometimes, but they never come out very well. They’re just jottings really. Why don’t you sit down, have a rest.” She patted the bed beside her and, seeing my hesitation, pulled my arm. “Oh, come on, it’s so hot today. My parents won’t be back for hours, and what’s old Berg going to say?”
Persuaded, I flopped onto the bed beside her.
“Those calls are so tedious
,” she said. “Mother inquires about my cousins, and we have to go through the lives of all seven of them—and then it’s our turn, and we have to sit there and listen to Nusse drone on about her wonderful fiancé and the wedding preparations.”
“Miss Caroline is engaged?” I said.
“Oh yes, to Herr Olsen. He’s a doctor and a mycologist. That’s a kind of biologist. He studies mushrooms,” she said. “You’re surprised?”
“Well…just a little, yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s just…having been with a painter like Munch to then, well, a doctor. It seems a bit… Forgive me, I am speaking out of turn.”
Tullik started laughing. Her giggle grew into a loud crow, and she threw back her head. Her flaming hair rushed all about her, as though it was tickling her entire body.
Bewildered, I could do nothing but stare. Surely I’d insulted her? Who was I to make comments about the Ihlens? A simple fruit picker, now a housemaid. My mother would have slapped me for my thoughtlessness, and my cheek burned from an imaginary strike. But Tullik did not stop laughing.
“Forgive me, Miss Ihlen,” I said. “But what’s so funny?”
Eventually she caught her breath.
“Oh, Johanne!” she howled. “You didn’t really think I meant Caroline had an affair with Munch, did you?”
“You said your sister?”
“Yes, my eldest sister, Milly.”
Mother’s voice came charging back into my head. The Ihlens have three daughters, and they wear the finest clothes in all of Kristiania.
“She was married to Carl Thaulow then—it was quite the scandal. They thought I was too young to understand, but I remember it,” Tullik said as her laughter subsided and her eyes changed shape. Her whole face fell suddenly, as though she’d been struck, and her mouth, seconds ago animated with laughter, now drooped and paled. “It was a horrible time,” she said, “especially for Mother. All the talk, all the stories. Endless gossip. It brought shame on us. That’s what it’s like in Kristiania. If you’re not spreading gossip, you’re the subject of it. Talk. Talk. Talk. It took its toll.
“Mother was distraught. They threatened to banish Milly, to send her to Aunt Bolette’s in Horten with Grandmother Aars—anything for the humiliation to stop. But Milly was a married woman, so their threats were empty. She refused to go. She’s married to another man now, Ludvig, and she has a daughter. She seems settled, and Mother and Father have put the whole episode with that painter behind them. They think I don’t know about it, but there’s nothing you can hide from sisters, is there?”
“Does Milly come to Borre in the summer too?” I said.
“Sometimes. She fancies herself as quite the actress now, though. Ludvig is a theater man, and they put on performances from time to time. She’ll have you believe it’s a demanding schedule, but it’s nothing more than a hobby for her. Of course, she gets restless out here for long stretches of time, although I won’t be surprised if she turns up later in the season. A small group of the bohemians still comes over in the summer.”
“The who?”
“Bohemians. You must have heard of them? The Kristiania bohemians?”
I shook my head as she leaned over to retrieve her book.
“I’m reading this.” She tossed the book into my lap. “I have to hide it. It’s illegal, so if I’m caught with it I’ll probably be arrested,” she said teasingly.
“From the Kristiania Bohemians,” I read the title aloud. “Who is Hans Jæger?”
Tullik propped herself straight up against the wall.
“He’s a friend of Munch’s,” she said. “Munch painted his portrait. I found this book at Milly’s house. There are hardly any copies of it left. It was banned, and Jæger was thrown into jail because of it.”
“Why?” I said. “What is it about?”
She took it back from me and skimmed through the pages.
“Free love, free will, a free society. Freedom from rules and constraints. It’s what they all believe in: Jæger, the Krohgs, Gunnar Heiberg; the artists, poets, and writers. Milly used to meet them all. They gathered in packs at the Grand Hotel on Karl Johan Street, arguing into the night, setting the world to rights. She danced around the edges of it because it made her feel fashionable, but she doesn’t have the depth. How could she understand?” Tullik pushed her hair back as though it had irritated her. “What does she know about the passions that drive a painter? She can’t appreciate art, not really. All she thinks about is hats and clothes, aesthetics. She doesn’t know anything about real feelings. No wonder it didn’t last.”
