"You stick to your art--leave me to manage mine." And I put a light to
his cigarette.
"Ah, but you'll be disappointed this time, I warrant," he said
laughingly, as the smoke circled round his diabolically handsome face.
Then, becoming serious again, he went on: "It's so terribly plebeian,
yet it all befell through that very _Kunstner Karneval_. I was telling
you of when I first wore this composite costume which gained me the
smile of royalty. It was a very swell affair, of course, not a bit
like this, but it was given in hell."
"In hell!" I cried, startled.
"Yes. _Underverden_ they call it in their lingo. The ball-room
of the palace (the _Palaeet_, an old disused mansion) was got up to
represent the infernal regions--you tumble?--and everybody had to
dress appropriately. That was what gave me the idea of this costume.
The staircase up which you entered was made the mouth of a great
dragon, and as you trod on the first step his eye gleamed blazes and
brimstone. There were great monsters all about, and dark grottoes
radiating around; and when you took your dame into one of them, your
tread flooded them with light. If, however, the cavalier modestly
conducted his mistress into one of the lighted caves, virtue was
rewarded by instantaneous darkness."
"That was really artistic," I said, laughing.
"You bet! The artists spent any amount of money over the affair. The
whole of Hades bristled with ingenious devices in every corner. I had
got a couple of tickets, and had designed the dress of my best girl,
as well as my own, and the morning before (there being little work
done in the studios that day, as you may well imagine) I called upon
her to see her try it on. To my chagrin I found she was down with
influenza, or something of that sort appropriate to the bitter winter
we were having. And it did freeze that year, by Jove!--so hard that
Denmark and Sweden were united--to their mutual disgust, I fancy--by
a broad causeway of ice. I remember, as I walked back from the girl's
house towards the town along the Langelinie, my mortification was
somewhat allayed by the picturesque appearance of the Sound, in whose
white expanse boats of every species and colour were embedded, looking
like trapped creatures unable to stir oar or sail. But as I left the
Promenade and came into the narrow old streets of the town, with their
cobblestones and their quaint, many-windowed houses, my ill-humour
returned. I had had some trouble in getting the second ticket, and now
it looked as if I should get left. I went over in my mind the girls I
could ask, and what with not caring more for one than for another, and
not knowing which were booked already, and what with the imminence of
the ball, I felt the little brains I had getting addled in my head.
At last, in sheer despair, I had what is called a happy thought. I
resolved to ask the first girl of my acquaintance I met in my walk.
Instantly my spirits rose like a thermometer in a Turkish bath. The
clouds of irresolution rolled away, and the touch of adventure made my
walk joyous again. I peered eagerly into every female face I met, but
it was not till I approached the market-place that I knew my fate.
Then, turning a corner, I came suddenly and violently face to face
with Froeken Jensen."
He paused and relit his cigarette, and the maddening music of brass
instruments and brazen creatures, which his story had shut out,
crashed again upon my ears. "I reckon if you were telling this, you'd
stop here," he said, "and put down 'to be continued in our next.'"
There seemed a trace of huskiness in his flippant tones, as if he were
trying to keep under some genuine emotion.
"Never you mind," I returned, smiling. "You're not a writer, anyhow,
so just keep straight on."
"Well, Froeken Jensen was absolutely the ugliest girl I have seen in
all my globe-trottings.... On second thoughts, that is the place to
stop, isn't it?"
"Not at all; it's only in long novels one stops for refreshment. So
go ahead, and--I say--do cut your interruptions _a la_ Fielding and
Thackeray. _C'est vieux jeu_."
"All right, don't get mad. Froeken Jensen had the most irregular
and ungainly features that ever crippled a woman's career; her nose
was--But no! I won't describe her, poor girl. She was about twenty-six
years old, but one of those girls whose years no one counts, who are
old maids at seventeen. Well, you can fancy what a fix I was in. It
was no good pretending to myself that I hadn't seen her, for we nearly
bowled each other over--she was coming along quick trot with a basket
on her arm--and it seemed kind of shuffling to back out of my promise
to her, though she didn't know anything about it. It was like betting
with yourself and wanting to cheat yourself when you lost. I felt I
should never trust myself again, if I turned welsher--that's the word,
isn't it?"
