DUKE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
JENNY 
 
THE BORZ O I-GYLDEN DAL BOOKS 
 
 HE firm of Gyldendal [Gyldendalske 
 
 Boghandel Nordisk Forlag] is the old- 
 
 est and greatest publishing house in 
 Scandinavia, and has been responsible, since its 
 inception in 1770, for giving to the world some 
 of the greatest Danish and Norwegian writers 
 of three centuries. Among them are such 
 names as Ibsen, Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson, Pon- 
 toppidan, Brandes, Gjellerup, Hans Christian 
 Andersen, and Knut Hamsun, the Nobel Prize 
 winner for 1920, whose works I am publishing 
 in America. 
 
 It is therefore with particular satisfaction 
 that I announce the completion of arrange- 
 ments whereby I shall bring out in this country 
 certain of the publications of this famous 
 house. The books listed below are the first of 
 the Borzoi-Gyldendal books. 
 
 A Tale of the Early Days of Iceland. 
 Translated from the Danish of Gun- 
 nar Gunnarsson [Icelandic] by C. 
 Field and W. Emmé. 
 
 Grim: the Story of a Pike 
 
 Translated from the Danish of 
 Svend Fleuron by Jessie Muir and 
 W. Emmé. 
 
 Illustrated in black and white by 
 Dorothy P. Lathrop. 
 
 The Sworn Brothers 
 
 ALFRED A. KNOPF, Publisher, NEW YORK 
 
J E 
 
 Y 
 
 N N 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM 
 THE NORWEGIAN OF 
 
 SIGRID UNDSET 
 
 BY W. EMMÉ 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 ALFRED • A • KNOPF 
 
 1921 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY 
 ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc. 
 
 839 . 8 % 3 % 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 

 
 
 PART ONE 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 https://archive.org/details/jenny01unds 
 
I 
 
 A S Helge Gram turned the comer into Via Condotti 
 in the dusk a military band came down the street 
 playing “ The Merry Widow ” in such a crazy, whirl- 
 ing time that it sounded like wild bugle calls. The small, dark 
 soldiers rushed past in the cold afternoon, more like a Roman 
 cohort intent on attacking barbarian hosts than peaceful men 
 returning to their barracks for supper. That was perhaps the 
 cause of their haste, Helge thought, smiling to himself, for as 
 he stood there watching them, his coat-collar turned up for the 
 cold, a peculiar atmosphere of history had pervaded him — but 
 suddenly he found himself humming the same tune, and con- 
 tinued his way in the direction where he knew the Corso lay. 
 
 He stopped at the corner and looked. So that was the 
 Corso — an endless stream of carriages in a crowded street, 
 and a surging throng of people on a narrow pavement. 
 
 He stood still, watching the stream run past him, and smiled 
 at the thought that he could drift along this street every even- 
 ing in the dusk among the crowds, until it became as familiar 
 to him as the best-known thoroughfare of his own city — Chris- 
 tiania. He was suddenly seized with the wish to walk and 
 walk — now and all night maybe — through all the streets of 
 Rome, for he thought of the town as it had appeared to him 
 a while ago when he was looking down on it from Pincio, while 
 the sun was setting. 
 
 Clouds all over the western sky, close together like small pale 
 grey lambkins, and as the sun sank behind him it painted their 
 linings a glorious amber. Beneath the pale skies lay the city, 
 and Helge understood that this was the real Rome — not the 
 
 9 
 
 a r q /? 9 
 G o C ■& & 
 
10 JENNY 
 
 Rome of his imagination and his dreams, but Rome as she 
 actually was. 
 
 Everything else he had seen on his journey had disappointed 
 him, for it was not what he had imagined at home when he had 
 been longing to go abroad and see it all. One sight at last 
 was far beyond his dreams, and that was Rome. 
 
 A plain of housetops lay beneath him in the valley, the roofs 
 of houses new and old, of houses high and low — it looked as 
 if they had been built anywhere and at any time, and of a size 
 to suit the need of the moment. In a few places only a space 
 could be seen between the mass of housetops, as of streets. All 
 this world of reckless lines, crossing each other in a thousand 
 hard angles, was lying inert and quiet under the pale skies, 
 while the setting sun touched the borders of the clouds with a 
 tinge of light. It was dreaming under a thin veil of w r hite mist, 
 which no busy pillar of smoke dared penetrate, for no factory 
 chimney could be seen, and no smoke came from a single one of 
 the funny little chimney pipes protruding from the houses. The 
 round, old, rust-brown tiles were covered by greyish moss, grass 
 and small plants with yellow blossoms grew in the gutters; 
 along the border of the terraces the aloes stood immovably still 
 in their tubs, and creepers hung in dead cascades from the 
 cornices. Here and there the upper part of a high house rose 
 above its neighbour, its dark, hollow windows staring at one 
 out of a grey or reddish-yellow wall, or sleeping behind closed 
 shutters. Loggias stood out of the mist, looking like parts of 
 an old watchtower, and small summer-houses of wood or cor- 
 rugated iron were erected on the roofs. 
 
 Above it all masses of church cupolas were floating — the 
 huge, grey one, far on the other side of what Helge supposed 
 to be the river, was that of St. Peter. 
 
 Beyond the valley, where the roofs covered the silent city — 
 it well deserved the epithet “ eternal ” tonight — a low hill 
 stretched its longish back toward the skies, carrying on the 
 
JENNY 
 
 li 
 
 far-away ridge an avenue of pines, the foliage of which formed 
 one large mass above the row of slender trunks. And behind 
 the dome of St. Peter the eye was arrested by another hill with 
 villas, built among pines and cypresses. Probably Monte 
 Mario. 
 
 The dark leaves of the holly formed a roof over his head, 
 and behind him a fountain made a curiously living sound as 
 the water splashed against the stone border, before flowing into 
 the basin beneath it. 
 
 Helge whispered to the city of his dreams, whose streets his 
 feet had not yet touched, whose houses did not harbour one 
 single soul he knew: “Rome — Rome — eternal Rome.” He 
 
 was suddenly struck by his own loneliness and startled at his 
 emotion, though he knew that there was nobody to witness it, 
 and, turning round, he hurried down the Spanish stairs. 
 
 And now when he stood at the corner of Condotti and Corso 
 he experienced a quaint and yet pleasant anxiety at the thought 
 of mixing with those hustling crowds and finding his way in the 
 strange city — to wander through it as far as Piazza San Pietro. 
 
 As he was crossing the street two young girls passed him. 
 They looked like Norwegians, he thought, with a slight thrill 
 of pleasure. One of them was very fair and wore light-col- 
 oured furs. 
 
 It was a joy to him even to read the names of the streets 
 carved in clear, Latin type on white marble slabs set in the 
 corners of the houses. 
 
 The street he took ran into an open space near a bridge, on 
 which two rows of lanterns burned with a sickly, greenish flame 
 in the pale light pouring down from the restless sky. A low 
 parapet of stone ran along the waterline, bordered by a row 
 of trees with faded leaves and trunks, dropping their bark in 
 big white flakes. On the opposite side of the river the street 
 lamps were burning among the trees, and the houses stood out 
 black against the sky, but on this side the twilight still flickered 
 
12 
 
 JENNY 
 
 on the window-panes. The sky was almost clear now, and 
 hung transparent and greenish blue over the hill with the pine 
 avenue, with here and there a few reddish, threatening, slowly 
 moving clouds. 
 
 He stopped on the bridge and looked down into the Tiber. 
 How dull the water was! It flowed on rapidly, reflecting the 
 colours of the evening skies, sweeping twigs and gravel and bits 
 of wood on its way between the stone walls. A small 
 staircase on the side of the bridge led down to the water’s edge. 
 Helge thought how easy it would be to walk down the steps one 
 night, when one was tired of everything — had any ever done 
 so? he wondered. 
 
 He asked a policeman the way to St. Peter’s cathedral in 
 German; the man answered him first in French and then Italian, 
 and when Helge repeatedly shook his head, he spoke French 
 again, pointing up the river. Helge turned in that direction. 
 
 A huge, dark stone erection stood out against the sky, a low, 
 round tower with a jagged crest and the jet-black silhouette of 
 an angel on top. He recognized the lines of the San Angelo 
 fort, and went close up to it. It was still light enough for the 
 statues by the bridge to show up yellow in the twilight, the red 
 skies were still mirrored in the flowing waters of the Tiber, but 
 the street lamps had gained power, and threw out paths of light 
 across the river. Beyond the San Angelo bridge the electric 
 tramcars with illuminated windows rolled over the new iron 
 bridge, throwing white sparks from the connecting wires. 
 
 Helge took off his hat to a man: 
 
 “ San Pietro, favorisca? ” 
 
 The man pointed with his finger and said something Helge 
 did not understand. He turned into a dark and narrow street 
 which, with a sensation of joy, he almost thought he recognized, 
 for it was exactly like the Italian street of his imagination : shop 
 after shop full of curios. He gazed into the poorly lit windows. 
 Most of the things were rubbish — those dirty strips of coarse 
 
JENNY 
 
 13 
 
 white lace hanging on a string were surely not Italian handi- 
 work. There were bits of pottery exhibited in dusty box-lids 
 and small bronze figures of a poisonous green, old and new 
 brass candlesticks and brooches with heaps of stones that looked 
 far from genuine. Yet he was seized by a senseless wish to go 
 in and buy something — to inquire, to bargain, and to purchase. 
 Almost before he knew it, he had entered a small, stuffy shop 
 filled with all sorts of things. There were church-lamps hang- 
 ing from the ceiling, bits of silk with gold flowers on red and 
 green and white ground, and broken pieces of furniture. 
 
 Behind the counter a youth with a dark complexion and a 
 bluish, unshaven chin was reading. He talked and asked ques- 
 tions while Helge pointed at various articles, “ Quanto ? ” The 
 only thing he understood was that the prices were excessive, but 
 one ought not to buy until one knew the language well enough 
 to bargain with them. 
 
 Several pieces of china were standing on a shelf, rococo fig- 
 ures and vases with sprays of roses, which looked quite modem. 
 Helge seized one at random and placed it on the counter: 
 “ Quanto? ” 
 
 “ Sette,” said the youth, and spread out seven fingers. 
 
 “ Quattro,” said Helge, holding out four fingers in a new 
 brown glove, and felt quite pleased with himself at this leap 
 into the foreign language. He did not understand one word of 
 the man’s arguments, but each time he finished talking Helge 
 raised his four fingers and repeated his quattro, adding with a 
 superior air: “ Non antica! ” 
 
 But the shopkeeper protested, “ Si, antica” “ Quattro,” said 
 Helge again — the man had now only five fingers in the air — 
 and turned towards the door. The man called him back, ac- 
 cepting, and Helge, feeling highly pleased with himself, went 
 out with his purchase wrapped up in pink tissue paper. 
 
 He perceived the dark mass of the church at the bottom of 
 the street outlined against the sky, and walked on. He hurried 
 
JENNY 
 
 H 
 
 across the first part of the piazza with its lighted shop windows 
 and passing trams towards the two semicircular arcades, which 
 laid a pair of rounded arms, as it were, about one part of the 
 place, drawing it into the quiet and darkness of the massive 
 church, with its broad steps extending in a shell-like formation 
 far out on the piazza. 
 
