Why should not love come in the same way, slowly, like the warmth that grows day by day, thawing and tempering, and not as she had always believed it would come—as a storm that would change her at once into a woman she did not know, and whom her will could not control.
Helge accepted this slow, sound growth of her love quite naturally and calmly. Every night when they parted her heart was filled with gratitude to him, because he had not asked for more than she could give that day.
Oh, if they could have stayed here till May—till summer—the whole of summer, so that their love might ripen until they belonged to one another completely. They would go together to the mountains in the summer; the marriage could take place here later, or at home in the autumn, for they would marry, of course, in the ordinary way, since they were fond of each other. When she thought of her journey home, she was almost afraid that she would awake as from a dream, but she told herself such thoughts were nonsense, since she loved him and he loved her. She did not like the disturbing elements of engagements, visiting relations, and so on, though they were trifles after all.
Heaven be praised for this blessed spring in Rome that had brought them together—they two alone on the green Campagna among the daisies.
“Don’t you think Jenny will be sorry some day that she ever got engaged to that Gram?” asked Francesca one evening when she was sitting in Heggen’s room.
He shook the ashes from his cigarette without answering. He discovered all of a sudden that it had never struck him as indiscreet to speak about Francesca’s affairs to Jenny. But to speak about Jenny’s to Francesca was quite another matter.
“Can you understand what she wants with him?” she asked again.
“Well, it’s hard to say. We don’t always understand what you women want with this or that man. We imagine that we choose for ourselves, but we are more like our brothers, the dumb animals, than we care to think. Some say we are disposed to love—because of our natural state—place and opportunity do the rest.”
“Ugh!” said Francesca, shrugging her shoulders. “If that is so, you, I should say, are always disposed.”
Gunnar laughed reluctantly: “Or I have never been disposed enough; I have never thought of any woman as the only one—and so on, and that is an essential condition in love—because of our natural state.”
Francesca stared thoughtfully in front of her.
“I daresay you are right. But it happens sometimes that one falls in love with somebody for some special reason—not only because time and circumstances are favourable. I for one love him—you know who I mean—because I don’t understand him. It seems to me impossible that anybody could really be what he appeared to be. I always expected something would happen that would explain what I saw. I searched for the hidden treasure. You know how desperately anxious one gets to find the longer one seeks. Even now, when I think that some other woman may find it, I.... But there are some who love because the loved one is perfect to them—can give them all they need. Have you ever been in love with any woman to such an extent that you thought everything in her was right and good and beautiful—that you could love everything in her?”
“No,” he said briskly.
“But that is real love, don’t you think? And that is how I thought Jenny would love, but it is impossible for her to love Helge Gram like that.”
“I don’t know him really. I know only that he is not so stupid as he looks—as the saying goes—I mean, there is more in him than you’d think at first sight. I suppose Jenny has found out his real value.”
Cesca was quiet. She lit a cigarette and watched the flame of the wax vesta till it burnt out.
“Have you noticed that he always asks, ‘Don’t you think?’ and ‘Is it not?’? Has it not struck you that there is something effeminate, something unfinished, about him?”
“Perhaps so. Possibly that’s what attracted her. She is strong and independent herself, and might love a man weaker than herself.”
“I’ll tell you what I think. I don’t believe that Jenny really is so strong and independent. She’s only been forced to be. At home she had to help and support, and there was nobody to support her. She had to take care of me, because I needed her—now it is Gram. She is strong and determined, and she knows it, and nobody asks her in vain for help, but nobody can go on for ever giving help and never getting any themselves. Don’t you see that it will make her very lonely, always being the strongest? She is lonely now, and if she marries that fellow she will never be anything else. We all talk to her about ourselves, and she has nobody she could talk to in the same way. She ought to have a husband she could look up to, whose authority she should feel, one to whom she could say: This is how I have lived and worked and fought, for I thought it right, and who could judge if it was right? Gram cannot, because he is her inferior. How can she know if she has been in the right, when she has nobody with authority to confirm it? Jenny should ask, ‘Is it not?’ and ‘Don’t you think?’—not he.”
They sat both quiet a while, then Heggen said:
“It is rather curious, Cesca, that when it is a question of your own affairs you cannot make head or tail of it, but when it concerns somebody else, I think you often can see clearer than any of us.”
“Perhaps. That is why I think sometimes I ought to go into a convent. When I am outside a trouble I seem to understand it all, but when I am mixed up in it myself I can’t see a thing.”
XI
The juicy, blue-grey giant leaves of the cactus were scarred by names, initials, and hearts carved in the flesh. Helge was carving an H and a J, and Jenny stood with her arms round his shoulder, looking on.
“When we come back here our initials will be a brown scar like all the others,” said he. “Do you think we shall be able to find them?”
She nodded.
“Among all the others?” he inquired in doubt. “There are so many. We will go and look for them, won’t we?”
“Of course we will.”
“You do think we shall come back here, don’t you? And stand as we are now.” He put his arm round her.
“Yes; I don’t see why we should not, dear.”
With arms encircled they went to the table and sat down, looking in silence out over the Campagna.
The sunlight seemed to move and the shadows wandered along the hillocks. Sometimes the rays came in thick bunches between white clouds, sailing in the sky. On the horizon, where the dark eucalyptus grove by the Fontane peeped over the farthest hill, rose a pearl-yellow haze, which would grow towards evening and cover the whole sky.
Far on the plain the Tiber hurried to the sea, golden when the sunshine fell on it, but silvery grey like the side of a fish when it mirrored the clouds. The daisies on the hill looked like new-fallen snow; on the field behind the osteria pale-grey, silky wheat was coming up, and two almond trees were covered with light pink blossoms.
“Our last day in the Campagna,” said Helge. “It’s quite sad!”
“Till next time,” she said, kissing him and trying not to give in to her own sad mood.
“Yes. Have you thought of it, Jenny, that when we sit here again it cannot be exactly the same as now? One changes day by day; we shall not be the same when we sit here again. Next year—next spring—is not this spring?—we shall not be the same either. We may be just as fond of one another, but not exactly in the same way as now.”
Jenny shivered: “A woman would never say that, Helge.”
“You think it strange that I should say it? I cannot help thinking it, because these months have made such a change in me—and in you, too. Don’t you remember, you told me on that first morning how different you are now from the time you first came here? You could not have been fond of me as I was when we first met—could you, now?”