"It's like Jephtha," I said. "He swore, you know, he would sacrifice
the first creature that he saw on his triumphant return from the wars,
and his daughter came out and had to be sacrificed."
"Thank you for the compliment," he said, with a grimace. "But I'm not
up in the classics, so the comparison didn't strike me. But what did
strike me, after the first moment of annoyance, was the humour of the
situation. I turned and walked beside her--under cover of an elaborate
apology for my dashing behaviour. She seemed quite concerned at my
regret, and insisted that it was she that had dashed--it was
her marketing-day, and she was late. You must know she kept a
boarding-house for art and university students, and it was there that
I had made her acquaintance, when I went to dine once or twice with
a studio chum who was quartered there. I had never exchanged two
sentences with her before, as you can well imagine. She was not
inviting to the artistic eye; indeed, I rather wondered how my friend
could tolerate her at the head of the table, till he jestingly told
me it was reckoned off the bill. The place was indeed suited to
the student's pocket. But this morning I was surprised at the
sprightliness of her share in the dialogue of mutual apologies. Her
mind seemed as alert as her step, her voice was pleasing and gentle,
and there was a refreshing gaiety in her attitude towards the situation.
"'But I am quite sure it was _my_ fault,' I wound up rather lamely
at last, 'and, if you will allow me to make you amends, I shall be
pleased to send you a ticket for the ball to-morrow night.'
"She stood still. 'For the _Kunstner Karneval_!' she cried eagerly,
while her poor absurd face lit up.
"'Yes, Froeken; and I shall be happy to escort you there if you will
give me the pleasure.'
"She looked at me with sudden suspicion--the idea that I was chaffing
her must have crossed her mind. I felt myself flushing furiously,
feeling somehow half-guilty by my secret thoughts of her a few moments
ago. We had arrived at the _Amagertorv_--the market-place--and I
recollect getting a sudden impression of the quaint stalls and
the picturesque _Amager_-women--one with a preternaturally hideous
face--and the frozen canal in the middle, with the ice-bound
fruit-boats from the islands, and the red sails of the Norwegian
boats, and the Egyptian architecture of Thorwaldsen's Museum in the
background, making up my mind to paint it all, in the brief instant
before I added in my most convincing tones, 'The Kronprinds will be
there.'
"Her incredulous expression became tempered by wistfulness, and with
an inspiration I drew out the ticket and thrust it into her hand. I
saw her eyes fill with tears as she turned her head away and examined
some vegetables.
"'You will excuse me,' she said presently, holding the ticket limply
in her hand, 'but I fear it is impossible for me to accept your kind
invitation. You see I have so much to do, and my children will be so
uncomfortable without me.'
"'Your children will be at the ball to a man,' I retorted.
"'But I haven't any fancy costume,' she pleaded, and tendered me the
ticket back. It struck me--almost with a pang--that her hand was bare
of glove, and the work-a-day costume she was wearing was ill adapted to
the rigour of the weather.
"'Oh! Come anyhow,' I said. 'Ordinary evening dress. Of course, you
will need a mask.'
"I saw her lip twitch at this unfortunate way of putting it, and
hastened to affect unconsciousness of my blunder.
"'_She_ wouldn't,' I added with feigned jocularity, nodding towards
the preternaturally hideous _Amager_-woman.
"'Poor old thing,' she said gently. 'I shall be sorry when she dies.'
"'Why?' I murmured.
"'Because then I shall be the ugliest woman in Copenhagen,' she
answered gaily.
"Something in that remark sent a thrill down my backbone--there seemed
an infinite pathos and lovableness in her courageous recognition of
facts. It dispensed me from the painful necessity of pretending to be
unaware of her ugliness--nay, gave it almost a _cachet_--made it as
possible a topic of light conversation as beauty itself. I pressed her
more fervently to come, and at last she consented, stipulating only
that I should call for her rather late, after she had quite finished
her household duties and the other boarders had gone off to the ball.