 The dome of the church and the row of saints along the roof 
 of the arcades stood out black against the faint light of the 
 sky; the trees and houses on the hill at the back seemed to be 
 heaped one on top of the other in an irregular fashion. The 
 street lamps were powerless here, the darkness streamed forth 
 between the pillars, and spread over the steps from the open 
 portico of the church. He went slowly up the steps close to 
 the church and looked through the iron doors. Then he went 
 back again to the obelisk in the middle of the piazza and stood 
 there gazing at the dark building. He bent his head back, and 
 followed with his eyes the slender needle of stone that pointed 
 straight into the evening sky, where the last clouds had de- 
 scended on the roofs of that part of the town whence he had 
 come, and the first radiant sparks of the stars pierced the gath- 
 ering darkness. 
 
 Again his ears caught the sound of water emptying into a 
 stone cistern, and the soft ripple of the overflow from one re- 
 ceptacle into another into the basin. He approached one of the 
 fountains and watched the thick, white jet, driven upwards as 
 it were in angry defiance and looking black against the clear 
 atmosphere, to break high in the air and sink back into the 
 darkness, where the water gleamed white again. He kept star- 
 ing at it until a gust of wind took hold of the jet and bent it 
 towards him, raining icy drops on his face, but he remained 
 where he was, listening and staring. Then he walked a few 
 steps — stood still — and walked again, but very slowly, listen- 
 ing to an inner voice. It was true, then — really true — that 
 he was here, far, far away from everything he had longed so 
 
JENNY 15 
 
 intensely to leave. And he walked still more slowly, furtively, 
 like one who has escaped from prison. 
 
 At the comer of the street there was a restaurant. He made 
 for it, and on his way found a tobacco shop, where he bought 
 some cigarettes, picture cards and stamps. Waiting for his 
 steak, he drank big gulps of claret, while he wrote to his par- 
 ents; to his father: “ I have been thinking of you very often 
 
 today” — it was true enough — and to his mother: “ I have 
 
 already got a small present for you, the first thing I bought 
 here in Rome.” Poor mother — how was she? He had often 
 been impatient with her these last years. He unpacked the 
 thing and had a look at it — it was probably meant for a scent- 
 bottle. He added a few words to his mother’s card that he 
 managed the language all right, and that to bargain in the 
 shops was an easy matter. 
 
 The food was good, but dear. Never mind, once he was more 
 at home here he would soon leam how to live cheaply. Satis- 
 fied and exhilarated by the wine, he started to walk in a new 
 direction, past long, low, dilapidated houses, through an arch- 
 way on to a bridge. A man in a barrier hut stopped him and 
 made him understand that he had to pay a soldo. On the other 
 side of the bridge was a large, dark church with a dome. 
 
 He got into a labyrinth of dark, narrow bits of streets — 
 in the mysterious gloom he surmised the existence of old palaces 
 with projecting cornices and lattice windows side by side with 
 miserable hovels, and small church-fronts in between the rows 
 of houses. There were no pavements and he stepped into re- 
 fuse that lay rotting in the gutter. Outside the narrow doors 
 of the lighted taverns and under the few street lamps he had a 
 vague glimpse of human forms. 
 
 He was half delighted, half afraid — boyishly excited, and 
 wondering at the same time how he was to get out of this maze 
 and find the way to his hotel at the ends of the earth — take a 
 cab, he supposed. 
 
i6 
 
 JENNY 
 
 He passed down another narrow, almost empty street. A 
 small strip of clear, blue sky was visible between the high 
 houses with their frameless windows, looking like black holes 
 cut in the wall. On the uneven stone bridge dust and straw and 
 bits of paper were tossed about by a light gust of wind. 
 
 Two women, walking behind him, passed him close under a 
 lamp. He gave a start : they were the ones he had noticed that 
 afternoon in the Corso and believed to be Norwegian. He rec- 
 ognized the light furs of the taller one. 
 
 Suddenly he felt an impulse to try an adventure — to ask 
 them the way, so as to hear if they were Norwegian — or Scan- 
 dinavian at any rate, for they were certainly foreigners. With 
 slightly beating heart he started to walk after them. 
 
 The two young girls stopped outside a shop, which was closed, 
 and then walked on. Helge wondered if he should say 
 “ Please ” or “ Bitte ” or “ Scusi ” — or if he should blurt out 
 at once “ Undskyld ” — it would be funny if they were Nor- 
 wegians. 
 
 The girls turned a corner; Helge was close upon them, screw- 
 ing up courage to address them. The smaller one turned round 
 angrily and said something in Italian in a low voice. He felt 
 disappointed and was going to vanish after an apology, when the 
 tall one said in Norwegian: “ You should not speak to them, 
 
 Cesca — it is much better to pretend not to notice.” 
 
 “ I cannot bear that cursed Italian rabble; they never will 
 leave a woman alone,” said the other. 
 
 “ I beg your pardon,” said Helge, and the two girls stopped, 
 turning round quickly. 
 
 “ I hope you will excuse me,” he muttered, colouring, and, 
 angrily conscious of it, blushed still deeper. “ I only arrived 
 from Florence today, and have lost my w T ay in these winding 
 streets. I thought you were Norwegian, or at any rate Scan- 
 dinavian, and I cannot manage the Italian language. Would 
 
JENNY 17 
 
 you be kind enough to tell me where to find a car? My name 
 is Gram,” he added, raising his hat again. 
 
 “ Where do you live? ” asked the taller girl. 
 
 “ At a place called the Albergo Torino, close to the station,” 
 he explained. 
 
 “ He should take the Trastevere tram at San Carlo ai Cat- 
 enari,” said the other. 
 
 “ No; better take a No. 1 at the new Corso.” 
 
 “ But those cars don’t go to the Termini,” answered the little 
 one. 
 
 “ Yes, they do. Those that have San Pietro, stazione Ter- 
 mini, written on them,” she explained to Helge. 
 
 “ Oh, that one ! It runs past Capo le Case and Ludovisi and 
 an awful long way about first — it will take an hour at least 
 to the station with that one.” 
 
 “No, dear; it goes direct — straight along Via Nazion- 
 ale.” 
 
 “It does not,” insisted the other; “it goes to the Lateran 
 first.” 
 
 The taller girl turned to Helge: “The first turning right 
 
 will take you into a sort of market. From there you go along 
 the Cancellaria on your left to the new Corso. If I remember 
 rightly, the tram stops at the Cancellaria — somewhere near it 
 anyway — you will see the sign. But be sure to take the tram 
 marked San Pietro, stazione Termini, No. 1.” 
 
 Helge stood somewhat crestfallen, listening to the foreign 
 names which the girls used with such easy familiarity, and, 
 shaking his head, said: “ I am afraid I shall never be able 
 
 to find it — perhaps I had better walk till I find a cab.” 
 
 “ We might go with you to the stop,” said the tall one. 
 
 The little one whispered peevishly something in Italian, but 
 the other answered her decisively. Helge felt still more con- 
 fused at these asides, which he did not understand. 
 
i8 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ Thank you, but please do not trouble. I am sure to find 
 my way home somehow or other.” 
 
 “ It is no trouble,” said the tall one, starting to walk; “ it is 
 on our way.” 
 
 “ It is very kind of you; I suppose it is rather difficult to find 
 one’s way about in Rome, is it not? ” he said, by way of con- 
 versation — “ especially when it is dark.” 
 
 “ Oh no, you will soon get into it.” 
 
 “ I only arrived here to-day. I came from Florence this 
 morning by train.” The smaller one said something in an un- 
 dertone in Italian. The tall one asked: “ Was it very cold in 
 
 Florence? ” 
 
 “ Yes, bitterly cold. It is milder here, is it not? I wrote 
 my mother anyway yesterday to send my winter coat.” 
 
 “ Well, it is cold enough here too sometimes. Did you like 
 Florence? How long were you there? ” 
 
 “ A fortnight. I think I shall like Rome better than Flor- 
 ence.” 
 
 The other young girl smiled — she had been muttering to her- 
 self in Italian all the time — but the tall one went on in her 
 pleasant, quiet voice : 
 
 “ I don’t believe there is any town one could love as much 
 as Rome.” 
 
 “ Is your friend Italian? ” asked Helge. 
 
 “No; Miss Jahrman is Norwegian. We speak Italian be- 
 cause I want to learn, and she is very good at it. My name is 
 Winge,” she added. “ That is the Cancellaria.” She pointed 
 towards a big, dark palace. 
 
 “ Is the courtyard as fine as it is reported to be? ” 
 
 “ Yes; it is very fine. I wall show you which car.” While 
 they stood waiting two men came across the street. 
 
 “ Hullo, you here! ” exclaimed one of them. 
 
 “ Good evening,” said the other. “ What luck! We can go 
 together. Have you been to look at the corals ? ” 
 
JENNY 
 
 19 
 
 “ It was closed,” said Miss Jahrman sulkily. 
 
 “ We have met a fellow-countryman, and promised to show 
 him the right tram,” Miss Winge explained, introducing: “ Mr. 
 
 Gram — Mr. Heggen, artist, and Mr. Ahlin, sculptor.” 
 
 “ I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Heggen — my name 
 is Gram; we met three years ago on the Mysusaeter.” 
 
 “ Oh yes — certainly. And so you are in Rome? ” 
 
 Ahlin and Miss Jahrman had stood talking to one another in 
 whispers. The girl came up to her friend and said: “ I am 
 
 going home, Jenny. I am not in the mood for Frascati to- 
 night.” 
 
 “ But, my dear, you suggested it yourself.” 
 
 “Well, not Frascati anyway — ugh! sit there and mope with 
 thirty old Danish ladies of every possible age and sex.” 
 
 “ We can go somewhere else. But there is your tram coming, 
 Mr. Gram.” 
 
 “ A thousand thanks for your help. Shall I see you again 
 — at the Scandinavian club, perhaps? ” 
 
 The tram stopped in front of them. Miss Winge said: “ I 
 
 don’t know — perhaps you would like to come with us now; 
 we were going to have a glass of wine somewhere, and hear 
 some music.” 
 
 “ Thank you.” Helge hesitated, looking round at the others 
 a little embarrassed. “ I should be very pleased, but ” — and, 
 turning with confidence to Miss Winge of the fair face and the 
 kind voice, he said, with an awkward smile, “ you all know one 
 another — perhaps you would rather not have a stranger with 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ Indeed no,” she said, smiling — “ it would be very nice — 
 and there — your tram’s gone now. You know Heggen already, 
 and now you know us. We’ll see you get home all right, so if 
 you are not tired, let us go.” 
 
 “ Tired, not a bit. I should love to come,” said Helge eag- 
 erly. 
 
20 
 
 JENNY 
 
 The other three began to propose different cafes. Helge knew 
 none of the names; his father had not mentioned them. Miss 
 Jahrman rejected them all. 
 
 “ Very well, then, let us go down to St. Agostino; you know 
 the one, Gunnar, where they give you that first-rate claret,” and 
 Jenny began to walk on, accompanied by Heggen. 
 
 “ There is no music,” retorted Miss Jahrman. 
 
 “ Oh yes, the man with a squint and the other fellow are 
 there almost every night. Don’t let us waste time.” 
 
 Helge followed with Miss Jahrman and the Swedish sculptor. 
 “ Have you been long in Rome, Mr. Gram? ” 
 
 “ No, I came this morning from Florence.” 
 