She stroked his cheek: “But, Helge, dear boy, the great change is just that we have got so fond of one another, and our love will ever increase. If we change, it will be only because our love has grown, and that is nothing to be afraid of, is it? Do you remember the day at Via Cassia—my birthday—when the first fine threads between us were spun? They have grown stronger now, and grow stronger every day. Is there anything in that to make you afraid?”
He kissed her neck: “You are leaving tomorrow....”
“And you are coming to me in six weeks.”
“Yes; but we are not here. We cannot go about in the Campagna. We have to leave in the midst of spring.”
“It is spring at home too—and larks are singing there as well. Look at those driving clouds—just like those at home. Think of Nordmarken. We shall go there together. Spring is lovely at home, with strips of melting snow on all the hills round the deep blue fjords, the last runs on ski when the snow is melting and the brooks are rushing down the mountain-side; when the sky is green and clear at night with large, bright golden stars, and the ski scrape and sing on the icy crust of the snow. We may be able to go there together yet this spring.”
“Yes, yes—but I have been to all these places—Vester Aker, Nordmarken—so often alone that I dread them. It seems to me almost as if fragments of my old discarded souls were hanging on every shrub up there.”
“Hush, hush, dear. I should love to go there with my dearest friend, after being there alone and sad so many a spring.”
They wandered hand in hand in the green Campagna—the haze had risen towards evening, and a slight breeze blew in their direction. From the road came the creaking of hay-carts, pulled by white oxen, and the tinkling of bells on the red harness of mules in front of blue vinecarts.
Jenny looked tenderly at everything, bidding farewell in her mind to all the things she knew so well, and that were so dear to her. She had seen it all day after day with him, without knowing she had noticed it, and now suddenly she understood that it was all imprinted in her mind together with the memories of those happy days: here was the slope, where the short grass had grown softer and greener from day to day, and the faithful daisies in the meagre soil; the thorny hedges along the roads and the rich green leaves of the calla under the bushes; the unceasing warble of the larks in the sky, and the innumerable concertinas that played to the dancers in the osterias on the plain—concertinas with the peculiar, glassy sound, for ever playing the same short Italian tunes. Why must she leave it all now?
The wind chilled her like a bath, till her body felt like a cool rich leaf, and she longed to give it to him.
They said good-bye for the last time at her door, and they could not part.
“Oh, Jenny, if only you could be mine!”
She nestled closer in his arms and whispered: “Why not?”
His arms closed tight about her shoulders and her waist, but she trembled the instant she had said it. She did not know why she was afraid; she did not want to be, and she repented of having made a movement, as if she wished to get out of his passionate embrace, and he let her go.
“No, no; I know it is impossible.”
“I would like you to,” she said humbly.
He kissed her: “I know. But I must not. Thank you for everything. Oh, Jenny, my Jenny! Good-night! Thank you for loving me!”
The tears streamed down her cheeks as she lay in bed. She tried to tell herself that there was no sense in crying like that, as if something were gone for ever.
PART TWO
I
There was a wait of several minutes at Frederikshald—time for a cup of coffee. Jenny hurried along the platform; then suddenly she stopped to listen. Somewhere, near by, a lark was singing overhead. Once back in her compartment she leaned back in her corner and closed her eyes, her heart heavy with longing for the south.
The train rushed past small rocks of red granite, torn as it were from the mountain range, and between them dazzling glimpses of deep-blue fjords met the eye. Spruce trees clung to the mountain-side, with the afternoon sun on their reddish trunks and dark green, shiny needles. Everything in nature seemed conspicuously clear and clean after its bath of melting snow. The naked branches of foliferous trees stood out distinctly against the thin air, and little streamlets gurgled alongside the line.
It was all so different from the southern spring, with its slow, sound breathing and softly blended colours—she missed it so much. The sharp colouring now before her eyes reminded her of other springs, when she had been filled with longing for a joy far different from her present restful happiness.
Oh! for the spring out there, with the sprouting vegetation on the immense plain and the firm, severe lines of the encircling mountains, which man has robbed of their woods, to build stone-grey cities on the spurs and plant olive groves on the slopes. For thousands of years life has been teeming on the sides of the mountain, borne by it in patience, yet it raises its crown in eternal solitude and quiet towards heaven. Its proud outlines and subdued green and silvery grey colouring, the ancient cities and the slowly advancing spring—in spite of all that can be said of the tumultuous life of the south—make one’s own life run with a calmer, healthier beat, that meets the coming of spring with greater equanimity than here, where it comes in such mighty waves.
Oh, Helge! She longed to be out there with him. It was so far away, and so long since it all happened. Not quite a week, yet it seemed almost a dream, as if she had never been away at all. But she had been there—not here to see and feel how the white, frosty, peaceful winter yielded and the dry, strong, light blue air, drenched with mist in the middle of the day, hung quivering over the ground. Every outline was blurred or broken, but the colours were vivid and sharp—naked, as it were—until evening came, when everything froze under a sky of pale green, everlasting light.
—You dear boy of mine—what are you doing now? I miss you so, and I want to be with you. I can scarcely believe that you are mine, and I can’t bear to be alone, longing for you, all this bright, long spring.—
As the train proceeded on its way the scenery changed. Strips of snow showed among the trees and along the fences; the soft, shaded brown of the faded meadows and the ploughed fields met the eye, and the intense blue of the sky toned down near the horizon. The undulating line of the forest-clad mountain slopes lay far away; the branches of detached groups of trees in the fields gave the effect of lattice-work against the sky. The old grey houses of the farms shone like silver, and the new barns were glowing red. The pine needles formed an olive green background for the purple buds of the beeches and the light green of the aspens.
Such is spring: glowing colours that last a little while, then everything turns a golden green, swelling with the sap of life, and ripens in a few weeks into full summer—spring, when no joy is great enough. Evening fell, the last long red sunrays vanished behind a ridge, and the golden light in the cloudless sky faded slowly.
When the train left Moss, the mountain ridge stood dark against the clear sky, and the reflection of it in the green fjord was black and transparent. One single large, bright star rose behind the range; its light was mirrored in a filmy golden thread on the water.
It reminded her of Francesca’s nocturnes; she was fond of reproducing the colourings after sunset. Jenny wondered how things were going with Cesca, and she felt a pang of conscience when she realized that she had seen very little of her in the two last months. Cesca was working hard and was perhaps in difficulties, but all Jenny’s intentions to have a good long talk with her had come to nothing.