"Well, I took her to the ball (it was as brilliant and gay as this
without being riotous), and--will you believe it?--she made quite a
little sensation. With a black domino covering her impossible face,
and a simple evening dress, she looked as _distinguee_ as my best girl
would have done. Her skin was good, and her figure, freed from the
distracting companionship of her face, was rather elegant, while the
lively humour of her conversation had now fair play. She danced well,
too, with a natural grace. I believe she enjoyed her incog. almost as
much as the ball, and I began to feel quite like a fairy godmother who
was giving poor little Cinderella an outing, and to regret that I had
not the power to make her beautiful for ever, or at least to make life
one eternal fancy ball, at which silk masks might veil the horrors of
reality. I dare say, too, she got a certain kudos through dancing
so much with me, for, as I have told you _ad nauseam_, this lovely
costume of mine was the hit of the evening, and the Kronprinds asked
for the honour of an introduction to me. It was rather funny--the
circuitous etiquette. I had to be first introduced to his
_aide-de-camp_. This was done through an actress of the Kongelige
Theatre, with whom I had been polking (he knew all the soubrettes,
that _aide-de-camp_!). Then he introduced me to the Kronprinds, and
I held out my hand and shook his royal paw heartily. He was very
gracious to me, learning I was an American, and complimented me on
my dress and my dancing, and I answered him affably; and the natives,
gathered round at a respectful distance, eyed me with reverent
curiosity. But at last, when the music struck up again, I said,
'Excuse me, I am engaged for this waltz!' and hurried off to dance
with my Cinderella, much to the amazement of the Danes, who wondered
audibly what mighty foreign potentate His Royal Highness had been
making himself agreeable to."
"It was plain enough," I broke in. "His Satanic Majesty, of course."
"I am glad you interrupted me," he said, "for you give me an opening
to state that the Kronprinds has nothing to do with the story. You, of
course, would have left him out; but I am only an amateur, and I get
my threads mixed."
"Shut up!" I cried. "I mean--go on."
"Oh, well, perhaps, he _has_ got a little to do with the story, after
all; for after that, Froeken Jensen became more important--sharing in
my reflected glory--or, perhaps, now I come to think of it, it was
only then that she became important. Anyway, important she was;
and, among others, Axel Larson--who was got up as an ancient Gallic
warrior, to show off his fine figure--came up and asked me to
introduce him. I don't think I should have done so ordinarily, for he
was the filthiest-mouthed fellow in the _atelier_--a great swaggering
Don Juan Baron Munchausen sort of chap, handsome enough in his raffish
way--a tall, stalwart Swede, blue-eyed and yellow-haired. But the
fun of the position was that Axel Larson was one of my Cinderella's
'children,' so I could not resist introducing him formally to 'Froeken
Jensen.' His happy air of expectation was replaced by a scowl of
surprise and disgust.
"'What, thou, Ingeborg!' he cried.
"I could have knocked the man down. The familiar _tutoiement_, the
Christian name--these, perhaps, he had a right to use; but nothing
could justify the contempt of his tone. It reminded me disagreeably
of the ugliness I had nigh forgotten. I felt Ingeborg's arm tremble in
mine.
"'Yes, it is I, Herr Larson,' she said, with her wonted gentleness,
and almost apologetically. 'This gentleman was good enough to bring
me.' She spoke as if her presence needed explanation--with the
timidity of one shut out from the pleasures of life. I could feel
her poor little heart fluttering wildly, and knew that her face was
alternating from red to white beneath the mask.
"Axel Larson shot a swift glance of surprise at me, which was followed
by a more malicious bolt. 'I congratulate you, Ingeborg,' he said,
'on the property you seem to have come into.' It was a clever _double
entente_--the man was witty after his coarse fashion--but the sarcasm
scarcely stung either of us. I, of course, had none of the motives
the cad imagined; and as for Ingeborg, I fancy she thought he alluded
merely to the conquest of myself, and was only pained by the fear I
might resent so ludicrous a suggestion. Having thrown the shadow
of his cynicism over our innocent relation, Axel turned away highly
pleased with himself, rudely neglecting to ask Ingeborg for a dance. I
felt like giving him 'Hail Columbia,' but I restrained myself.