 Miss Jahrman laughed. Helge felt rather snubbed. He 
 ought perhaps to have said he was tired, and gone home. On 
 their way down through dark, narrow streets Miss Jahrman 
 talked all the time to the sculptor, and scarcely answered when 
 he tried to speak to her. But before he had made up his mind 
 he saw the other couple vanish through a narrow door down the 
 street. 
 
 II 
 
 ~^T THAT’S wrong with Cesca again tonight? We 
 % /\ / are getting too much of her tempers lately. T ake 
 ▼ Y off your coat, Jenny, or you’ll be cold when you 
 go out.” Heggen hung his coat and hat on a peg and sat down 
 on a rush chair. 
 
 “ She is not well, poor girl, and that man Gram, you see, 
 followed us a while before he dared to speak to us; and any- 
 thing of that kind always puts her out of temper; she has a 
 weak heart, you know.” 
 
 “ Sorry for her. The cheek of the man.” 
 
 “ Poor thing, he was wandering listlessly about and could not 
 
JENNY 21 
 
 find his way home. He doesn’t seem used to travelling. Did 
 you know him before? ” 
 
 “ Haven’t the slightest recollection of it. I may have met 
 him somewhere. Here they are.” 
 
 Ahlin took Miss Jahrman’s coat. 
 
 “By Jove!” said Heggen. “How smart you are tonight, 
 Cesca. Pretty as paint.” 
 
 She smiled, evidently pleased, and smoothed her hips; then, 
 taking Heggen by the shoulders: “Move out, please, I want 
 
 to sit by Jenny.” 
 
 How pretty she is, thought Helge. Her dress was a brilliant 
 green, the skirt so high-waisted that the rounded breasts rose 
 as out of a cup. There was a golden sheen in the folds of the 
 velvet, and the bodice was cut low round the pale, full throat. 
 She was very dark; small, jet-black curls fell from under the 
 brown bell-shaped hat about her soft, rosy cheeks. The face 
 was that of a little girl, with full, round lids over deep, brown 
 eyes, and charming dimples about the small, red mouth. 
 
 Miss Winge too w:as good-looking, but could not com- 
 pete with her friend. She was as fair as the other was dark; 
 her blonde hair brushed back from a high, white forehead had 
 tints of flaming gold in it; her skin was a delicate pink and 
 white. Even the brows and lashes round her steel-grey eyes 
 were a fair, golden brown. The mouth was too big for her 
 face, with its short, straight nose and blue-veined temples, and 
 the lips were pale, but when she smiled, she showed even, pearly 
 teeth. Her figure was slender: the long, slim neck, the arms 
 covered with a fair, silken down, and the long, thin hands. 
 She was tall, and so slim that she was almost like an overgrown 
 boy. She seemed very young. She had a narrow, white 
 turned-down collar round the V-shaped neck of her dress and 
 revers of the same kind round her short sleeves. Her dress of 
 soft, pale grey silk was gathered round the waist and on the 
 
22 
 
 JENNY 
 
 shoulders — obviously to make her look less thin. She wore 
 a row of pink beads round her neck, which were reflected in 
 rosy spots on her skin. 
 
 Helge Gram sat down quietly at the end of the table and 
 listened to the others talking about a friend of theirs who had 
 been ill. An old Italian, with a dirty white apron covering his 
 broad waistcoat, came up to ask what they required. 
 
 “ Red or white, sweet or dry, what do you like, Gram? ” said 
 Heggen, turning to him. 
 
 “ Mr. Gram must have half a litre of my claret,” said Jenny 
 Winge. “It is one of the best things you can have in Rome, 
 and that is no small praise, you know.” 
 
 The sculptor pushed his cigarette-case over to the ladies. 
 Miss Jahrman took one and lighted it. 
 
 “No, Cesca — don’t! ” begged Miss Winge. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Miss Jahrman. “ I shan’t be any better if I 
 don’t smoke, and I am cross tonight.” 
 
 “ Why are you cross? ” asked Ahlin. 
 
 “ Because I did not get those corals.” 
 
 “ Were you going to wear them tonight? ” asked Heggen. 
 
 “ No, but I had made up my mind to have them.” 
 
 “ I see,” said Heggen, laughing, “ and tomorrow you null de- 
 cide to have the malachite necklace.” 
 
 “ No, I won’t, but it is awfully annoying. Jenny and I 
 rushed down on purpose because of those wretched corals.” 
 
 “ But you had the good luck to meet us, otherwise you would 
 have been obliged to go to Frascati, to which you seem to have 
 taken a sudden dislike.” 
 
 “ I would not have gone to Frascati, you may be sure of 
 that, Gunnar, and it would have been much better for me, be- 
 cause now that you have made me come I want to smoke and 
 drink and be out the whole night.” 
 
 “ I was under the impression that you had suggested it your- 
 
 self. 
 
JENNY 23 
 
 “ I think the malachite necklace was very fine,” said Ahlin, 
 by way of interrupting — “ and very cheap.” 
 
 “ Yes, but in Florence malachite is much cheaper still. This 
 thing cost forty-seven lire. In Florence, where Jenny bought 
 her crist alio rosso, I could have got one for thirty-five. Jenny 
 gave only eighteen for hers. But I will make him give me the 
 corals for ninety lire.” 
 
 “ I don’t quite understand your economy,” said Heggen. 
 
 “ I don’t want to talk about it any more,” said Miss Jahrman. 
 “ I am sick of all this talk — and tomorrow I am going to buy 
 the corals.” 
 
 “ But isn’t ninety lire an awful price for corals? ” Heggen 
 risked the question. 
 
 “They are not ordinary corals, you know,” Miss Jahrman 
 deigned to answer. “ They are contadina corals, a fat chain 
 with a gold clasp and heavy drops — like that.” 
 
 “ Contadina — is that a special kind of coral ? ” asked Helge. 
 “ No. It is what the contadinas wear.” 
 
 “ But I don’t know what a contadina is, you see.” 
 
 “ A peasant girl. Have you not seen those big, dark red, 
 polished corals they wear? Mine are exactly the colour of raw 
 beef, and the bead in the middle is as big as that ” — and she 
 formed a ring with her thumb and forefinger the size of an 
 
 egg- 
 
 “ How beautiful they must be,” said Helge, pleased to get 
 hold of the thread of conversation. “ I don’t know what mala- 
 chite is, or cristallo rossa, but I am sure that corals like those 
 would suit you better than anything.” 
 
 “ Do you hear, Ahlin? And you wanted me to have the 
 malachite necklace. Heggen’s scarf-pin is malachite — take 
 it off, Gunnar — and Jenny’s beads are cristallo rosso, not 
 rossa — red rock crystals, you know.” 
 
 She handed him the scarf-pin and the necklace. The beads 
 were warm from contact with the young girl’s neck. He looked 
 
JENNY 
 
 24 
 
 at them a while; in every bead there were small flaws, as it 
 were, which absorbed the light. 
 
 “ You ought really to wear corals, Miss Jahrman. You 
 would look exactly like a Roman contadina yourself.” 
 
 “ You don’t say so! ” She smiled, pleased. “ Do you hear, 
 you others? ” 
 
 “ You have an Italian name, too,” said Helge eagerly. 
 
 “ No. I was named after my grandmother, but the Italian 
 family I lived with last year could not pronounce my ugly 
 name, and since then I have stuck to the Italian version of it.” 
 
 “ Francesca,” said Ahlin, in a whisper. 
 
 “I shall always think of you as Francesca — signorina 
 Francesca.” 
 
 “Why not Miss Jahrman? Unfortunately we cannot speak 
 Italian together, since you don’t know the language.” She 
 turned to the others. “Jenny, Gunnar — I am going to buy 
 the corals tomorrow.” 
 
 “ Yes; I think I heard you say so,” said Heggen. 
 
 “ And I will not pay more than ninety.” 
 
 “ You always have to bargain here,” said Helge, as one who 
 knows. “ I went into a shop this afternoon near St. Pietro 
 and bought this thing for my mother. They asked seven lire, 
 but I got it for four. Don’t you think it was cheap ? ” He 
 put the thing on the table. 
 
 Francesca looked at it with contempt. “ It costs two fifty 
 in the market. I took a pair of them to each of the maids at 
 home last year.” 
 
 “ The man said it was old,” retorted Helge. 
 
 “ They always do, when they see that people don’t under- 
 stand, and don’t know the language.” 
 
 “You don’t think it is pretty?” said Helge, downcast, and 
 wrapped the pink tissue paper round his treasure. “ Don't 
 you think I can give it to my mother? ” 
 
JENNY 25 
 
 “ I think it is hideous,” said Francesca, “ but, of course, I 
 don’t know your mother’s taste.” 
 
 “ What on earth shall I do with it, then? ” sighed Helge. 
 
 “ Give it to your mother,” said Jenny. “ She will be pleased 
 that you have remembered her. Besides, people at home like 
 those things. We who live out here see so much that we be- 
 come more critical.” 
 
 Francesca reached her hand for Ahlin’s cigarette-case, but 
 he did not want to let her have it; they whispered together 
 eagerly, then she flung it away, calling: “ Giuseppe! ” 
 
 Helge understood that she ordered the man to bring her 
 some cigarettes. Ahlin got up suddenly: “My dear Miss 
 
 Jahrman— -I meant only to . . . you know it is not good for 
 you to smoke so much.” 
 
 Francesca rose. She had tears in her eyes. 
 
 “ Never mind. I want to go home.” 
 
 “Miss Jahrman — Cesca.” Ahlin stood holding her cloak 
 and begged her quietly not to go. She pressed her handker- 
 chief to her eyes. 
 
 “Yes; I want to go home — you can see for yourself that 
 I am quite impossible tonight. I want to go home alone. 
 No, Jenny, you must not come with me.” 
 
 Heggen rose too. Helge remained alone at the- table. 
 
 “ You don’t imagine that we would let you go alone this 
 time of night? ” said Heggen. 
 
 “ You mean to forbid me, perhaps? ” 
 
 “ I do absolutely.” 
 
 “ Don’t, Gunnar,” said Jenny Winge. She sent the men 
 away and they sat down at the table in silence, while Jenny, 
 with her arms round Francesca, drew her aside and talked 
 to her soothingly. After a while they came back to the table. 
 
 But the company was somewhat out of sorts. Miss Jahrman 
 sat close to Jenny; she had got her cigarettes and was smoking 
 
26 
 
 JENNY 
 
 now, shaking her head at Ahlin, who insisted that his were 
 better. Jenny, who had ordered some fruit, was eating tanger- 
 ines, and now and again she put a slice in Francesca’s mouth. 
 How perfectly lovely she looked as she lay with her sad, 
 childish face on Jenny’s shoulder, letting herself be fed by 
 her friend. Ahlin sat and stared at her and Heggen played 
 absent-mindedly with the match-ends. 
 
 “ Have you been in town long, Mr. Gram? ” he asked. 
 
 “ I have taken to saying that I came from Florence this 
 morning by train.” 
 
 Jenny gave a polite little laugh, and Francesca smiled 
 faintly. 
 
 At this moment a bare-headed, dark-haired woman with a 
 bold, yellow, greasy face entered the room with a mandolin. 
 She was accompanied by a small man in the threadbare finery 
 of a waiter, and carrying a guitar. 
 
 “ I was right, you see, Cesca,” said Jenny, speaking as to 
 a child. “There is Emilia; now we are going to have some 
 music.” 
 