It was dark when she arrived at her destination; her mother, Bodil, and Nils were at the station to meet her.
It was as if she had seen her mother a week ago, but Mrs. Berner cried when she kissed her daughter: “Welcome home, my darling child—God bless you!” Bodil had grown, and looked very smart in a long coat and skirt. Kalfatrus greeted her shyly.
As she came out of the station she smelt the odour peculiar to the railway square of Christiania—a mixture of sea-water, coal smoke, and dried herring.
The cab drove along Carl Johan, past the old familiar houses. Mrs. Berner asked about the journey, and where she had spent the night. It seemed all so commonplace to Jenny, as if she had never been away from it. The two young people on the back seat said never a word.
Outside a garden gate in Wergelandsveien a young couple stood kissing each other good-night. A few stars twinkled in the clear deep blue sky above the naked trees in the Castle gardens. A smell of mouldering leaves came through the carriage window, reminding her of melancholy springs of old.
The cab stopped at the house where they lived. There was light still in the dairy on the ground floor; the woman came out on the doorstep, when she heard the cab, and said: “Good evening; welcome back,” to Jenny. Ingeborg came rushing down the stairs to embrace her, and hurried up again, carrying her sister’s bag. Supper was laid in the sitting-room, and Jenny saw her napkin with her father’s silver ring in her old place beside Kalfatrus. Ingeborg hurried into the kitchen, and Bodil went with Jenny to her old room at the back, which had been Ingeborg’s during her absence, and still harboured some of her belongings. On the walls were some picture cards of actors; Napoleon and Madame Récamier in mahogany frames hung on either side of Jenny’s old empire mirror above the antique chest of drawers.
Jenny washed and did her hair; she felt an irritation in her skin from the journey, and passed the powder-puff a couple of times over her face. Bodil sniffed the powder to see if it was scented. They went to supper. Ingeborg had a nice hot meal ready; she had been to a cookery school that winter. In the light of the lamp Jenny saw that her young sisters had their thick curly hair tied up with silk bows. Ingeborg’s small, dark face was thinner, but she did not cough any longer. She saw, too, that mamma had grown older—or had she perhaps not noticed, when she was at home and saw her every day, that the small wrinkles in her mother’s pretty face increased, that the tall, girlish figure stooped a little, and that the shoulders lost their roundness? Since she grew up she had always been told that her mother looked like an elder and prettier sister of hers.
They spoke about everything that had happened at home during the year.
“Why didn’t we take a taxi?” said Nils suddenly. “How stupid of us to ride home in an old four-wheeler!”
“Well, it’s too late now; no good crying over spilt milk,” laughed Jenny.
The luggage arrived; her mother and sisters watched the unpacking with interest. Ingeborg and Bodil carried the things into Jenny’s room and put them in the drawers; the embroidered underlinen, which Jenny told them she had bought in Paris, was handled almost with reverence. There was great joy over the gifts to themselves: shantung for summer dresses and Italian bead necklaces. They draped themselves in the stuff before the glass, and tried the effect of the beads in their hair. Kalfatrus alone showed some interest in her pictures, trying to lift the box that contained her canvases.
“How many have you brought?”
“Twenty-six, but they are mostly small ones.”
“Are you going to have a private exhibition—all by yourself?”
“I don’t know yet—I may, some day.”
While the girls were washing up and Nils was making his bed on the sofa, Mrs. Berner and Jenny had a chat in Jenny’s room over a cup of tea and a cigarette.
“What do you think of Ingeborg?” asked Mrs. Berner anxiously.
“She looks well and bright, but, of course, she will need looking after. We must send her to live in the country till she gets quite strong again.”
“She is so sweet and good always—bright and full of fun, and so useful in the house. I am so anxious about her; I think she has been out too much last winter, dancing too much, and keeping late hours, but I had not the heart to refuse her anything. You had such a sad childhood, Jenny—I know you missed the company of other children, and I was sure you and papa would think it right to let the child have all the pleasure she could.” She sighed. “My poor little girls, they have nothing to look forward to but work and privations. What am I to do if they get ill besides? I can do so little.”
Jenny bent over her mother and kissed the tears from her pretty, childish eyes. The longing to give and to receive tenderness, the remembrance of her early childhood, and the consciousness that her mother did not know her life—its sorrows before and its happiness now—melted into a feeling of protecting love, and she gathered her mother into her arms.
“Don’t cry, mother dear. Everything will come all right. I am going to stay at home for the present, and we have still something left of Aunt Katherine’s money.”
“No, Jenny, you must keep that for yourself. I understand now that you must not be hampered in any way in your work. It was such a joy to us all when your picture at the exhibition was sold last autumn.”
Jenny smiled. The fact that she had sold a picture and had two or three lines in the papers about it made her people look upon her work in quite a different light.
“Don’t worry about me, mother. It is all right. I may be able to earn something while I am here. I must have a studio, though,” she said, after a pause, adding as an explanation: “I must finish my pictures in a studio, you see.”
“But you will live at home, won’t you?” asked the mother anxiously.
Jenny did not answer.
“It won’t do, my dear child, for a young girl to live alone in a studio.”
“Very well,” said Jenny; “I shall live at home.”
When she was alone she took out Helge’s photo and sat down to write to him. She had been home only a couple of hours, and yet everything she had lived through out there, where he was, seemed so far away and altogether apart from her life here, before or now. The letter was one single cry of yearning.
II
Jenny had hired a studio and was arranging it to her taste. Kalfatrus came in the afternoons and helped her.
“You have grown so tall that I almost thought I could not call you by the old name any longer.”
The boy laughed.
Jenny asked about all his doings while she had been away, and Nils told her of the extraordinary adventures he and two boy friends had had while they lived for some weeks in the log huts in Nordmarken. As she listened, it crossed her mind that her trips up there with him were now things of the past.
She went in the mornings to the outskirts of the city—to walk by herself in the sunshine. The fields lay yellow with dead grass, there was still snow under the pines, but tiny buds were coming out on the foliage trees and from underneath the dead leaves peeped downy shoots of the blue anemone. She read Helge’s letters again and again; she carried them about her wherever she went. She longed for him impatiently, madly—longed to see him and touch him and convince herself that he was hers.