She snapped the book shut and slipped it under her pillow, and I consigned it to the room in my head.
“You are staying here tonight, aren’t you?” Tullik said brightly.
“I think so.” I glanced down at my hands as the opportunity to paint slipped straight through my fingers.
“Then you must have Milly’s room. It’s the one opposite mine.”
I protested, but by the time the Ihlens returned, it had all been settled. Tullik insisted I take Milly’s room even though Ragna, the cook, slept in a box room downstairs at the back of the house. I was the youngest, an inexperienced housemaid, and my room was bigger and grander than both Tullik’s and Caroline’s. Milly’s room was large and airy, filled with light that came sailing in through the front window overlooking the church. The walls were decorated in white wooden paneling and silky flower-print wallpaper. Pale-blue curtains hung at the window and were tied back with twisted golden ropes and tassels. Milly would be horrified to know that an interloper like me, a simple housemaid, was sleeping in her bed.
“She’s never here anyway,” Tullik said after my fifth objection. “And if she brings Ludvig and Lila, they don’t even stay here at Solbakken; they go to the Grand Hotel.”
“Solbakken? I thought this was Kirkebakken?”
“Solbakken is what we call this house,” she said. “It’s our little place in the sun.”
She tried to smile as she said the words, as if she were obliged to be happy here in Borre. But the corners of her mouth failed to rise, and as she spoke I noticed the shadow of something dark flash across her eyes.
• • •
Ragna Thorsen was a young and skinny woman, so far from my expectations it was almost comical. In my mind she had been akin to Fru Berg: an ample-bosomed, rosy-cheeked woman with work-weary crow’s feet and sausage fingers. But the woman who greeted me in the kitchen the following morning while I was cleaning out the ashes from the stove was a little sparrow who looked like she hadn’t eaten in months.
“Glad to make your acquaintance,” she said over the hurried chop of her knife. Her dark, almond eyes followed her fingers like slaves and had to drag themselves away to meet mine, which they did only fleetingly, observing my face like an object, before returning to the onion at the center of their world.
For the rest of the day, I crept around Ragna and spoke to her only at mealtimes when I helped her serve food. She rarely left the kitchen, and absorbed in her work, she hardly raised an eye as I came and went with my buckets and brushes. The silent cook seemed to communicate through the food she prepared, and I read the changing scents that filled the air as an indication of her mood. The morning was a symphony of smells that ranged from the pungent onion she chopped with such precision, to simmering vegetable broth, followed by the waft of strong coffee. After the Ihlens had eaten luncheon, Ragna’s afternoon moved through the comforting hug of baking bread to the fresh, zesty tang of her juices and preserves. At times I was drawn to her with the sympathetic pull of potential friendship. During her bread-baking I was tempted to reach out to her. Perhaps I could pay her a compliment, tell her how delicious it smelled? But every time I plucked up the courage to approach her, I was quickly repelled by the acerbic sting of the vinegar and her stern face as she chopped and stirred.
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br /> I eventually concluded that she and I could become friends and decided that I would try to appeal to her with a friendly word or two at the next sign of baking. But before I had the chance to reach out to Ragna, Tullik set a gulf between us so wide that the friendship we might have had was killed before it had even been conceived.
It was midmorning when Tullik came looking for me. I was at the bench in the scullery preparing the wax for polishing the parlor floor. Fru Berg had given me a brief demonstration, and I was gingerly adding linseed oil to the beeswax. Ragna was shelling peas at the basin.
“Where’s Johanne?” Tullik asked her.
I didn’t hear Ragna respond, but Tullik found me when she came pacing to the back door.
“There you are! You must stop what you’re doing at once and get ready,” she said. “We’re going to Åsgårdstrand. You can show me where you live.”
I wiped my sticky hands across my apron and stood there staring at her, my brain unable to cobble together her words and their meaning.
“I’m polishing,” I said dimly.
“No, you’re not. You’re coming to Åsgårdstrand with me.”
Ragna clanged her colander against the basin, and the tinny sound rang in my ears.
“Get ready!” Tullik said.
“But what about my work? There’s so much to do.”
“I asked Mother and she said it was all right.” Tullik flashed me a smile and started towing me by my apron strings. “Come on!” she said.
The blow that was to sever my ties to Ragna forever came when Tullik dragged me into the kitchen.
“Ragna, help Johanne clean this polish off her hands. She’s coming to Åsgårdstrand with me.”