 “ That’s jolly,” said Helge. “ Do the ballad singers really 
 still go about here in Rome singing in the taverns? ” 
 
 The singers tuned up “ The Merry Widow.” The woman 
 had a high, clear, metallic voice. 
 
 “Oh, how horrid,” cried Francesca, awakening; “we don’t 
 want that, we want something Italian — la luna con palido 
 canto, or what do you think? ” 
 
 She went up to the singers and greeted them like old friends 
 — laughed and gesticulated, seizing the guitar, and played, 
 humming a few bars of one or two songs. 
 
 The Italian woman sang. The melody floated sweet and 
 insinuating to the accompaniment of twanging metal strings, 
 and Helge’s four new friends joined in the refrain. It was 
 about amove and bacciare. 
 
 “ It is a love song, is it not? ” 
 
JENNY 27 
 
 “ A nice love song,” laughed Miss Jahrman. “ Don’t ask 
 me to translate it, but in Italian it sounds very pretty.” 
 
 “ This one is not so bad,” said Jenny. She turned to Helge 
 with her sweet smile: “What do you think of this place? 
 
 Is it not a good wine? ” 
 
 “ Excellent, and a characteristic old place.” 
 
 But all his interest was gone. Miss Winge and Heggen 
 spoke to him now and again, but as he made no effort to keep 
 up a conversation, they began to talk art together. The Sweed- 
 ish sculptor sat gazing at Miss Jahrman. The strange melo- 
 dies from the strings floated past him — he felt that others 
 understood. The room was typical, with a red stone floor, the 
 walls and the ceiling, which was arched and rested on a thick 
 pillar in the middle of the room, being distempered. The 
 tables were bare, the chairs had green rush bottoms, and the 
 air was heavy with the sourish smell of the wine barrels be- 
 hind the counter. 
 
 This was artist life in Rome. It was almost like looking 
 at a picture or reading a description in a book, but he was not 
 in it — on the contrary, he was hopelessly out of it. As long 
 as it was a question only of books and pictures, he could dream 
 that he was a part of it, but he was convinced that he would 
 never get in with these people. 
 
 Confound it — well, never mind. He was no good at as- 
 sociating with people anyway, least of all with people like 
 these. Look at Jenny Winge now, how unconcernedly she 
 holds the smeared glass of dark red wine. It was a revelation 
 to him. His father had drawn his attention to the glass, which 
 the girl in Barstrand’s picture from Rome in the Copenhagen 
 museum holds in her hand. Miss Winge would probably think 
 it a poor picture. These young girls had probably never read 
 about Bramante’s courtyard in the Cancellaria — “ this pearl 
 of renaissance architecture.” They might have discovered it 
 
28 
 
 JENNY 
 
 one day by chance, when they went out to buy beads and finer}’, 
 and had perhaps taken their friends to see this new delight, of 
 which they had not dreamt for years. They had not read in 
 books about every stone and every place, until their eyes could not 
 see the beauty in anything, unless it exactly corresponded to 
 the picture already in mind. They could probably look at 
 some white pillars standing against the dark blue sky and enjoy 
 the sight without any pedantic curiosity as to what temple they 
 were part of and for what ufiknown god it had been built. 
 
 He had read and he had dreamed, and he understood now 
 that nothing in reality was what he had expected it to be. In 
 the clear daylight everything seemed grey and hard, the dream 
 had enveloped the pictures of his fancy in a soft chiaroscuro, 
 had given them a harmonious finish, and covered the ruins with 
 a delicate green. He would now only go round and make sure 
 that everything he had read about was really there, and then 
 he would be able to lecture on it to the young ladies at the 
 Academy, and say that he had seen it. Not a single thing 
 would he have to tell them that he had discovered for himself; 
 he would learn nothing that he did not already know. And 
 when he met living beings he conjured up in his mind the dead 
 forms of poetry that he knew, to see if one of them were repre- 
 sented, for he knew nothing of the living, he who had never 
 lived. Heggen with the full, red mouth would hardly — he 
 supposed — dream of romantic adventure, like those one reads 
 of in the popular novelettes, if he fell in with a girl one evening 
 in the streets of Rome. 
 
 He began to feel conscious of having drunk wine. 
 
 “ You will have a headache tomorrow if you go home now,” 
 said Miss Winge to him, when they stood outside in the street. 
 The other three walked ahead; he followed with her. 
 
 “ I am sure you think me an awful bore to take out of an 
 evening.” 
 
JENNY 29 
 
 “ Not at all, but you do not know us well enough yet, and 
 we don’t know you.” 
 
 “ I am slow at making acquaintances — in fact, I never 
 really get to know people. I ought not to have come tonight, 
 when you were kind enough to ask me. Perhaps one needs 
 training to enjoy oneself too,” he said, with a short laugh. 
 
 “ Of course one does.” He could hear from her voice that 
 she was smiling. 
 
 “ I was twenty- five when I started and, you can take it from 
 me, I had no easy time at first.” 
 
 “You? I thought that you artists always. . . . For that 
 matter, I did not think you were twenty-five or near it.” 
 
 “ I am, thank goodness, and considerably more.” 
 
 “ Do you thank Heaven for that? And I, a man, for every 
 year that drops from me as it were into eternity, without having 
 brought me anything but the humiliation of finding that no- 
 body has any use for me — I ” He stopped suddenly, 
 
 terrified. He heard that his voice trembled, and he concluded 
 that the wine had gone to his head, since he could speak like 
 that to a woman he did not even know. But in spite of his 
 shyness he went on: “It seems quite hopeless. My father 
 has told me about the young men of his time, about their eager 
 discussions and their great illusions. I have never had a single 
 illusion to talk about all these years, that now are gone, lost, 
 never to return.” 
 
 “ You have no right to say that, Mr. Gram. Not one year 
 of one’s life is wasted, as long as you have not reached a point 
 where suicide is the only way out. I don’t believe that the 
 old generation, those from the time of the great illusions, were 
 better off than we. The dreams of their youth stripped life 
 bare for them. We young people, most of the ones I know, 
 have started life without illusions. We were thrown into the 
 struggle for existence almost before we were grown up, and 
 from the first we have looked at life with open eyes, expecting 
 
JENNY 
 
 30 
 
 the worst. And then one day we understood that we could 
 manage to get something good out of it ourselves. Something 
 happens, perhaps, that makes you think: if you can stand this, 
 you can stand anything. Once you have got self-reliance in 
 that way, there are no illusions that any one or anything can 
 rob you of.” 
 
 “ But circumstances and opportunities may be such that 
 one’s self-reliance is not much use when they are stronger than 
 oneself.” 
 
 “True,” she said. “When a ship sets sail, circumstances 
 may cause it to be wrecked — a collision or a mistake in the 
 construction of a wheel — but it does not start with that pre- 
 sumption. Besides, one must try and conquer circumstances; 
 there is nearly always a way out of them.” 
 
 “ You are very optimistic, Miss Winge.” 
 
 “ I am,” she said, and after a while: “ I have become an 
 
 optimist since I have seen how much people really can stand 
 without losing courage to struggle on, and without being de- 
 graded.” 
 
 “ That is exactly what I think they are — reduced in value, 
 anyway.” 
 
 “ Not all. And even to find one who does not allow life 
 to abase or reduce him is enough to make you optimistic. We 
 are going in here.” 
 
 “ This looks more like a Montmartre café, don’t you think? ” 
 said Helge, looking around. 
 
 Along the walls of the small room were plush-covered forms; 
 small iron tables with marble tops stood in front of them, and 
 the steam rose from two nickel boilers on the counter. 
 
 “ These places are the same everywhere. Do you know 
 Paris? ” 
 
 “ No, but I thought. . . .” He felt suddenly irritated with 
 this young girl artist who went about the world as she pleased 
 
JENNY 
 
 3i 
 
 — and God knows where she got the money from. It seemed 
 to her quite as natural for him to have been in Paris as in a 
 restaurant in Christiania. It was easy for people like her to 
 speak of self-reliance. An unhappy love affair in Paris, which 
 she forgot in Rome, was probably the greatest of her trials, and 
 made her feel so confident and brave and able to solve the ques- 
 tions of life. 
 
 Her shape was almost scraggy, but the face was healthy and 
 the colouring beautiful. 
 
 He wished he could speak to Miss Jahrman, who was wide 
 awake now, but she was engaged by Ahlin and Heggen. Miss 
 Winge was eating a poached egg and bread and drinking hot 
 milk. 
 
 “ The customers of this place look rather mysterious,” he 
 said, turning to her. “Perfect criminal types, it seems to 
 me.” 
 
 . “ Possibly — we have a little of everything here, but you 
 
 must remember that Rome is a modem metropolis and that 
 many people have night work. This is one of the few places 
 open this time of night. But aren’t you hungry? I am going 
 to have some black coffee.” 
 
 “Do you always stay out so late?” Helge looked at his 
 watch; it was four o’clock. 
 
 “ Oh no,” she laughed. “ Only now and then. We watch 
 the sun rise and then go and have breakfast. Miss Jahrman 
 does not want to go home tonight.” 
 
 Helge scarcely knew why he stayed on. They had some green 
 liqueur and he felt drowsy after it, but the others laughed and 
 chatted, mentioning people and places unfamiliar to him. 
 
 “ Don’t talk to me about Douglas — with his preachings — 
 I have done with him. One day last June, when he and the 
 Finn — you remember him, Lindberg? — and I were alone in 
 the life class, the Firm and I went out to have some coffee. 
 
JENNY 
 
 32 
 
 When we came back Douglas was sitting with the girl on his 
 knee. We pretended not to see, but he never asked me to tea 
 after that.” 
 
 “ Dear me,” said Jenny. “Was there any harm in that? ” 
 
 “ In spring-time and in Paris,” said Heggen, with a smile. 
 “ Norman Douglas, I tell you, Cesca, was a splendid chap — 
 you cannot deny that — and clever too. He showed me some 
 beautiful things from the fortifications.” 
 
 “ Yes, and do you remember that one from Pére Lachaise, 
 with the purple rosaries to the left? ” said Jenny. 
 
 “Rather! It was a gem; and the one with the little girl 
 at the piano? ” 
 
 “ Yes, but think of the dreadful model,” said Miss Jahrman 
 — “ that fat, middle-aged, fair one, you know. And he ahvays 
 pretended to be so virtuous.” 
 
 “ He was,” said Heggen. 
 
 “ Pugh! And I was on the verge of falling in love with him 
 just because of that.” 
 
 “ Oh ! That of course puts it in another light.” 
 
 “ He proposed to me lots of times,” said Francesca pensively, 
 and I had decided to say yes, but fortunately I had not done 
 it yet.” 
 
 “ If you had,” said Heggen, “ you would never have seen 
 him with that model on his knee.” 
 
 The expression on Francesca’s face changed completely; for 
 a second a shadow of melancholy passed over her soft features. 
 
 “Nonsense! You are all alike. I don’t believe one of you. 
 Per Bacco! ” 
 
 “You must not think that, Francesca,” said Ahlin, lifting 
 his head for a moment from his hand. 
 
 She smiled again. “ Give me some more liqueur.” 
 
 Toward dawn Helge walked beside Jenny Winge through 
 dark, deserted streets. The three in front of them stopped; 
 
JENNY 33 
 
 two half-grown boys were sitting on the stone steps of a house. 
 Francesca and Jenny talked to them and gave them money. 
 
 “ Beggars? ” asked Helge. 
 
 “ I don’t know — the big one said he was a paper-boy.” 
 