She had been back twelve days and had not yet been to see his parents; when he asked her a third time if she had been, she made up her mind to go next day. The weather had changed in the night; a strong north wind was blowing, the sun shone with a sharp light, and clouds of dust were whirling in the streets. Then came a hail-storm so violent that she had to take refuge in a doorway. The hard white grains rebounded from the pavement on to her shoes and frivolous summer stockings. Next moment the sun came out again.
The Grams lived in Welhavensgate. At the corner Jenny stopped for a moment to look about; the two rows of grey houses stood almost completely in the raw, icy shade; on the one side a narrow strip of sun fell on the top floor; she was pleased to think that Helge’s parents lived there.
Her way to school had been along this street for four years. She knew it well—the small shops, the black marks of snow on the plaster ornaments of the front entrances, the plants in majolica pots or coloured tissue paper in the windows, the fashion-plates against the panes at the dressmaker’s, and the narrow gateway leading to dark back-yards, where small heaps of dirty snow made the air still more raw. A tramcar rolled heavily up the hill.
Close to where she stood, in the other street, was a large house with a dark yard; they had lived there when her stepfather died.
Outside a door with a brass plate, with “G. Gram” engraved on it; she stood still for a moment, her heart beating. She tried to laugh at herself for this senseless feeling of oppression each time she had to face anything new, for which she had not prepared her mind in advance. Why should she consider her future parents-in-law of such importance? They could not hurt her.... She rang the bell.
She heard somebody coming through the hall; then the door opened. It was Helge’s mother; she knew her from a photograph.
“Are you Mrs. Gram? I am Miss Winge.”
“Oh yes—please come in.”
Jenny followed her through a long, narrow hall encumbered with cupboards, boxes, and outdoor clothes.
Mrs. Gram opened the door to the drawing-room. At this moment the sun came in, showing up the moss-green plush furniture, curtains and portiéres of the same material, and the vivid colours of the carpet. The room was small and very full—photographs and sundry fancy articles stood in every possible place.
“I am afraid it is very untidy here. I have not had time to dust for several days,” said Mrs. Gram. “We don’t use this room every day, and I have no servant just now. I had to dismiss the one I had—she was so dirty and always answering back, but it’s hard to get another at all, and just as well, for they’re all alike as far as that goes. Keeping house nowadays—it’s simply dreadful. Helge told us you would be coming, but we had almost given up hope of seeing you.”
When she talked and laughed she showed big, white front teeth and a black hole on either side, where two were missing.
Jenny sat looking at the woman who was Helge’s mother—how different it all was from what she had imagined.
She had formed a picture in her mind of Helge’s home and mother from his descriptions, and she had pitied the woman whom the husband did not love and who had loved the children so much that they had rebelled and longed to get away from this tyrannic mother-love that could not bear them ever to be anything but her children. In her heart she had taken the mother’s part. Men did not understand to what extent a woman could change who loved and got no love in return except the love of small children; they could not understand what a mother would feel at seeing her children grow up and glide away from her, or how she could rise in defiance and anger against the inexorable life that let little children grow up and cease to feel their mother everything to them, while they were everything to her as long as she lived.
Jenny had wanted to love Helge’s mother—and she could not do it; on the contrary, she felt an almost physical antipathy towards Mrs. Gram as she talked on and on.
The features were the same as Helge’s—the high, slightly narrow forehead, the beautifully carved nose, and the even, dark brows, the same small mouth with thin lips, and the pointed chin. But there was an expression about her mouth as if everything she said were spiteful, and a malicious and scornful look about the fine wrinkles of the face. The remarkably well-shaped eyes, bluish in the white, were hard and piercing. They were large, dark brown eyes—much darker than Helge’s.
She had been uncommonly pretty; yet Jenny was convinced she was right in thinking that Gert Gram had not been anxious to marry her. She was no lady as far as language and manners went—but many pretty girls of the middle classes soon turned harsh and sour when they had been married some time and shut up in a home, with worries of housekeeping and servants to spoil their life.
“Mr. Gram asked me to go and see you and give you the latest news about him,” said Jenny. She felt she could not speak about him as Helge.
“I understand that he spent his time exclusively with you lately—he never mentioned anybody else in his letters. I thought he was in love with a Miss Jahrman at first.”
“Miss Jahrman is my friend—there were several of us always together at first, but she has been very busy lately working at a large picture.”
“Is she the daughter of Colonel Jahrman of Tegneby? Then I suppose she has money?”
“No; she is studying on a small inheritance from her mother. She is not on very good terms with her father—that is to say, he did not like her wanting to become an artist, so she refused to accept any help from him.”
“Very stupid of her. My daughter, Mrs. Arnesen, knows her slightly—she stayed with us at Christmas. She said there were other reasons why the Colonel did not want to have anything to do with her; she is said to be very good looking, but has a bad reputation.”
“There is not the least truth in it,” said Jenny stiffly.
“You have a good time, you artists.” Mrs. Gram sighed. “I cannot see how Helge could work at all—it seems to me he never wrote about anything else but going here and there in the Campagna with you.”
“Oh,” said Jenny. It was very painful to hear Mrs. Gram speak of things out there. “I think Mr. Gram worked very hard, and one must have a day off now and again.”
“Possibly—but we housewives must get along without it. Wait till you get married, Miss Winge. Everybody wants holidays, it seems to me. I have a niece who has just become a school teacher—she was to study medicine, but she was not strong enough, so had to give it up and begin at the seminary instead. She is always having a day off, it seems to me, and I tell her there is no danger of her being overworked.”
Mrs. Gram left the room, and Jenny rose to have a look at the pictures.
Above the sofa was a large view of the Campagna; one could easily see that Gram had studied in Copenhagen. The drawing was good and thorough, but the colouring thin and dry. The background with two Italian women in national dress and the miniature plants round the tumbled pillar was poor. The model study of a young girl below was better. She had to smile—no wonder Helge had found some difficulty in accepting Rome as it was, and had been disappointed at first, after having grown up with all this Italian romance on the walls at home.
There were several well-drawn small landscapes from Italy, with ruins and national costumes, and some copies—Correggio’s “Danaë” and Guido Reni’s “Aurora”—which were not good, and other copies of baroque pictures which she did not know, but a study of a priest was good.