"Some days after this--in response to Ingeborg's grateful anxiety to
return my hospitality--I went to dine with her 'children.' I found
Axel occupying the seat of honour, and grumbling at the soup and the
sauces like a sort of autocrat of the dinner-table, and generally
making things unpleasant. I had to cling to my knife and fork so as
not to throw the water-bottle at his head. Ingeborg presided meekly
over the dishes, her ugliness more rampant than ever after the
illusion of the mask. I remembered now he had been disagreeable when I
had dined there before, though, not being interested in Ingeborg then,
I had not resented his ill-humour, contenting myself with remarking to
my friend that I understood now why the Danes disliked the Swedes so
much--a generalisation that was probably as unjust as most of one's
judgments of other peoples. After dinner I asked her why she tolerated
the fellow. She flushed painfully and murmured that times were hard.
I protested that she could easily get another boarder to replace him,
but she said Axel Larson had been there so long--nearly two years--and
was comfortable, and knew the ways of the house, and it would be very
discourteous to ask him to go. I insisted that rather than see
her suffer I would move into Larson's room myself, but she urged
tremulously that she didn't suffer at all from his rudeness, it was
only his surface-manner; it deceived strangers, but there was a good
heart underneath, as who could know better than she? Besides, he was
a genius with the brush, and everybody knew well that geniuses were
bears. And, finally, she could not afford to lose boarders--there were
already two vacancies.
"It ended--as I dare say you have guessed--by my filling up one of
those two vacancies, partly to help her pecuniarily, partly to act
as a buffer between her and the swaggering Swede. He was quite
flabbergasted by my installation in the house, and took me aside in
the _atelier_ and asked me if Ingeborg had really come into any money.
I was boiling over, but I kept the lid on by main force, and answered
curtly that Ingeborg had a heart of gold. He laughed boisterously,
and said one could not raise anything on that; adding, with an air of
authority, that he believed I spoke the truth, for it was not likely
the hag would have kept anything from her oldest boarder. 'I dare say
the real truth is,' he wound up, 'that you are hard up, like me, and
want to do the thing cheap.'
"'I wasn't aware you were hard up,' I said, for I had seen him often
enough flaunting it in the theatres and restaurants.
"'Not for luxuries,' he retorted with a guffaw, 'but for
necessities--yes. And there comes in the value of our domestic
eyesore. Why, I haven't paid her a _skilling_ for six months!'
"I thought of poor Ingeborg's thin winter attire, and would have liked
to reply with my fist, only the reply didn't seem quite logical. It
was not my business, after all; but I thought I understood now why
Ingeborg was so reluctant to part with him--it is the immemorial
fallacy of economical souls to throw good money after bad; though when
I saw the patience with which she bore his querulous complaints and
the solicitude with which she attended to his wants, I sometimes
imagined he had some secret hold over her. Often I saw her cower
and flush piteously, as with terror, before his insolent gaze. But I
decided finally his was merely the ascendency of the strong over
the weak--of the bully over his victims, who serve him more loyally
because he kicks them. The bad-tempered have the best of it in this
vile world. I cannot tell you how I grew to pity that poor girl.
Living in her daily presence, I marked the thousand and one trials
of which her life was made up, all borne with the same sweetness and
good-humour. I discovered that she had a bed-ridden mother, whom she
kept in the attic, and whom she stole up to attend to fifty times a
day, sitting with her when her work was done and the moonlight on the
Sound tempted one to be out enjoying one's youth. Alone she managed
and financed the entire establishment, aided only by a little
maid-of-all-work, just squeezing out a scanty living for herself
and her mother. If ever there was an angel on earth it was Ingeborg
Jensen. I tell you, when I see the angels of the Italian masters I
feel they are all wrong: I don't want flaxen-haired cherubs to give
me an idea of heaven in this hell of a world. I just want to see good
honest faces, full of suffering and sacrifice, and if ever I paint an
angel its phiz shall have the unflinching ugliness of Ingeborg Jensen,
God bless her! To be near her was to live in an atmosphere of purity
and pity and tenderness, and everything that is sweet and sacred."