 “ I suppose the beggars in this country are merely hum- 
 bugs? ” 
 
 “ Most of them, but many have to sleep in the street even in 
 winter. And many are cripples.” 
 
 “ I noticed that in Florence. Don’t you think it is a shame 
 that people with nasty wounds or terribly deformed should be 
 allowed to go about begging? The authorities ought to take 
 care of those unfortunate people.” 
 
 “ I don’t know. It is the way out here. Foreigners can 
 hardly judge. I suppose they prefer to beg; they earn more 
 that way.” 
 
 “ On the Piazza Michelangelo there was a beggar without 
 arms; his hands came out straight from the shoulders. A 
 German doctor I was living with said the man owned a villa 
 at Fiesole.” 
 
 “ All the better for him ! ” 
 
 “ With us the cripples are taught to work so that they can 
 earn their living in a respectable way.” 
 
 “ Hardly enough anyhow to buy a villa,” said Jenny, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 “ Can you imagine anything more demoralizing than to make 
 one’s living by exposing one’s deformity? ” 
 
 “ It is always demoralizing to know that one is a cripple in 
 one way or another.” 
 
 “ But to live by invoking people’s compassion.” 
 
 “ A cripple knows that he will be pitied in any case, and has 
 to accept help from men — or God.” 
 
 Jenny mounted some steps and lifted 'the corner of a curtain 
 that looked like a thin mattress. They entered a small church. 
 
JENNY 
 
 34 
 
 Candles were burning on the altar. The light was reflected 
 manifold on the halo of the tabernacle, fluttered on candle- 
 sticks and brass ornaments and made the paper roses in the 
 altar vases look red and yellow. A priest stood with his back 
 turned to them, reading silently from a book; a pair of acolytes 
 moved to and fro, bowed, made the sign of the cross and various 
 other movements which seemed meaningless to Helge. 
 
 The little church was dark; in the two side chapels tiny 
 nightlight flames flickered, hanging from brass chains in front 
 of images blacker than the darkness itself. 
 
 Jenny Winge knelt on a rush stood. Her folded hands 
 rested on the prie-Dieu, and her head was raised, showing her 
 profile clearly outlined against the soft candlelight, which 
 trembled in the fair waves of her hair and stole down the 
 delicate bend of her bare neck. 
 
 Heggen and Ahlin took two chairs quietly from the pile 
 against one of the pillars. 
 
 This quiet service before dawn was quaint and impressive; 
 Gram followed attentively every movement of the priest. The 
 acolytes hung a white garment, with a golden cross on it, over 
 his shoulders. He took the Host, turned round and held it up 
 to the light. The boys swung the incense, and the sharp, sweet 
 smell of it floated to where Helge stood, but he waited in vain 
 for music or singing. 
 
 Miss Winge apparently made some pretence of being a Cath- 
 olic, since she was kneeling like that. Heggen sat looking 
 straight in front of him towards the altar. He had laid one 
 arm about the shoulders of Francesca, who had fallen asleep 
 leaning against him. Ahlin sat behind a pillar, probably 
 asleep too — he could not see him. 
 
 It was extraordinary to sit here with utter strangers; he felt 
 lonely, but no longer depressed. The happy feeling of free- 
 dom from the previous night returned. He looked at the others, 
 
JENNY 
 
 35 
 
 at the two young girls, Jenny and Francesca. He knew their 
 names now, but little more. And none of them knew what it 
 meant to him to sit there, what he had left behind by coming, 
 the painful struggles, the conquering of obstacles and the break- 
 ing of bonds that had held him. He felt strangely happy, al- 
 most proud of it, and he looked at the two women with a mild 
 pity. Such a little thing as Cesca — and Jenny — young and 
 high-spirited, with ready, confident opinions behind their white, 
 small foreheads. Two young girls treading an even path of 
 life, with here and there a small stone perhaps to move away, 
 but who knew nothing about a road like his. What would they 
 do, poor girls, if they had to try it? He started -when Heggen 
 touched his shoulder, and blushed, for he had been dozing. 
 
 “ You have had a nap, too, I see,” said Heggen. 
 
 Out in the street the high, quiet houses slept with closed 
 shutters. A tram drove up in a side street, a cab rattled over 
 the bridge, and one or two cold and sleepy stragglers walked 
 on the pavement. 
 
 They turned into a street from where they could see the 
 obelisk in front of Trinita-dei-Monti — it stood white against 
 the dark hollies of Pincio. No living being was to be seen and 
 no sound heard but their own steps on the iron bridge and the 
 ripple of a fountain in a yard. Far away the murmur of the 
 waters on Monte Pinco came through the stillness. Helge 
 recognized it, and as he walked towards it, a growing feeling 
 of joy filled him, as if his pleasure from the previous evening 
 were waiting for him up there by the fountain under the hollies. 
 
 He turned to Jenny Winge, not realizing that his eyes and 
 his voice betrayed his feeling. 
 
 “ I stood here last night and saw the sun set; it seemed so 
 strange to be here. I have been working for years to get here. 
 I had to come because of my studies. I wanted to be an 
 archaeologist, but I have been obliged to teach from the time I 
 got my degree. I have been waiting for the day when I could 
 
JENNY 
 
 36 
 
 come out here — sort of prepared myself for it. Yet, when I 
 stood here yesterday so suddenly, I was almost taken unawares.” 
 “ I quite understand,” said Jenny. 
 
 “ The moment I stepped out of the train yesterday and saw 
 the ruins of the Thermes opposite, surrounded by modern build- 
 ings with cafés and cinemas, with the sun shining on the mighty, 
 yellow ruins, I loved it. The trams in the piazza, the planta- 
 tions, the gorgeous fountains with such quantities of water. I 
 thought the old walls looked so pretty in the midst of the mod- 
 ern quarters with the busy traffic.” 
 
 She nodded pleasantly. “ Yes,” she said; “ I love it too.” 
 “ Then I went down to the town; it was delightful. Modern 
 buildings among the old ones, and fountains flowing and plash- 
 ing everywhere. I walked right out to San Pietro; it was dark 
 when I got there, but I stood a while and looked at the water. 
 Do they play all night in this city? ” 
 
 “ Yes, all night. You see and hear fountains almost every- 
 where. The streets are very quiet at night. Where we live, 
 Miss Jahrman and I, there is one in the courtyard, and when 
 the weather is mild we sit on our balcony late at night and listen 
 to it.” 
 
 She had sat down on the stone parapet. Helge stood in the 
 same spot as the evening before and gazed again at the town, 
 with its background of hills under a sky as clear as the one 
 over the mountain-tops at home. He filled his lungs with the 
 pure, cold air. 
 
 “ Nowhere in the world, are there such mornings as in Rome,” 
 said Jenny. “ I mean when the whole town is sunk in a sleep 
 that grows lighter and lighter, and then suddenly awakes rested 
 and fit. Heggen says it is because of the shutters; no window- 
 panes to catch the morning light and throw it on to your face.” 
 They sat with their backs to the breaking dawn and the golden 
 sky, where the pines in the Medici garden and the small church 
 towers, with pavilions on top, appeared in hard and sharp 
 
JENNY 
 
 37 
 
 outlines. The sun would not rise yet for some time, but the 
 grey mass of houses began slowly to radiate colour. It looked 
 as if the light came from within through transparent walls; 
 some houses seemed red, others turned yellow or white. 
 The villas in Monte Mario rose distinctly from a background 
 of brown grassbanks and black cypresses. 
 
 All at once there was a sparkling as of a star somewhere on 
 the hills behind the town — a window-pane had caught the 
 first sunray after all — and the foliage turned a golden olive. 
 A small bell began to peal down in the city. 
 
 Miss Jahrman came close to her friend and leaned sleepily 
 against her : 
 
 “ II levar del sole.” 
 
 Helge looked up against the limpid blue sky; a sunray 
 brushed the top of the spray and made the waterdrops scintillate 
 in gold and azure. 
 
 “ Bless you all, I am desperately sleepy,” said Francesca, 
 yawning carelessly. “Ugh! it is freezing! I cannot under- 
 stand how you can sit on that cold stone, Jenny. I want to go 
 to bed at once — subito! ” 
 
 “ I am sleepy too.” Heggen yawned. “ We must go home, 
 but I am going to have a cup of hot milk at my dairy first. 
 Are you coming? ” 
 
 They went down the Spanish stairs. Helge looked at all 
 the little green leaves that peeped out between the stone steps. 
 
 “ Fancy anything growing where so many people walk up 
 and down.” 
 
 “ Everywhere, where there is some earth between the stones, 
 something grows. You should have seen the roof below our 
 house last spring. There is even a little fig-tree grow- 
 ing between the tiles, and Cesca is very concerned about it 
 lest it should not stand the winter, and wonders where it will 
 get nourishment when it grows bigger. She has made a sketch 
 of it.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 38 
 
 “ Your friend is a painter, too, I understand? ” 
 
 “ Yes — she is very talented.” 
 
 “ I remember seeing a picture of yours at the autumn ex- 
 hibition at home,” said Helge. “ Roses in a copper bowl.” 
 
 “ I painted it here last spring, but I am not altogether pleased 
 with it now. I was in Paris for two months in the summer, 
 and I think I leamt a lot in that time. But I sold it for three 
 hundred kroner — the price I had marked it for. There are 
 some things in it that are good.” 
 
 “ You are a modem painter — I suppose you all are? ” 
 Jenny smiled slightly, but did not answer. 
 
 The others waited at the bottom of the stairs. Jenny shook 
 hands with the men and said good morning. 
 
 “What do you mean by that?” said Heggen. “You are 
 not really going off to work now? ” 
 
 “ Yes; that is what I mean.” 
 
 “ You are marvellous! ” 
 
 “ Oh, don’t, Jenny, come home! ” Francesca shivered. 
 
 “ Why shouldn’t I work? I am not a bit tired. Mr. Gram, 
 hadn’t you better take a cab home from here? ” 
 
 “ I suppose so. Is the post office open now? I know it is 
 not far from the Piazza di Spagna.” 
 
 “ I am going past it — you can come with me.” She nodded 
 a last time to the others, who began to walk homeward. Fran- 
 cesca hung limp on Ahlin’s arm, overcome with sleep. 
 
 Ill 
 
 W ELL, did you get a letter? ” said Jenny Winge 
 when he returned to the entrance hall of the post 
 office, where she had been waiting for him. 
 “ Now I will show you which tram to take.” 
 
 “ Thank you, it is very kind of you.” 
 
 The piazza lay white in the sunshine; the morning air was 
 
JENNY 39 
 
 crisp and clear. Carts and people from the side streets were 
 hurrying past. 
 
 “ You know, Miss Winge, I don’t think I will go home. I 
 am as wide awake as I can be, and I should like to go for a 
 walk. Would you think me intruding if I asked to be allowed 
 to accompany you a little bit of the way? ” 
 
 “ Dear me, no. But will you be able to find the way to your 
 hotel? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I think I can manage it in broad daylight.” 
 
 “You will find cabs now everywhere.” 
 
 They came out into the Corso, and she told him the names of 
 the palaces. She was always a step or two ahead of him, for 
 she moved with ease between the many people who had already 
 come out on the pavements. 
 
 “ Do you like vermouth ? ” she asked. “ I am going in here 
 to have one.” 
 