There was also a large light green summer landscape—an experiment in impressionism—but thin and plain as far as colouring went. The one over the piano was better, the sun above the ridge and the air quite good. A portrait of Mrs. Gram hung beside it—very good indeed—better than any of the other things. The figure and the hands were perfectly drawn, the bright red dress, draped at the sides, the openwork black mittens, and the high black hat with a red wing were very effective; the pale face with the dark eyes below the curls on her forehead was good, but unfortunately she stood as glued on to the grey-blue background. The portrait of a child drew her attention—near the frame was written “Bamsey, four years old.” Was that pretty little frowning child in a white shirt Helge? How good he was!
Mrs. Gram returned with some cake and wine on a tray. Jenny muttered something about giving trouble:
“I have been looking at your husband’s paintings.”
“I don’t understand much about it, but I think they are beautiful. He says himself that they are no good, but it is only a way of talking, I think,” she said, with a short, harsh laugh. “My husband is pretty easy-going, you see, and painting pictures could not pay our way when we had married and had children, so he had to do something useful besides. But he was too lazy to paint as well, and that is why he pretended that he had no talent. To me his pictures are much prettier than all the modern paintings, but I suppose you think differently?”
“Your husband’s pictures are very pretty, especially your portrait, which I think beautiful.”
“Do you?—but it is not very like me, and certainly not flattering.” She laughed again, the same slightly bitter laugh. “I think he painted much better before he began to imitate those who were modern then—Thaulow and Krogh and others.”
Jenny sipped her wine in silence while Mrs. Gram went on talking.
“I should like to ask you to stay to lunch, Miss Winge, but I have to do everything myself, you see, and we were not prepared for your coming. I am sorry, but I hope you will come another time.”
Jenny understood that Mrs. Gram wished to get rid of her—it was quite natural, as she was without a servant and had to get the lunch—so she took her leave. On the stairs she met Mr. Gram—she thought so at least. As she passed him she had the impression that he looked very young and that his eyes were very blue.
III
Two days later, in the afternoon, when Jenny was painting in her studio, Helge’s father called. As he stood with his hat in his hand, she saw that his hair was grey—so grey that she could not make out what the original colour had been, but he still looked young. He was thin, and had a slight stoop—not the stoop of an old man, but rather of one too slender for his height. His eyes too were young, though sad and tired and so big and blue that they gave one a curious impression of being wide open, surprised, and at the same time suspicious.
“I was very anxious to meet you, Jenny Winge,” he said, “as you can understand for yourself. No; don’t take off your overall, and tell me if I disturb you.”
“Not in the least,” said Jenny warmly. She liked his smile and his voice. She threw her overall on a chair: “The light is almost gone already. It was very good of you to come and see me.”
“It is a very long time since I was in a studio,” said Gram, sitting down on the sofa.
“Don’t you ever see any of the other painters—your contemporaries?” asked Jenny.
“No, never,” he answered curtly.
“But”—Jenny bethought herself—“how did you find your way up here? Did you ask them at home for my address, or at the artists’ club?”
Gram laughed.
“No; I met you on the stairs the other day, and yesterday, as I was going to the office, I saw you again. I followed you. I was half a mind to stop you and introduce myself. Then I saw you go in here, and I knew there were studios in this house, so I thought I would pay you a visit.”
“Do you know,” said Jenny, with a merry laugh, “Helge too followed me in the street—I was with a friend. He had lost his way in the old streets by the rag market, and he came and spoke to us. That is how we made his acquaintance. We thought it rather cool at the time, but it seems to run in the family.”
Gram frowned, and sat quiet an instant. Jenny realized that she had said the wrong thing, and was thinking what to say next.
“May I make you some tea?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer lit the spirit-lamp under the kettle.
“Miss Winge, you must not be afraid that Helge is like me in other things. I don’t think he takes after his father in anything—fortunately.” He laughed. Jenny did not know what to say to this, and busied herself with the tea.
“It’s rather bare in here, as you see, but I live at home with my mother.”
“I see. This is a good studio, is it not?”
“I think so.”
After a moment he said: “I have been thinking of you very much lately, Miss Winge—I understood from my son’s letters that you and he....”
“Yes, Helge and I are very fond of each other,” said Jenny, looking straight at him. He took her hand and held it an instant.
“I know my son so little—his real self is almost unknown to me, but as you are fond of him you must know him far better. I have always believed that he was a good boy, and clever in a way, and the fact that you love him proves to me that I have reason to be pleased—and proud of him. Now that I know you, I can understand that he loves you, and I hope he will make you happy.”
“Thank you,” said Jenny, giving him her hand again.
“I am fond of the boy—he’s my only son—and I think he likes me too.”
“I know he does. Helge is very fond of you and of his mother.” She blushed as if she had been tactless.
“Yes, I believe so; but he must have seen long ago that his father and mother did not care for one another. Helge has not had a happy home, Jenny. I don’t mind telling you this, for if you have not already understood it, you will soon see it for yourself. You are a sensible girl. Helge’s experience of his own home will teach him, perhaps, to value your love and try to keep it.”
Jenny poured out the tea: “Helge used to come and have tea with me in the afternoon in Rome—it was really during these visits we learnt to know each other, I think.”
“And you became fond of each other?”
“No, not at once. Perhaps we were, though—even then—but we believed that we were great friends only. He came to tea afterwards too, of course.” They both smiled.
“Tell me something about Helge from the time he was a boy—when he was quite small, I mean.”
Gram smiled sadly and shook his head: “No; I cannot tell you anything about my son. He was always good and obedient, and did well at school. He was not particularly clever, but he worked steadily and diligently. He was very reserved as a boy—and later, too, for that matter—with me, anyhow. You, I am sure, have more to tell me.”
“About what?”
“About Helge, of course. Tell me what he looks like to the girl who loves him. You are no ordinary girl either—you are an artist—and I believe you are intelligent and good. Will you not tell me how you came to like him—what it was that made you choose him?”
“Well,” she said laughingly—“it is not so easy to say—we just got fond of each other.”
He laughed too. “Well, it was a stupid question, I admit. One would say I had quite forgotten what it was to be young and in love, don’t you think?”
“Don’t you think!—Helge says that so often, too. It was one of the things that made me like him. He was so young. I saw that he was very reserved, but gradually thawed a good deal.”
