VI

Helge Gram liked his lodgings by the Ripetta. It seemed easy to do good

work at the little table by the window that looked out on the yard with

washing and flower-pots on the balconies. The people opposite had two

children—a boy and a girl about six and seven. When they came out on

their balcony they nodded and waved to him, and he waved back. Lately he

had taken to greeting their mother too, and his nodding acquaintance with

these people made him feel more at home in the place. Cesca’s vase stood

in front of him; he kept it always filled with fresh flowers. Signora

Papi was quick at understanding his Italian. It was because she had had

Danish lodgers, Cesca said—Danes can never learn foreign languages.

Whenever some errand brought the signora to his room she always stayed a

long while chatting by the door. Mostly about his cousin, “_che bella_,”

said Signora Papi. Once Miss Jahrman had paid him a visit alone and once

she came with Miss Winge, each time to invite him to tea. When Signora

Papi at last discovered that she prevented him from working, she broke

off the conversation and left. Helge leaned back in his chair, resting

his neck on his folded hands. He thought of his room at home, beside the

kitchen, where he could hear his mother and sister talking about him,

being anxious about him or disapproving of him. He heard every word, as

probably they meant him to do. Every day out here was a precious gift. He

had peace at last and could work, work.

He spent the afternoons in libraries and museums. As often as he could do

so without inflicting his company too much upon them, he went to late tea

with the two girl artists at Via Vantaggio. As a rule they were both in;

sometimes there were other visitors. Heggen and Ahlin were nearly always

there. Twice he found Miss Winge alone, and once Francesca. They were

always in Jenny’s room, which was cosy and warm, although the windows

stood wide open until the last rays of light had faded. The stove glowed

and sparkled, and the kettle on the spirit-lamp was singing. He knew

every article in the room now—the drawings and photographs on the walls,

the flower vases, the blue tea-set, the bookshelf by the bed, and the

easel with Francesca’s portrait. The room was always a little untidy; the

table by the window was littered with tubes and paint-boxes, sketch-books

and sheets of drawing-paper; Jenny kicked brushes and painting rags under

it as she was laying the tea. There was often a litter of needlework or

half-darned stockings on the sofa to be put away before sitting down to

butter the biscuits. A spirit-lamp and toilet trifles were frequently

left lying about and had to be removed.

While these preparations were going on, Gram would sit by the stove and

talk to Francesca, but sometimes Cesca would take it into her head to

be domesticated and let Jenny be lazy. Jenny begged to be spared, but

Cesca hustled about like a whirlwind, putting all the stray articles

where Jenny could not find them afterwards, and ended up by putting

drawing-pins into pictures that would not hang straight, or curled

themselves on the wall, using her shoe as a hammer.

Gram could not understand Miss Jahrman at all. She was always nice and

friendly to him, but never as intimate and confidential as on the day

they had walked to Ponte Molle. Sometimes she was strangely absent; she

seemed not to grasp what he said, although she answered kindly enough.

Once or twice he thought he bored her. If he asked how she was, she

hardly answered, and when he mentioned her picture with the cypresses she

said sweetly: “You must not be offended, Mr. Gram, but I don’t care to

speak of my work before it is finished. Not now anyway.”

He noticed that Ahlin did not like him, and this egged him on. The

Swede, then, considered him a rival? He was under the impression that

Francesca had of late been less friendly with Ahlin.

When he was by himself Helge turned over in his mind what he was going

to say to Francesca—in his imagination he held long conversations with

her. He longed for a talk like the one they had that day at Ponte Molle;

he wanted to tell her all about himself, but when he saw her he felt

nervous and awkward. He did not know how to lead the conversation on to

what he wanted to say, and he was afraid of being pressing or tactless;

afraid to do anything that made her like him less. She noticed his

embarrassment, and came to the rescue with chatter and laughter, and

made it easy for him to joke and laugh with her. He was grateful for

the moment; she filled the pauses with small talk and helped him along

when he made a start, but when he came home and thought it all over, he

was disappointed. Their conversation had again been about all sorts of

amusing trifles, nothing more.

When he was alone with Jenny Winge they always talked seriously—about

solid things, so to speak. Sometimes he was slightly bored with these

discussions on abstract matters, but more often he liked to talk to her,

because the conversation frequently turned from general matters to things

concerning himself. Gradually he got into the way of telling her a great

deal about himself—about his work, the difficulties he encountered in

life and those in himself. He noticed that Jenny avoided talking about

Francesca Jahrman with him, but not that she scarcely ever talked about

herself.

It did not occur to him that the reason why he could not talk to

Francesca as he talked to Jenny was that he wanted to appear far more

important, confident, and strong to her than he really believed himself

to be.

On Christmas Eve they all went to the club, and afterwards to the

midnight mass at S. Luigi de Franchesi. Helge found it very impressive.

