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.