 She drank it all in one gulp, standing at the marble counter 
 of the bar. He did not like the bitter-sweet drink, which was 
 new to him, but he thought it fun to look in at a bar on their 
 way. 
 
 Jenny turned into narrow streets where the air was raw and 
 damp, the sun reaching only the top part of the houses. 
 Helge noticed everything with great interest: the blue carts 
 behind mules with brass-studded harness and red tassels, the 
 bareheaded women and dark-hued children, the small, cheap 
 shops and the display of vegetables in the porches. In one 
 place a man was making doughnuts on a stove. Jenny bought 
 some and offered him, but he refused politely. What a queer 
 girl, he thought. She ate and seemed to enjoy them, while he 
 felt sick at the mere thought of those greasy balls between his 
 teeth on top of the various drinks in the night, and the taste 
 of vermouth still in his mouth. Besides, the old man was very 
 dirty. 
 
 Side by side with poor, decrepit houses, where greyish wash 
 
JENNY 
 
 40 
 
 hung out to dry between the broken ribs of the Venetian 
 blinds, stood massive stone palaces with lattice windows and 
 protruding cornices. Once Jenny had to take him by the arm 
 — a scarlet automobile came hooting out of a gate in baroque 
 style, turned with difficulty, and came speeding up the narrow 
 street, where the gutters were full of cabbage leaves and other 
 refuse. 
 
 He enjoyed it all — it was so strange and southern. Year 
 after year his fantastic dreams had been destroyed by everyday 
 petty reality, till at last he had tried to sneer at himself and 
 correct his fancies in self-defence. And so now he tried to 
 convince himself that in these romantic quarters lived the same 
 kind of people as in every other big city — shopgirls and fac- 
 tory workers, typographers and telegraph operators, people who 
 worked in offices and at machines, the same as in every part 
 of the world. But it gave him pleasure to think that the houses 
 and the streets, which were the image of his dreams, were 
 obviously real as well. 
 
 After walking through small, damp and smelly streets they 
 came into an open space in the sunlight. The ground was 
 raked up at random; heaps of offal and rubbish lay between 
 mounds of gravel; dilapidated old houses, some of them partly 
 pulled down, with rooms showing, stood between classical ruins. 
 
 Passing some detached houses, which looked as if they had 
 been forgotten in the general destruction, they reached the 
 piazza by the Vesta temple. Behind the big, new steam-mill 
 and the lovely little church with the pillared portico and the 
 slender tower, the Aventino rose distinct against the sunny 
 sky, with the monasteries on the hill, and dust-grey, nameless 
 ruins among the gardens on the slope. 
 
 The thing that always gave him a shock — in Germany and 
 in Florence — was that the ruins he had read about and im- 
 agined standing in a romantic frame of green leaves with flowers 
 in the crevices, as you see them in old etchings or on tire 
 
JENNY 
 
 41 
 
 scenery in a theatre, were in reality dirty and shabby, with bits 
 of paper, dented, empty tins and rubbish lying about; and the 
 vegetation of the south was represented by greyish black ever- 
 green, naked, prickly shrubs, and yellow, faded rushes. 
 
 On this sunny morning he understood suddenly that even 
 such a sight holds beauty for those who can see. 
 
 Jenny Winge took the road between garden walls at the back 
 of the church. The walls were covered with ivy, and pines 
 rose behind them. She stopped to light a cigarette. 
 
 “ I am a pronounced smoker, you see,” she said, “ but I have 
 to refrain when I am with Cesca, for her heart does not stand 
 it; out here I smoke like a steam-engine. Here we are.” 
 
 A small, yellow house stood inside a fence; in the garden 
 were tables and forms under big, bare elms, and a summer- 
 house made of rush stalks. Jenny greeted the old woman who 
 came out on the doorstep. 
 
 “ Well, Mr. Gram, what do you say to breakfast? ” 
 
 “Not a bad idea. A cup of strong coffee and a roll and 
 butter.” 
 
 “Coffee! and butter! Listen to him! No, eggs and bread 
 and wine, lettuce and perhaps some cheese. Yes, she says she 
 has cheese. How many eggs do you want? ” 
 
 While the woman laid the table Miss Winge carried her 
 easel and painting accessories into the garden, and changed her 
 long, blue evening wrap for a short coat, which was soiled with 
 paint. 
 
 “ May I have a look at your picture? ” asked Helge. 
 
 “ Yes ■ — I am going to tone down that green — - it is rather 
 hard. There is really no light in it yet, but the background is 
 good, I think.” 
 
 Helge looked at the painting; the trees looked like big grease 
 splashes. He could see nothing in it. 
 
 “ Here’s breakfast coming. We’ll throw the eggs at her if 
 they are hard. Hurrah, they aren’t! ” 
 
42 
 
 JENNY 
 
 Helge was not hungry. The sour white wine gave him 
 heartburn, and he could scarcely swallow the dry, unsalted 
 bread, but Jenny bit off great chunks with her white teeth, put 
 small pieces of Parmesan in her mouth, and drank wine. The 
 three eggs were already done with. 
 
 “How can you eat that nasty bread without butter? ” said 
 Helge. 
 
 “ I like it. I have not tasted butter since I left Christiania. 
 Cesca and I buy it only when we are having a party. We have 
 to live very economically, you see.” 
 
 He laughed, saying : “ What do you call economy — beads 
 
 and corals? ” 
 
 “No; it is luxury, but I think it is very essential — a little 
 of it. We live cheaply and we eat cheaply, tea and dry bread 
 and radishes twice or three times a week for supper — and we 
 buy silk scarves.” 
 
 She had finished eating, lit a cigarette, and sat looking in 
 front of her, with her chin resting on her hand: 
 
 “ To starve, you see, Mr. Gram — of course I have not tried 
 it yet, but I may have to. Heggen has, and he thinks as I 
 do — to starve or to have too little of the necessary is better 
 than never to have any of the superfluous. The superfluous is 
 the very thing we work and long for. At home, with my 
 mother, we always had the strictly necessary, but everything 
 beyond it was not to be thought of. It had to be — the chil- 
 dren had to be fed before anything else.” 
 
 “ I cannot think of you as ever having been troubled about 
 money.” 
 
 “ Why not? ” 
 
 “ Because you are so courageous and independent, and you 
 have such decided opinions about everything. When you grow 
 up in circumstances where it is a constant struggle to make ends 
 meet, and you are always reminded of it, you sort of dare not 
 form any opinions — in a general way — it is so tantalizing to 
 
JENNY 43 
 
 know that the coins decide what you can afford to wish or to 
 want.” 
 
 Jenny nodded pensively. “ Yes, but one must not feel like 
 that when one has health and youth and knowledge.” 
 
 “ Well, take my case, for instance. I have always believed 
 that I have some aptitude for scientific work, and it is the only 
 thing I would like to do. I have written a few books — popu- 
 lar ones, you know — and I am now working at an essay on 
 the Bronze Age in South Europe. But I am a teacher, and 
 have a fairly good position — that of a superintendent of a 
 private school.” 
 
 “ You have come out here to work, to study — I remember 
 you said so this morning.” 
 
 He did not answer, but continued : “ It was the same thing 
 
 with my father. He wanted to be an artist — wanted it more 
 than anything else, and he came out here for a year. Then 
 he married, and is now the owner of a lithographic press, which 
 he has kept going for twenty-six years under great difficulties. 
 I don’t believe my father thinks he has got much out of life.” 
 
 Jenny Winge sat as before, looking thoughtfully in front of 
 her. In the orchard below grew rows of vegetables, small in- 
 nocent tufts of green on the grey soil, and on the far side of 
 the meadow one could see the yellow masses of ruins on the 
 Palatine against the dark foliage. The day promised to be 
 warm. The Alban mountains in the distance, beyond the pines 
 of the villa gardens, looked misty against the soft blue of 
 the sky. 
 
 Jenny drank some wine, still looking straight ahead. Helge 
 followed with his eyes the smoke of her cigarette — a faint 
 morning breeze carried it out in the sunshine. She sat with her 
 legs crossed. She had small ankles, and her feet were clad in 
 thin purple stockings and bead-embroidered evening shoes. 
 The jacket was open over the gathered silver-grey dress with 
 the white collar and the beads, which threw pink spots on her 
 
44 JENNY 
 
 milky-white neck. The fur cap had slid back from her fair, 
 fluffy hair. 
 
 “ I suppose you have the support of your father, though, Mr. 
 Gram — I mean, he understands you, doesn’t he? Surely he 
 sees that you can’t get ahead so quickly at that school, when you 
 have quite different work at heart? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know. He was very pleased that I could go abroad, 
 of course, but” — after some hesitation — “I have never been 
 very intimate with my father. And then there is mother. She 
 was anxious lest I should work too hard, or be short of money 
 — or risk my future. F ather and mother are so different — she 
 has never quite understood him, and kept more to us children. 
 She was a great deal to me when I was a boy, but she was 
 jealous of father even — that he should have greater influence 
 over me than she had. She was jealous of my work too, when 
 I locked myself up in a room of an evening to read, and always 
 anxious about my health and afraid I should give up my post.” 
 
 Jenny nodded several times thoughtfully. 
 
 “ The letter I fetched at the post office was from them.” He 
 took it out of his pocket and looked at it, but he did not open 
 it. “ It is my birthday today,” he said, trying to smile. “ I 
 am twenty-six.” 
 
 “ Many happy returns.” Miss Winge shook hands with him. 
 She looked at him almost in the same way as she looked at 
 Miss Jahrman when she nestled in her arms. 
 
 She had not noticed before what he looked like, though she 
 was under the impression that he was tall and thin and dark. 
 He had good, regular features on the whole, a high, somewhat 
 narrow forehead, light brown eyes with a peculiar amber-like 
 transparency, and a small, weak mouth with a tired and sad 
 expression under the moustache. 
 
 “ I understand you so well,” she said suddenly. “ I know 
 all that. I was a teacher myself until Christmas last year. I 
 
JENNY 
 
 4 5 
 
 started as a governess and went on till I was old enough to 
 enter the seminary.” She smiled a little shyly. “ I gave up 
 my post in the school when I was left a small amount of money 
 by an aunt, and went abroad. It will last me about three 
 years, I think — perhaps a little longer. Lately I have sent 
 some articles to the papers, and I may sell some pictures. My 
 mother did not approve of my using up all the money, and did 
 not like my giving up my post when I had got it at last after 
 all those years of private teaching and odd lessons here and there 
 at schools. I suppose mothers always think a fixed salary. . . .” 
 
 “ I don’t think I would have risked it in your place — burn- 
 ing all your bridges like that. It is the influence of my home, 
 I know, but I could not help being anxious about the time when 
 the money would be spent.” 
 
 “ Never mind,” said Jenny Winge. “ I am well and strong 
 and know a lot; I can sew and cook and wash and iron. And 
 I know languages. I can always find something to do in 
 England or America. Francesca,” she said, laughing, “ wants 
 me to go to South Africa with her and be a dairy-maid, for that 
 is a thing she is good at, she says. And we shall draw the 
 Zulus; they are said to be such splendid models.” 
 
 “ That is no small job either — and the distance does not 
 seem to trouble you.” 
 
