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.