The church was in semi-darkness, in spite of the lighted chandeliers;

they hung so high that their blaze of light was lost. The altar was one

solitary wall of light from the flashing golden flames of hundreds of

wax candles, and the subdued sound of the organ and the singing of the

choir floated through the church. He sat beside a lovely young Italian

woman, who took a rosary of lapis lazuli from a velvet case and prayed

fervently. Gradually Francesca began to mutter more and more audibly. She

was sitting beside Jenny in front of him.

“Let’s go, Jenny. You don’t think this gives you any sort of real

Christmas feeling, do you? It’s like an ordinary concert, and a bad one

at that. Listen to that man singing now—absolutely no expression. His

voice is absolutely done. Ugh!”

“Hush, Cesca! Remember you are in church.”

“Church! It’s a concert, I tell you—didn’t we have to get tickets and a

program? I can’t stand it. I shall lose my temper soon.”

“We’ll go after this if you like, but do keep quiet while we are here.”

“New Year’s night last year was quite different,” said Francesca. “I went

to Gesu. They had the Te Deum; it was very beautiful. I knelt beside an

old peasant from the Campagna and a young girl; she looked ill—but oh, so

pretty! Everybody sang; the old man knew the whole Te Deum by heart. It

was very solemn.”

As they made their way slowly down the crowded aisle, the Ave Maria

sounded through the church.

“Ave Maria.” Francesca sniffed. “Can’t you hear how indifferent she is to

what she sings—exactly like a gramophone? I cannot bear to hear that kind

of music ill-treated.”

“Ave Maria,” said a Dane walking beside her—“I remember how beautifully

it was sung by a young Norwegian lady—a Miss Eck.”

“Berit Eck. Do you know her, Mr. Hjerrild?”

“She was in Copenhagen two years ago studying under Ellen Beck. I knew

her quite well. Do you know her?”

“My sister knew her,” said Francesca. “I think you met my sister Borghild

in Berlin. Do you like Miss Eck—or Mrs. Hermann as she is now?”

“She was a very nice girl—and good-looking. Extraordinarily gifted, too,

I think.”

Francesca and Hjerrild lagged behind.

Heggen, Ahlin, and Gram were to accompany the ladies home and have

supper. Francesca had got a big parcel from home, and the table was laid

with Norwegian Christmas fare, decorated with daisies from the Campagna

and candles in seven-branched candlesticks.

Francesca came in last and brought the Dane with her.

“Wasn’t it nice, Jenny, of Mr. Hjerrild to come too?”

There were butter and cheese, cold game and brawn and ham on the table,

as well as drinks for the men. Francesca sat by Hjerrild, and when the

conversation became more animated and general she turned to speak to him.

“Do you know the pianist, Mr. Hermann, who married Miss Eck?”

“Yes; I know him very well. I lived at the same boarding-house with him

in Copenhagen, and I saw him in Berlin on my way here.”

“What do you think of him?”

“He is a handsome fellow, tremendously talented. He gave me some of his

latest compositions—very original, I call them. I like him very much.”

“Have you got them here? May I have a look at them? I should like to try

them on the piano at the club. I knew him years ago,” said Francesca.

“Oh yes. I remember now, he has a photo of you. He would not say who it

was.”

Heggen’s attention was drawn to their conversation.

“Yes,” said Francesca inaudibly; “I think I gave him a photo once.”

“All the same, he is too much of a bully for me,” said Hjerrild,

“unpardonably rude, but perhaps that is why he is irresistible to women.

Rather too plebeian for my taste.”

“That was exactly what ...”—she searched for the right words—“what I

admired in him was that he had made his way from the bottom of the ladder

to where he now stands—such a struggle must necessarily make one brutal,

it seems to me. Don’t you think that a great deal—almost anything—can be

excused from that point of view?”

“Nonsense, Cesca,” said Heggen suddenly. “Hans Hermann was discovered

when he was thirteen, and has been helped along ever since.”

“Yes, but to have to accept help always, to have to thank other people

for everything and always be afraid of being ignored, neglected, reminded

of being—as Hjerrild just said—of plebeian origin.”

“I might say the same about myself—the last, I mean.”

“No, you cannot, Gunnar. I’m sure you have always been superior to your

surroundings. When you came among people of higher social standing

than the one you were born to, you were superior even there. You were

cleverer; you had greater knowledge and a finer mind. You could always

feel strong in the consciousness of having done it all yourself. You were

never obliged to thank people that you knew looked down upon you because

of your low birth, who snobbishly supported a talent which they did not

understand, and who were inferior, though believing they stood above you.

You did not have to thank people you could not feel grateful to. No,

Gunnar, you cannot speak of the feelings of a man of the people, because

you have never had them—you don’t know what they are.”

“A man who accepts the kind of help you speak of from people he cannot be

grateful to is decidedly a plebeian, it seems to me.”