 “ Not a bit — I am talking nonsense, of course. All those 
 years I thought it impossible to get away, even as far as Copen- 
 hagen, to stay there some time to paint and learn. When at 
 last I made up my mind to give up everything and go, I had 
 many a bad moment, I can assure you. My people thought it 
 madness, and I noticed that it made an impression on me, but 
 that made me more determined still. To paint has always been 
 my most ardent wish, and I knew I could never work at home 
 as hard as I ought to; there were too many things to distract 
 me. But mother could not see that I was so old that if I 
 wanted to learn something I must start at once. She is only 
 
46 JENNY 
 
 nineteen years older than I; when I was eleven she married 
 again, and that made her younger still. 
 
 “ The curious thing when you leave home is that the in- 
 fluence of the people with whom you accidentally have lived is 
 broken. You learn to see with your own eyes and to think 
 for yourself, and you understand that it rests with yourself to 
 get something good out of your journey: what you mean to see 
 and to learn, how you mean to arrange your life and what 
 influence you choose to submit to. You learn to understand 
 that what you will get out of life as a whole depends on your- 
 self. Circumstances count for something, of course, as you 
 said, but you learn how to avoid obstacles or surmount them in 
 the way that comes easiest to your individuality, and most of 
 the disagreeable things that happen to you are of your own 
 doing. You are never alone in your home, don’t you think? 
 The greatest advantage of travelling seems to me that you are 
 alone, without any one to help or advise you. You cannot ap- 
 preciate all you owe to your home, or be grateful for it, until 
 you are away from it, and you know that you will never be 
 dependent on it any more, since you are your own master. You 
 cannot really love it till then — for how could you love any- 
 thing that you are dependent on? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know. Are we not always dependent on what we 
 love? — you and your work, for instance. And when once you 
 get really fond of people,” he said quietly, “ you make your- 
 self dependent on them for good and all.” 
 
 “Ye — s ” — she reflected a moment, then said suddenly, 
 “ but it is your own choice. You are not a slave; you serve 
 willingly something or somebody that you prize higher than 
 yourself. Are you not glad you can begin the new year alone, 
 entirely free, and only do the work you like? ” 
 
 Helge remembered the previous evening in the piazza San 
 Pietro; he looked at the city, the soft veiled colourings of it in 
 the sun, and he looked at the fair young girl beside him. 
 
JENNY 
 
 47 
 
 “ Yes,” he said. 
 
 “Well ” — she rose, buttoned her jacket, and opened the 
 paint-box — “ I must work now.” 
 
 “ And I suppose you would like to get rid of me?” 
 
 Jenny smiled. “ I daresay you are tired too.” 
 
 “ Not very — I must pay the bill.” 
 
 She called the woman and helped him, squeezing out colours 
 on to her palette meanwhile. 
 
 “ Do you think you can find your way back to town? ” 
 
 “Yes; I remember exactly how we came, and I shall soon 
 find a cab, I suppose. Do you ever go to the club? ” 
 
 “ Yes, sometimes.” 
 
 “ I should like very much to meet you again.” 
 
 “ I daresay you will ” — and after a moment’s hesitation: 
 
 “ Come and see us one day, if you care, and have tea. Via 
 Vantaggio 111. Cesca and I are generally at home in the after- 
 noon.” 
 
 “ Thanks, I should like to very much. Good-bye, then, and 
 thanks so much.” 
 
 She gave him her hand: “ The same to you.” 
 
 At the gate he looked back; she was scraping her canvas 
 with a palette knife and humming the song they had heard in 
 the café. He remembered the tune, and began to hum it him- 
 self as he walked away. 
 
 IV 
 
 J ENNY brought her arms out from under the blanket and 
 put them behind her neck. It was icy cold in the room, 
 and dark. No ray of light came through the shutters. 
 She struck a match and looked at her watch — it was nearly 
 seven. She could doze a little longer, and she crept down under 
 the blankets again, with her head deep in the pillow. 
 
 “ Jenny, are you asleep? ” Francesca opened the door with- 
 
JENNY 
 
 48 
 
 out knocking, and came close to the bed. She felt for her 
 friend’s face in the dark and stroked it. “ Tired? ” 
 
 “No. I am going to get up now.” 
 
 “ When did you come home? ” 
 
 “ About three o’clock. I went to Prati for a bath before 
 lunch and ate at the Ripetta, you know, and when I came 
 home I went to bed at once. I am thoroughly rested. I’ll 
 get up now.” 
 
 “Wait a moment. It’s very cold; let me light the fire.” 
 Francesca lighted the lamp on the table. 
 
 “Why not call the signora? Oh, Cesca, come here, let me 
 look at you.” Jenny sat up in bed. 
 
 Francesca placed the lamp on the table by the bed and turned 
 slowly round in the light of it. She had put on a white blouse 
 with her green skirt and thrown a striped scarf about her 
 shoulders. Round her neck she wore a double row of deep red 
 corals, and long, polished drops hung from her ears. She 
 pulled her hair laughingly from her ears to show that the 
 drops were tied to them by means of darning wool. 
 
 “Fancy, I got them for sixty-eight lire — a bargain, wasn’t 
 it? Do you think they suit me? ” 
 
 “ Capitally! With that costume, too. I should like to paint 
 you as you are now.” 
 
 “Yes, do. I can sit to you if you like — I’m too restless 
 nowadays to work. Oh dear! ” She sighed and sat down on 
 the bed. “ I had better go and bring the coal.” 
 
 She came back carrying an earthenware pot of burning char- 
 coal, and stooped down over the little stove. “ Stay in bed, 
 dear, till it gets a little warmer in here. I will make the tea 
 and lay the table. I see you have brought your drawing home. 
 Let me have a look at it.” She placed the board against a 
 chair and held the lamp to it. 
 
 “ I say! I say! ” 
 
 “ It is not too bad — what do you think? I am going to 
 
JENNY 
 
 49 
 
 make a few more sketches out there. I am planning a big pic- 
 ture, you see — don’t you think it is a good subject, with all 
 the working people and the mule-carts in the excavation field? ” 
 
 “ Very good. I am sure you can make something of it. I 
 should like to show it to Gunnar and Ahlin. Oh, you are up ! 
 Let me do your hair. What a mass of it you have, child. May 
 I do it in the new fashion? — with curls, you know.” Fran- 
 cesca pulled her fingers through her friend’s long, fair hair. 
 “ Sit quite still. There was a letter for you this morning. I 
 brought it up. Did you find it? It was from your little 
 brother, was it not? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Jenny. 
 
 “Was it nice? — were you pleased? ” 
 
 “Yes, very nice. You know, Cesca, sometimes — only on 
 a Sunday morning once in a while — I wish I could fly home 
 and go for a stroll in Nordmarken with Kalfatrus. He is such 
 a brick, that boy.” 
 
 Francesca looked at Jenny’s smiling face in the glass. She 
 took down her hair and began to brush it again. 
 
 “ No, Cesca; there is no time for it.” 
 
 “ Oh yes. If they come too early they can go into my room. 
 It is in a terrible state — a regular pigsty — but never mind. 
 They won’t come so early — not Gunnar, and I don’t mind him 
 if he does, and not Ahlin either for that matter. He has al- 
 ready been to see me this morning; I was in bed, and he sat 
 and talked. I sent him out on to the balcony while I dressed, 
 and then we went out and had a good meal at Tre Re. We 
 have been together the whole afternoon.” 
 
 Jenny said nothing. 
 
 “We saw Gram at Nazionale. Isn’t he awful? Have you 
 ever seen anything like it? ” 
 
 “ I don’t think he is bad at all. He is awkward, poor boy, 
 exactly as I was at first. He is one of those people who would 
 like to enjoy themselves, but don’t know how to.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 50 
 
 “ I came from Florence this morning,” said Francesca, im- 
 itating him, and laughed. “Ugh! If he had come by aero- 
 plane at least.” 
 
 “ You were exceedingly rude to him, my dear. It won’t do. 
 I should have liked to ask him here tonight, but I dared not 
 because of you. I could not take the risk of your being dis- 
 courteous to him when he was our guest.” 
 
 “No fear of that. You know that quite well.” Francesca 
 was hurt. 
 
 “ Do you remember that time when Douglas came home with 
 me to tea? ” 
 
 “ Yes, after that model business, but that was quite a differ- 
 ent matter.” 
 
 “ Nonsense. It was no concern of yours.” 
 
 “Wasn’t it? When he had proposed to me and I had very 
 nearly accepted him.” 
 
 “ How could he know? ” said Jenny. 
 
 “ Anyway, I had not quite said no, and the day before I had 
 been with him to Versailles. He kissed me there several times 
 and lay with his head in my lap, and when I told him I didn’t 
 care for him he didn’t believe me.” 
 
 “ It is not right, Cesca.” Jenny caught her eye in the mirror. 
 “ You are the dearest little girl in the world when you use your 
 brains, but sometimes it seems as if you had no idea you are 
 dealing with living beings, with people who have feelings that 
 you must respect. You 'would respect them if you were not 
 so thoughtless, for I know you only want to be good and kind.” 
 
 “ Per Bacco. Don’t be too sure of that. But I must show 
 you some roses. Ahlin bought me quite a load this afternoon 
 at a Spanish stairs.” Cesca smiled defiantly. 
 
 “ You ought to stop that kind of thing, I think — if only be- 
 cause you know he cannot afford it.” 
 
 “ I don’t care. If he is in love with me, I suppose he likes 
 
 it.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 51 
 
 “ I won’t talk of reputation after all these doings of yours.” 
 “ No, better not speak about my reputation. You are quite 
 right there. At home, in Christiania, I have spoilt my reputa- 
 tion past mending, once and for all.” She laughed hysterically. 
 “Damn it all! I don’t care.” 
 
 “ I don’t understand you, Cesca darling. You don’t care 
 for any of those men. Why do you want. . . . And as to 
 Ahlin, can’t you see he is in earnest? Norman Douglas, too, 
 was in earnest. You don’t know what you are doing. I really 
 do believe, child, that you’ve no instincts at all.” 
 
 Francesca put away brush and comb and looked at Jenny’s 
 hairdressing in the glass. She tried to retain her defiant little 
 smile, but it faded away and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 “ I had a letter this morning, too.” Her voice trembled. 
 “ From Berlin, from Borghild.” Jenny rose from the dressing- 
 table. “ Yes, perhaps you had better get ready. Will you 
 put the kettle on, or do you think we’d better cook the arti- 
 chokes first? ” She began to make the bed. “We might call 
 Marietta — but don’t you think we had better do it ourselves? ” 
 “ Borghild writes that Hans Hermann was married last week. 
 His wife is already expecting a child.” 
 
 Jenny put the matchbox on the table. She glanced at Fran- 
 cesca’s miserable little face and then went quietly up to her. 
 
 “ It is that singer, Berit Eck, you know, he was engaged to.” 
 Francesca spoke in a faint voice, leaning for an instant against 
 her friend, and then began to arrange the sheets with trembling 
 hands. 
 
 “ But you knew they were engaged — more than a year ago.” 
 “Yes — let me do that, Jenny; you lay the table. I know, 
 of course, that you knew all about it.” 
 
 Jenny laid the table for four. Francesca put the counter- 
 pane on the bed and brought the roses. She stood fumbling 
 with her blouse, then pulled out a letter from inside it and 
 twisted it between her fingers. 
 
JENNY 
 
 S 2 
 
 “ She met them at the Thiergarten — she writes. She says 
 — oh, she can be brutal sometimes, Borghild.” Francesca 
 went quickly across the room, pulled open the door of the stove, 
 and threw the letter in. Then she sank down in an arm-chair 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 Jenny went to her and put one arm round her neck. 
 