As he spoke I became suddenly aware that the gas-lights were paling,
and glancing towards the window on my left I saw the splendour of the
sunrise breaking fresh and clear over the city of diabolical night,
where in the sombre eastern sky--
"God made himself an awful rose of dawn."
A breath of coolness and purity seemed to waft into the feverish
ball-room; a ray of fresh morning sunlight. I looked curiously at the
young artist. He seemed transfigured. I could scarcely realise that
an hour ago he had been among the rowdiest of the _Comus_ crew, whose
shrieks and laughter still rang all around us. Even his duplex costume
seemed to have grown subtly symbolical, the diabolical part typical
of all that is bestial and selfish in man, the death-mask speaking
silently of renunciation and the peace of the tomb. He went on, after
a moment of emotion: "They say that pity is akin to love, but I am not
sure that I ever loved her, for I suppose that love involves passion,
and I never arrived at that. I only came to feel that I wanted to be
with her always, to guard her, to protect her, to work for her, to
suffer for her if need be, to give her life something of the joy and
sweetness that God owed her. I felt I wasn't much use in the world,
and that would be something to do. And so one day--though not without
much mental tossing, for we are curiously, complexly built, and I
dreaded ridicule and the long years of comment from unsympathetic
strangers--I asked her to be my wife. Her surprise, her agitation, was
painful to witness. But she was not incredulous, as before; she had
learned to know that I respected her.
"Nevertheless, her immediate impulse was one of refusal.
"'It cannot be,' she said, and her bosom heaved spasmodically.
"I protested that it could and would be, but she shook her head.
"'You are very kind to me! God bless you!' she said. 'You have always
been kind to me. But you do not love me.'
"I assured her I did, and in that moment I dare say I spoke the truth.
For in that moment of her reluctance and diffidence to snatch at
proffered joy, when the suggestion of rejection made her appear doubly
precious, she seemed to me the most adorable creature in the world.
"But still she shook her head. 'No one can love me,' she said sadly.
"I took her hand in mute protestation, but she withdrew it gently.
"'I cannot be your wife,' she persisted.
"'Why not, Ingeborg?' I asked passionately.
"She hesitated, panting and colouring painfully, then--the words are
echoing in my brain--she answered softly, '_Jeg kan ikke elske Dem_'
(I cannot love you).
"It was like a shaft of lightning piercing me, rending and
illuminating. In my blind conceit the obverse side of the question had
never presented itself to me. I had taken it for granted I had only to
ask to be jumped at. But now, in one great flash of insight, I seemed
to see everything plain.
"'You love Axel Larson!' I cried chokingly, as I thought of all the
insults he had heaped upon her in her presence, all the sneers and
vile jocosities of which she had been the butt behind her back,
in return for the care she had lavished upon his comfort, for her
pinching to make both ends meet without the money he should have
contributed.
"She did not reply. The tears came into her eyes, she let her head
droop on her heaving breast. As in those visions that are said to
come to the dying, I saw Axel Larson feeding day by day at her board,
brutally conscious of her passion, yet not deigning even to sacrifice
her to it; I saw him ultimately leave the schools and the town to
carry his clever brush to the welcome of a wider world, without a word
or a thought of thanks for the creature who had worshipped and waited
upon him hand and foot; and then I saw her life from day to day unroll
its long monotonous folds, all in the same pattern, all drab duty and
joyless sacrifice, and hopeless undying love.
"I took her hand again in a passion of pity. She understood my
sympathy, and the hot tears started from her eyes and rolled down her
poor wan cheeks. And in that holy moment I saw into the inner heaven
of woman's love, which purifies and atones for the world. The eternal
feminine!"
The sentimental young artist ceased, and buried his devil's face in
his hands. I looked around and started. We were alone in the abandoned
supper-room. The gorgeously grotesque company was seated in a gigantic
circle upon the ball-room floor furiously applauding the efforts of
two sweetly pretty girls who were performing the celebrated _danse du
ventre_.
"The eternal feminine!" I echoed pensively.
* * * * *