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.
[138]
“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.”
[139]
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[140] 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[141] 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!”
[142]
“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.
