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,[143] 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.”[144] 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[145] 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[146] 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[147] 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&mdas............