“I can understand he would—to you. Tell me more! Oh, but don’t look so frightened. I don’t mean that you should tell me the whole story. Only tell me something about yourself and about Helge, about your work—and about Rome. I am an old man. I want to feel again what it is like to be an artist—and free. To work at the only thing you care for—to be young—and in love—and happy.”
He stayed for two hours. When he was ready to go and stood with his hat in his hand, he said in a low voice: “It is no use trying to hide from you the state of things at home. When we meet there, it would be better if we pretended not to have met before. I don’t wish Helge’s mother to know that I have made your acquaintance in this way—for your sake, so as not to expose you to any disagreeable, malicious words from her. It is enough for her to know that I like somebody—especially if it is a woman—to turn her against them. You think it strange, I am sure, but you understand, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Jenny quietly.
“Good-bye. I am happy about you for Helge’s sake—believe me, Jenny.”
She had written to Helge the night before about her visit to his home, and when she read her letter through, she realized how very cold and poor was the part about her meeting with his mother. When writing to him that night she told him about his father’s visit, but she tore the letter up and began another. It was so difficult to tell him about his father’s call and not to mention hers to Mrs. Gram. She did not like having secrets with one from the other. She felt humiliated on Helge’s behalf at having been initiated all at once in the misery of his home, and she ended by not saying a word about it in her letter—it would be easier to explain when he came.
IV
Towards the end of May Jenny had not heard from Helge for several days, and was beginning to fear that something had happened. If no letter came the next day she would send a wire. In the afternoon, when she was in her studio, there was a knock at the door. When she opened she was seized and hugged and kissed by a man who stood on the landing.
“Helge!” She was overjoyed. “Helge! how you frightened me, you dear boy. Let me look at you. Is it really and truly you?” and she pulled the travelling-cap off his head.
“I hope it could not be anybody else,” he said laughingly.
“But what does all this mean?”
“I will tell you,” he said, pressing his face against her neck. “I wanted to give you a surprise, and so I did, it seems.”
After the first tender greetings were over they sat down hand in hand on the sofa.
“Let me look at you, Jenny—oh, how lovely you are! At home they believe I am in Berlin. I am going to an hotel for the night. I mean to stay a few days in town before telling them. Won’t it be fun! It is a pity you live at home now. We could have been together all day.”
“When you knocked I thought it was your father coming.”
“Father?”
“Yes.” She felt a little embarrassed; it seemed suddenly so difficult to explain the whole thing to him. “You see, your father came one day to call, and he has been to tea sometimes in the afternoon. We sit and talk about you.”
“But, Jenny, you never wrote a word about it; you have not even mentioned that you had met father.”
“No; I preferred to tell you. You see, your mother does not know about it; your father thought it better not to mention it.”
“Not to me?”
“Oh no, we never meant that. He believes most likely that I have told you. It was only your mother who was not to know. I thought it was—well, I did not like to write you that I had a secret from your mother. You understand?”
Helge was silent.
“I did not like it myself,” she continued. “But what could I do? He called on me, you see, and I like him very much. I am getting quite fond of your father.”
“Father can be very attractive, I know—and then you are an artist, too.”
“He likes me for your sake, dear. I know it is so.”
Helge did not answer.
“And you have only seen mother once?”
“Yes—but are you not hungry? Let me give you something to eat.”
“No, thanks. We’ll go out and have supper somewhere together.”
There was a knock at the door again. “It is your father,” whispered Jenny.
“Hush—sit still—don’t open!”
They heard retreating steps on the landing. Helge frowned.
“What is it, dear?”
“Oh, I don’t know—I hope we won’t see him. We don’t wish to be disturbed, do we? Not to see anybody.”
“No,” she kissed his mouth, and, bending his head, she kissed him again on the neck behind the ear.
After dinner, when they were having coffee and liqueurs, Jenny said suddenly: “I cannot get over this about Francesca.”
“Did you not know before? I thought she had written to you.”
Jenny shook her head.
“Never a word—you could have knocked me down with a feather when I got her letter. Only a few words: ‘Tomorrow I am going to marry Ahlin.’ I had not the least suspicion of it.”
“Neither had we. They were very much together, of course, but that they were going to marry even Heggen did not know until she asked him to give her away.”
“Have you seen them since?”
“No. They went to Rocca di Papa the same day, and they were still there when I left Rome.”
Jenny sat a while thinking.
“I thought she was all taken up with her work,” she said.
“Heggen told me she had finished the big picture of the gate, and that it was very good. She had begun several small ones too, but then she got married all of a sudden. I don’t know if they had been properly engaged even. And what about you, Jenny—you wrote you had begun a new picture?”
Jenny led him to the easel. The big canvas showed a street with a row of houses—offices and factories—in grey-green and brick-red colouring. To the right were some workshops; behind them rose the walls of some big houses against a rich blue sky, with a few departing rain clouds, leaden grey in colour, but shining white where the sun came through. There was a strong light on the shops and the wall, and on the young foliage of some trees in a yard. A few men, some wagons and fruit barrows stood about in the street.
“I don’t know much about it, but is it not very good? I think it is fine—it is beautiful.”
“When I was wandering about waiting for my own boy—after walking here so lonely and sad many a spring before—and saw the maples and the chestnuts opening out their tender leaves against the smoky houses and red walls under a golden spring sky, I wanted to paint it.”
“Where did you get the view?”
“Stenersgaten. You see, your father spoke about a picture of you as a boy, which he kept in his office. I went down there to have a look at it, and then I saw this view from his office window. They let me stand in the box factory next door to paint it, but I had to change it a bit—compose a little.”
“You have been a good deal with father, I see,” said Helge after a pause. “I suppose he is very interested in your picture?”
“Yes. He often came over to look while I was working on it, and gave me some good advice. He knows a lot about painting, of course.”
“Do you think father had any talent?” asked Helge.
“Oh yes, I believe so. The pictures hanging in your home are not particularly good, but he let me see some studies he keeps in his office, and I think they show a refined and quite original talent. He would never have been a great artist; he is too susceptible to influence, but I think it is because of his readiness to appreciate and love the good work of others. He has a great understanding and love of art.”
“Poor father!” said Helge.
“Yes”—Jenny nestled closer to him—“your father is perhaps more to be pitied than you or I understand.”
They kissed—and forgot to speak any more of Gert Gram.
“Your people don’t know about it yet?” Helge asked.