“Oh, but can’t you understand that one does such a thing when one knows

one has talent—perhaps genius—that craves to be developed? It seems to me

that you, who call yourself a democrat, should not speak like that about

lower-class individuals.”

“A man who respects his talent does not want to see it prostituted. As to

being a democrat—social democracy is the craving for justice, and justice

claims that men of his type should be subjugated, pressed down to the

very bottom of the community, chained and forgotten. The real, legitimate

lower class _must_ be thoroughly subdued.”

“A most peculiar socialism,” laughed Hjerrild.

“There is no other for grown-up people. I don’t take into account those

blue-eyed, childish souls who believe that everybody is good and that

all evil is the fault of the community. If every one were good, the

community would be a paradise, but the vulgar souls spoil it. You find

them in every grade of life. If they are masters, they are cruel and

brutal; if they are servants, they are servile and cringing—and stupid. I

have found them among the socialists too, for that matter—well, Hermann

calls himself a socialist. If they find hands stretched out to lift them

up, they grasp them—and stamp on them afterwards. If they see a troop

marching past, they join it to get part of the booty, but loyalty and

fellowship they have none. They laugh secretly at the aim, the ideal, and

they hate justice, for they know that if it were to prevail they would

come off badly.

“All those who are afraid of justice I call legitimately lower-class,

and they should be fought without mercy. If they have any power with the

poor and weak, they frighten and tyrannize them till they too become the

same. If they are poor and weak themselves, they give up the struggle,

and make their way by begging and flattering—or plundering if they have

an opportunity.

“No, the ideal is a community governed by upper-class individuals, for

they never fight for themselves; they know their own endless resources,

and they give with open hands to those who are poorer. They endeavour

to bring light and air to every possibility for good and beauty in the

inferior souls—those who are neither this nor that; good when they can

afford it, bad when the proletariat forces them to be so. The power

should be in the hands of those who feel the responsibility for every

good impulse that is killed.”

“You are wrong about Hans Hermann,” said Cesca quietly. “It was not for

his own sake alone that he rebelled against social injustice. He, too,

spoke of the good impulses that were wasted. When we walked about in the

east end and saw the pale little children, he said he would like to set

fire to the ugly, sad, crowded barracks where they lived.”

“Mere talk. If the rent had been paid to him....”

“For shame, Gunnar!” said Cesca impetuously.

“All the same he would not have been a socialist if he had been born

rich—but still a true proletarian.”

“Are you sure you would have been a socialist yourself,” said Cesca, “if

you had been born a count, for instance?”

“Mr. Heggen _is_ a count,” said Hjerrild, laughing, “of many airy

castles.”

Heggen sat silent for a minute. “I have never felt I was born poor,” he

said, speaking as if to himself.

“As to Hermann’s love for children,” said Hjerrild, “there was not

much of it for his own child. And the way he treated his wife was

disgraceful. He begged and pleaded till he got her, but when she was

going to have the baby, she had to beg and implore him to marry her.”

“Have they got a little boy?” whispered Francesca.

“Yes; he arrived after they had been married six weeks, just the day I

left Berlin. When they had been married a month Hermann left her and went

to Dresden. I don’t see why they did not marry before, as they had agreed

to divorce anyhow. She wanted it.”

“How disgraceful,” said Jenny, who had been listening to the

conversation. “To marry with the intention to divorce!”

“Well,” said Hjerrild, smiling. “When people know each other in and out,

and know they cannot get on, what else is there to do?”

“Not marry at all, of course.”

“Naturally. Free love is much better, but she had to marry. She is going

to give concerts in Christiania in the autumn and try to get pupils. She

could not do it, having the child, unless she had been married.”

“Perhaps not, but it is hateful all the same. I have no sympathy with

free love, if it means that people should take up with each other

although they presume they will tire of one another. It seems to me

that even to break an ordinary platonic engagement is a slight stain on

the one who breaks it. But if one has been unfortunate enough to make a

mistake, and then goes through the marriage ceremony for the sake of what

people say, it is a blasphemy to stand there and make a promise that one

has agreed beforehand not to keep.”

By dawn the visitors left. Heggen stayed a second after the others had

gone. Jenny opened the balcony doors to let out the smoke. The sky was

grey, with a pale, reddish light appearing above the housetops. Heggen

went up to her:

“Thanks so much. We’ve had a pleasant Christmas. What are you thinking

of?”

“That it is Christmas morning. I wonder if they got my parcel at home in

time.”

“I daresay they did. You sent it on the eleventh, didn’t you?”

“I did. It was always so nice on Christmas morning to go in and look at

the tree and the presents in daylight—but I was young then,” she added,

smiling. “They say there’s been lots of snow this winter. I suppose the

children are tobogganing in the mountains today.”

“Yes, probably,” said Heggen. “You are getting cold. Good-night, and

thanks again.”

“Good-night, and a happy Christmas to you, Gunnar.”

They shook hands. She stayed by the window a little while after he had

gone.