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.”

“Meetings?—I saw the view and knew I could make a good picture of it—and

so I have.”

“Yes, yes, you have. The fault, no doubt, is mostly father’s. Oh, the way

he speaks of her.” Helge fumed. “You heard what he had said to Aagot—and

what he said to you tonight. ‘She’”—imitating his father—“does not say

anything to you! Remember it is our mother he speaks of like that.”

“I think your father is much more considerate and courteous to your

mother than she is to him.”

“That consideration of father’s—I know it. Do you call it considerate

the way he has won you over to his side? And his politeness—if you knew

how I have suffered under it as a child, and since. He used to stand and

listen very politely without saying a word, and if he spoke, it was in an

icy cold, extremely civil manner. I almost prefer mother’s loud anger and

scoldings. Oh, Jenny, it is all so miserable.”

“My poor, darling boy.”

“It is not all mother’s fault. Everybody prefers father. You do—quite

naturally—I do myself, but I understand her being as she is. She wants to

be first with everybody, and she never is. Poor mother.”

“I am sorry for her,” said Jenny, but her heart remained cold to Mrs.

Gram. The air was heavy with scent from leaf and blossom as they went

through the square. On the seats under the trees there was whispering and

murmuring in the clear summer night.

Their solitary steps echoed on the pavement of the deserted business

quarter where the tall buildings slept—the pale blue sky was reflected in

the shop windows.

“May I come up?” he whispered as they stood at her entrance.

“I am tired,” said Jenny softly.

“I should like to stay a while with you—don’t you think it would be nice

to be by ourselves a little?”

She said nothing, but began to walk up the stairs, and he followed.

Jenny lighted the seven-armed candlestick on her writing-table, took a

cigarette, and held it to the flame: “Will you smoke?”

“Thanks.” He took the cigarette from her lips.

“The thing is, you see,” he said suddenly, “that there was once some

story about father and another woman. I was twelve then, and I don’t know

exactly how much truth there was in it. But mother!... it was a dreadful

time. It was only because of us that they remained together—father told

me so himself. God knows, I don’t thank him for it! Mother is honest at

least, and admits that she means to hold on to him by hook or by crook

and not let go.”

He sat down on the sofa. Jenny went and sat beside him, kissing his eyes.

He sank on his knees and laid his head in her lap.

“Do you remember the last evening in Rome, when I said good-night? Do you

still love me as you did then?”

She did not answer.

“Jenny?”

“We have not been happy together today—it’s the first time.”

He lifted his head: “Are you vexed with me?” he said in a low voice.

“No, not vexed.”

“What, then?”

“Nothing—only....”

“Only what?”

“Tonight”—she hesitated—“when we walked here, you said we would go

somewhere alone—some other day. It was not as it was in Rome; now it is

you who decide what I must do and not do.”

“Oh no, Jenny.”

“Yes—but I don’t mind; I like it so. I only think that, if such is the

case, you ought to help me out of all this trouble.”

“You don’t think I did help you today?” he asked slowly.

“Ye—s. Well, I suppose there was nothing you could do.”

“Shall I go now?” he whispered after a pause, drawing her close to him.

“Do as you wish,” she said quietly.

“You know what I wish. What do you wish—most?”

“I don’t know what I want.” She burst into tears.

“Oh, Jenny darling.” He kissed her softly time after time. When she

recovered herself he took her hand: “I am going now. Sleep well, dear;

you are tired. You must not be cross with me.”

“Say good-night nicely to me,” she said, clinging to him.

“Good-night, my sweet, beloved Jenny.” He left, and she fell to crying

again.