“No,” said Jenny.
“At first, when I was sending all my letters to your home address, did your mother never ask who wrote to you like that every day?”
“No. My mother is not that kind.”
“My mother,” repeated Helge hotly. “You mean to say that mother would have done so—that she is tactless. I don’t think you are just to my mother—surely, for my sake, you ought not to speak like that of her.”
“Helge! What do you mean?” Jenny looked at him, astonished. “I have not said a word about your mother.”
“You said, my mother is not like that.”
“I did not. I said my mother.”
“No; you said my mother. You may not like her—although I cannot see what reason you have so far not to—but you should remember that you speak about my mother, and that I am fond of her as she is.”
“Oh, Helge! I don’t understand how....” She stopped, as she felt tears filling her eyes. It was so strange a thing for Jenny Winge to shed tears that she felt ashamed of it, and was quiet.
But he had seen it: “Jenny, my darling, have I hurt you? Oh, my own girl—what a misery it is! You can see for yourself—no sooner have I come back, but it begins again.” He clenched his hands and cried: “I hate it—I hate my home!”
“My darling boy, you must not say so. Don’t let it upset you like that.” She took him in her arms. “Helge, dearest, listen to me—what has it to do with us?—it cannot make any difference in us”—and she kissed and petted him till he stopped crying and shivering.
V
Jenny and Helge were sitting on the sofa in his room, silent, with arms encircled. It was a Sunday in June; Jenny had been for a walk with Helge in the morning and had dined at the Grams’. After dinner they all sat in the drawing-room, struggling through the tedious afternoon, until Helge got Jenny into his own room on the pretext of reading her something he had written.
“Ugh!” said Jenny at last.
Helge did not ask why she said it. He only laid his head in her lap and let her stroke his hair; neither spoke.
Helge sighed: “It was nicer at your place in the Via Vantaggio, was it not?”
The sound of plates and of fat spluttering in a pan came from the kitchen. Mrs. Gram was getting supper. Jenny opened the window wide to let out the smell that had penetrated into the room. She stood a moment looking out on the yard. All the windows were kitchen or bedroom windows with blinds half drawn, except one large one in each corner. Ugh! How well she knew those dining-rooms with a single corner window looking on to the yard, dark and dismal, with never a glimpse of sun. Soot came in when one aired the rooms, and the smell of food was permanent. The playing of a guitar came from a servant’s room, and a high soprano voice was singing a doleful Salvation Army hymn.
The guitar reminded her of Via Vantaggio, and Cesca, and Gunnar, who used to sit on her sofa with his legs on a stool, strumming on Cesca’s guitar and singing Cesca’s Italian songs. And she was seized with a sudden, desperate longing for everything out there. Helge came to her side: “What are you thinking of?”
“Of Via Vantaggio.”
“Oh yes. What a lovely time we had there!”
She put her arm round his neck and drew his head on to her shoulder. It had struck her the moment he spoke that he was not a part of that which filled her heart with longing. She raised his head again and looked into his amber brown eyes, wishing to be reminded of all the glorious days in the Campagna, when he lay among the daisies looking at her. And she wanted to shake off the intense, sickening feeling of discomfort which always came over her when she was in his home.
Everything was unbearable here. The first evening she was invited to the house after Helge’s official arrival, when Mrs. Gram had introduced her to her husband, she had to pretend not to know him, while Helge stood looking on at this comedy, knowing they had deceived his mother. It was dreadful—but something still worse had happened. She had been left alone with Gram for a few minutes and he mentioned that he had been to the studio to see her one afternoon, but she had not been in. “No, I was not at the studio that day,” she had answered, turning very red. He looked at her in great surprise, and almost without knowing why she did so she blurted out: “I was, but I could not let you in, because there was somebody with me.” Gram had smiled and said: “Yes, I heard quite distinctly that somebody was moving in the studio.” In her confusion she had told him that it was Helge, and that he had been a few days in town incognito.
“My dear Jenny,” Gram had said, and she saw that he was hurt, “you need not have kept it secret from me. I would certainly not have intruded on you—but I will say that it would have given me much pleasure if Helge had told me.” She found nothing to say, and he continued: “I shall be careful not to tell him.”
She had never meant to keep it a secret from Helge that she had told his father, but she had not yet been able to tell him—afraid that he would not like it. She was worried and nervous about all these mysteries, one after the other.
It is true, she had not told them anything at home either, but that was quite different. She was not used to speak to her mother about anything concerning herself; she had never expected any understanding from her, and had never asked for it. Her mother, besides, was very anxious about Ingeborg just at present. Jenny had got her to rent a cottage a little way out of town; Bodil and Nils came to school by train every day, and Jenny lived in the studio.
Yet she had never been so fond of her mother and her home as she was now. Once or twice when she had been worried about things, and out of spirits, her mother had tried to help and comfort her without asking any questions. She would have blushed at the mere thought of forcing herself into the confidence of any of her children. To grow up in a home like Helge’s must have been a torture. It seemed almost as if the gloom of it hung about them even when they were together elsewhere.
“Dearest,” she said, caressing him.
Jenny had offered to help Mrs. Gram wash up and to get the supper, but she had said, with her usual smile: “No, my dear, you have not come here for that—certainly not, Miss Winge.”
Perhaps she did not mean it, but Mrs. Gram always smiled in a spiteful way when she talked to her. Poor woman, it was probably the only smile she had.
Gram came in; he had been for a walk. Jenny and Helge went to sit with him in his study. Mrs. Gram came in for an instant.
“You forgot to take your umbrella, dear—as usual. You were lucky to escape a shower. Men want such a lot of looking after, you know,” she said, turning to Miss Winge.
“You manage it very well,” said Gram. His voice and manners were always painfully polite when he spoke to his wife.
“You are sitting in here too, I see,” she said to Helge and Jenny.
“I have noticed that the study is the nicest room in every house,” said Jenny. “It was in our house, when my father was alive. I suppose it is because they are made to work in it.”
“The kitchen ought in that case to be the very nicest room in every house,” said Mrs. Gram. “Where do you think more work is done, Gert—in your room or mine?—for I suppose the kitchen is my study.”
“Undoubtedly more useful work is done in your room.”
“I believe, after all, that I must accept your kind offer of help, Miss Winge—it is getting late.”
They were at table when the bell rang. It was Mrs. Gram’s niece, Aagot Sand. Mrs. Gram introduced Jenny.
“Oh, you are the artist with whom Helge spent so much of his time in Rome. I guessed that much when I saw you in Stenersgaten one day in the spring. You were walking with Uncle Gert, and carried your painting things.”
“You must be mistaken, Aagot,” said Mrs. Gram. “When do you imagine you saw them?”
“The day before Intercession Day, as I was coming back from school.”
“It is quite true,” said Gram. “Miss Winge had dropped her paint-box in the street, and I helped her to pick the things up.”
“A little adventure, I see, which you have not confessed to your wife,” said Mrs. Gram, laughing. “I had no idea you knew each other before.”
Gram laughed too: “Miss Winge did not recognize me. It was not very flattering to me—but I did not wish to remind her. Did you not suspect when you saw me that I was the kind old gentleman who had helped you?”
“I was not sure,” said Jenny feebly, her face turning purple. “I did not think you recognized me.” She tried to smile, but she was painfully conscious of her blushing and unsteady voice.
“It was an adventure, indeed,” said Mrs. Gram. “A most peculiar coincidence.”
“Have I said something wrong again?” asked Aagot when they went into the drawing-room after supper. Mr. Gram had retired to his study and Mrs. Gram had gone into the kitchen. “It is detestable in this house. You never know when there’s going to be an explosion. Please explain. I don’t understand anything.”
“Mind your own business,” said Helge angrily.
“All right, all right—don’t bite me! Is Aunt Rebecca jealous of Miss Winge now?”
“You are the most tactless woman....”
“After your mother, yes. Uncle Gert told me so one day.” She laughed. “Have you ever heard anything so absurd! Jealous of Miss Winge.” She looked inquisitively at the two others.
“You need not bother about things that only concern us, Aagot,” said Helge curtly.
“Indeed? I only thought—but never mind; it does not matter.”
“No; it does not in the least.”
Mrs. Gram came in and lit the lamp. Jenny looked almost scared at her angry face. She stood a moment, staring with hard, glittering eyes, then she bent down and picked up Jenny’s scissors, which had fallen on the floor.
“It looks as if it were a speciality of yours to drop things. You should not let things slip through your fingers, Miss Winge. Helge is not as gallant as his father, it seems.” She laughed. “Do you want your lamp?...” She went into the study and pulled the door after her. Helge listened an instant—his mother spoke in a low but angry voice in the other room.
“Can’t you leave that wretched business alone for once?” came distinctly through the door; it was Gram speaking.
Jenny turned to Helge: “I am going home now—I have a headache.”
“Don’t go, Jenny. There will be such a scene if you go. Stay a little longer. Mother will only be more angry if you run away now.”
“I cannot stand it,” she whispered, nearly crying.
Mrs. Gram walked through the room. Gram came in and joined them.
“Jenny is tired; she is going now. I will see her home.”
“Are you going already? Can’t you stay a little longer?”
“I have a headache and I am tired,” murmured Jenny.
“Please stay a little,” he whispered to her. “She”—he indicated the kitchen with his head—“does not say anything to you, and while you are here we are spared a scene.”
Jenny sat down quietly and took up her needlework again. Aagot crocheted energetically at a hospital shawl.
Gram went to the piano. Jenny was not musical, but she understood that he was, and by and by she became calm as he played softly—all for her, she felt.
“Do you know this one, Miss Winge?”
“No.”
“Nor you either, Helge? Did you not hear it in Rome? In my time it was sung everywhere. I have some books with Italian songs.”
He rose to look for them; as he passed Jenny he whispered: “Do you like me to play?”
“Yes.”
“Shall I go on?”
“Yes, please.”
He stroked her hand: “Poor little Jenny. You had better go now—before she comes.”
Mrs. Gram brought a tray of cakes and dessert.
“How nice of you to play to us, Gert. Don’t you think my husband plays beautifully, Miss Winge? Has he played to you before?” she asked innocently.
Jenny shook her head: “I did not know that Mr. Gram played the piano.”
“What a beautiful worker you are.” She looked at Jenny’s embroidery. “I thought you artists did not condescend to do needlework. It is a lovely pattern—where did you get it? Abroad, I suppose?”
“I designed it myself.”
“Oh well, then it is easy to get nice patterns. Have you seen this, Aagot? Isn’t it pretty? You are very clever”—and she patted Jenny’s hand.
What loathsome hands she had, thought Jenny—small, short fingers, with nails broader than long, and splayed out wide.
Helge and Jenny saw Aagot to her rooms and walked slowly down Pilestaedet in the pale night of June. The chestnuts in bloom along the hospital wall smelt strongly after the afternoon shower.
“Helge,” said Jenny, “you must try and arrange so that we need not go with them the day after tomorrow.”
“It is impossible. They have asked you and you have accepted. It is for your sake they have arranged this picnic.”
“But can you not understand how miserable it will be? I wish we could go alone somewhere, you and I, as in Rome.”
“There is nothing I would like better, but if we refuse to be a party to their midsummer outing it will only make things more unpleasant at home.”
“Not more than usual, I suppose,” she said scornfully.
“Yes, much more. Can you not put up with it for my sake? Hang it all, you are not obliged to be in the midst of it always, or to live and work there!”
He was right, she thought, and reproached herself for not being patient enough. He, poor boy, had to live and work in a home she could scarcely endure for two hours. He had grown up in it and lived his whole youth in it.
“I am horrid and selfish, Helge.” She clung to him, tired, worried, and humiliated. She longed for him to kiss her and comfort her. What did it really matter to them? They had each other, and belonged somewhere far away from the air of hatred, suspicion, and anger in his home.
The scent of jessamine was wafted from the old gardens that still remained.
“We can go off by ourselves another day—just you and I,” he said, to comfort her. “But how could you be so silly?” he said suddenly. “I cannot understand it. You ought to have known that mother would get to know it—as sure as anything.”
“Of course she does not believe the story your father told,” said Jenny timidly.—Helge sniffed.—“I wish he would tell her everything just as it happened.”
“You may rest assured he won’t do that. And you cannot do it—you must just go on pretending. It was awfully stupid of you.”
“I could not help it, Helge.”
“Well—I had told you enough about things at home for you to know. You could have prevented father from coming again, and all your visits to the office—as well as the meetings in Stenersgate.”