 “ Cesca, dearest little Cesca ! ” 
 
 Francesca pressed her face against Jenny’s arm: 
 
 “ She looked so miserable, poor thing. She hung on his 
 arm, and he seemed sullen and angry. I can quite imagine it. 
 I am sorry for her — fancy allowing herself to become de- 
 pendent on him in such a way. He has brought her to her 
 knees, I am sure. How could she be such an idiot, when she 
 knew him? Oh, but think of it, Jenny! He is going to have 
 a child by somebody else — oh, my God! my God! ” 
 
 Jenny sat on the arm of the chair. Cesca nestled close to 
 her: 
 
 “ I suppose you are right — I have no instincts. Perhaps 
 I never loved him really, but I should have liked to have a 
 child by him. And yet I could not make up my mind. Some- 
 times he wanted me to marry him straight off, go to the registry 
 office, but I wouldn’t. They would have been so angry with 
 me at home, and people would have said we were obliged to 
 marry, if we had done it that way. I did not want that either, 
 although I knew they thought the worst of me all the same, 
 but that did not worry me. I knew I was ruining my reputa- 
 tion for his sake, but I did not care, and I don’t care now, I 
 tell you. 
 
 “ But he thought I refused because I was afraid he would 
 not marry me afterwards. ‘ Let’s go to the registry office first, 
 then, you silly girl,’ he said, but I would not go. He thought it 
 was all sham. ‘You cold!’ he said; ‘you are not cold any 
 longer than you choose to be.’ Sometimes I almost thought I 
 wasn’t. Perhaps it was only fright, for he was such a brute; 
 
JENNY 
 
 53 
 
 he beat me sometimes — nearly tore the clothes off me. I had 
 to scratch and bite to protect myself — and cry and scream.” 
 “ And yet you went back to him? ” said Jenny. 
 
 “ I did, that is true. The porter’s wife did not want to do 
 his rooms any longer, so I went and tidied up for him. I had 
 a key. I scrubbed the floor and made his bed — Heaven only 
 knows who had been in it.” 
 
 Jenny shook her head. 
 
 “ Borghild was furious about it. She proved to me that he 
 had a mistress. I knew it, but I did not want proof. Borg- 
 hild said he had given me the key, because he wanted me to 
 take them by surprise, and make me jealous, so that I should 
 give in, as I was compromised anyway. But she was not right, 
 for it was me he loved — in his way — I know he loved me as 
 much as he could love anybody. 
 
 “ Borghild was angry with me because I pawned the diamond 
 ring I had from our grandmother. I have never told you 
 about it. Hans said he had to have money — a hundred kroner 
 — and I promised to get it. Where I didn’t know. I dared 
 not write to father, for I’d spent more than my allowance 
 already, so I went and pawned my watch and a chain brace- 
 let and that ring — one of those old ones, you know, with 
 a lot of little diamonds on a big shield. Borghild was angry 
 because it had not been given to her, being the eldest, but 
 grandmother had said I should have it, as I was named after 
 her. I went down one morning as soon as they opened; it 
 was hateful, but I got the money and I took it to Hans. He 
 asked where I had got it from, and I told him. Then he kissed 
 me and said : 1 Give me the ticket and the money, puss ’ — that 
 
 is what he used to call me — - and I did. I thought he meant 
 to redeem it, and said he need not. I was very much moved, 
 you see. ‘ I will settle it in another way,’ said Hans, and went 
 out. I stayed in his rooms and waited. I was very excited, 
 for I knew he wanted the money, and I decided to go and pawn 
 
JENNY 
 
 54 
 
 the things again the next day. It would not be so horrid a 
 second time — nothing more would be difficult. I would give 
 him everything now. Then he came — and what do you think 
 he had done? ” She laughed amidst the tears. “ He had re- 
 deemed the things from the loan-office and pawned them with 
 his private banker, as he called him, who gave more for them. 
 
 “We went about all day together — champagne and all the 
 rest of it — and I went home with him at night. He played to 
 me — my God, how he played ! I lay on the floor and cried. 
 Nothing mattered as long as he played like that, and to me 
 alone. You have not heard him play; if you had, you would 
 understand me. But afterwards it was awful. We fought like 
 mad, but I got away at last. Borghild was awake when I came 
 home. My dress was torn to tatters. ‘ You look like a street- 
 girl,’ she said. I laughed. It was five o’clock. 
 
 “ I should have given in in the end, you know, if it hadn’t 
 been for one thing he had said. Sometimes he used to say: 
 ‘ You are the only decent girl I have met. There is not a man 
 who could get round you. I respect you, puss.’ Fancy, he 
 respected me for refusing to do what he begged and worried me 
 about constantly. I wanted to give in, for I would have done 
 anything to please him, but I could not get over my scare; he 
 was so brutal, and I knew there were others. If only he had not 
 frightened me so many times, I might have given up the struggle 
 but then, of course, I should have lost his respect. That 
 is why I broke with him at last — for wanting me to act in 
 such a way that he would despise me.” 
 
 She nestled close to Jenny, who caressed her. 
 
 “ Do you love me a little, Jenny? ” 
 
 “ You know I do, darling child.” 
 
 “You are so kind. Kiss me once more! Gunnar is kind, 
 too — and Ahlin. I shall be more careful. I don’t wish him 
 any harm. Besides, I may marry him, as he is so fond of me. 
 Ahlin would never be brutal — I know that. Do you think 
 
JENNY 
 
 55 
 
 he would worry me? Not much. And I might have children. 
 Some day I will come into money, and he is so poor. We could 
 live abroad and we could both work. There is something re- 
 fined about all his work, don’t you think? That relief of the 
 boys playing, for instance, and the cast for the Almquist monu- 
 ment. Not very original, perhaps, in composition, but so beau- 
 tiful, so noble and restful, and the figures so perfectly plas- 
 tic.” 
 
 Jenny smiled a little and stroked the hair from Francesca’s 
 forehead; it was wet with tears. 
 
 “ I wish I could work like that — always — but I have those 
 eternal pains in my heart and my head. My eyes hurt me too, 
 and I am dead tired always.” 
 
 “ You know what your doctor says — only nerves — every 
 bit of it. If you only would be sensible! ” 
 
 “ I know. That is what they all say, but I am afraid. You 
 say that I have no instincts — not in the way you mean, but I 
 have them all right in another way. I have been a devil all this 
 week — I know it perfectly well — but I have been waiting all 
 the time for something awful I knew was going to happen. 
 You see, I was right.” 
 
 Jenny kissed her again. 
 
 “ I was down at S. Agostino tonight. You know that image 
 of the Madonna that works miracles; I knelt before it and 
 prayed to the Virgin. I think I should be happier if I turned 
 Catholic. A woman like the Virgin Mary Avould understand. 
 I ought really never to marry. I ought to go into a convent — 
 Siena, for instance. I might paint copies in the gallery and 
 earn some money for the convent. When I copied that angel 
 for Melozzo da Forli in Florence there was a nun painting every 
 day. It wasn’t so bad.” She laughed. “ I mean, it was 
 awful. I hated it. But they all said my copies were so good 
 — and so they were. I believe I should be happy in that way. 
 Oh, Jenny, if I only felt well and were at peace in my mind, 
 
JENNY 
 
 56 
 
 but I am so bewildered and frightened. If I were well, I 
 could work, work — always. And I’d be so good and nice — 
 you don’t know how good I could be. I know I am not al- 
 ways good. I give in to every mood when I feel as I do at 
 present. I am going to stop it, if only you will love me, all of 
 you, but you especially. Let us ask that Gram here. Next 
 time I see him I’ll be so nice and sweet to him, you see. We’ll 
 ask him here and take him out, and I will do anything to amuse 
 him. Do you hear, Jenny? Are you pleased with me now? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Cesca dear.” 
 
 “ Gunnar does not think I can be serious,” she said pen- 
 sively. 
 
 “ Oh yes, he does; he only thinks you are very childish. 
 You know what he thinks of your work. Don’t you remember 
 what he said in Paris about your energy and your talent? 
 Great and original, he said. He did not think lightly of you 
 that time.” 
 
 “ Gunnar is a nice boy, but he was angry with me because 
 of Douglas.” 
 
 “ Any man would have been angry with you. I was, too.” 
 
 Francesca sighed and sat quiet an instant. “ How did you 
 get rid of Gram ? I thought you would never be able to shake 
 that fellow off. I thought that he would come home with you 
 and sleep here on the sofa.” 
 
 Jenny laughed. “ Oh no! He went with me to the Aventine 
 and had breakfast; then he went home. I rather like him, you 
 know.” 
 
 “ Dio mio! Jenny, you are abnormally good. Have you 
 not got enough to mother already, with us ? Or have you fallen 
 in love with him? ” 
 
 Jenny laughed again. “ I don’t think there is much chance 
 for me. I suppose he will fall in love with you, like the rest, 
 if you are not careful.” 
 
 “ They all do, it seems — Heaven only knows why. But 
 
JENNY 57 
 
 they soon get cured, and then they’re angry with me after- 
 wards.” She sighed. 
 
 They heard steps on the stairs. 
 
 “ That is Gunnar. I am going into my room a little. I 
 must bathe my eyes.” 
 
 She passed Heggen in the door with a short greeting as she 
 hurried away. He shut the door and came into the room. 
 
 “ You are all right, I see — but so you always are. You 
 are an extraordinary girl, Jenny. I suppose you have been 
 working all the morning — and she?” He pointed towards 
 Cesca’s room. 
 
 “ In a bad state, poor little thing.” 
 
 “ I saw it in the papers when I looked in at the club. Have 
 you finished the study? Show me. It is very good.” Heg- 
 gen held the picture to the light and looked at it for some time. 
 “ This part stands out beautifully. It is powerful work. Is 
 she lying on her bed crying, do you think? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know. She has been crying in here. She had a 
 letter from her sister.” 
 
 “ If ever I meet that cad,” said Hebben, “ I shall find some 
 pretext to give him a sound thrashing.” 
 
 V 
 
 O NE afternoon Helge Gram sat in the club reading 
 Norwegian newspapers. He was alone in the read- 
 ing-room when Miss Jahrman entered. He stood up 
 and bowed, but she came up to him with a smile and shook 
 hands: “How are you getting on? Jenny and I have been 
 
 wondering why we never see you; we were determined to come 
 here on Saturday to see if we could find you and ask you to go 
 out with us somewhere. Have you got rooms yet? ” 
 
JENNY 
 
 58 
 
 “ No, I am sorry to say. I am still at the hotel. All the 
 rooms I have seen are so expensive.” 
 
 “ But it is not cheaper at the hotel, is it? I suppose you 
 have to pay three lire a day at least? I thought so. It is not 
 cheap in Rome, you know. You must have rooms to the south 
 in winter. You don’t speak Italian, of course, but why did 
 you not ask us to help you? Jenny or I would willingly have 
 gone with you to look for rooms.” 
 
 “ Thank you very much. I would not dream of troubling 
 you about that.” 
 
 “ It is no trouble whatever. How are you getting on? 
 Have you met any people? ” 
 
 “ No. I came here on Saturday, but I did not speak to 
 anybody. I read the papers. The day before yesterday I saw 
 Heggen in a café on the Corso and exchanged a few words with 
 him. I have also met two German doctors I knew in Florence, 
 and I went with them to Via Appi one day.” 
 
 “ Ugh! German doctors are not nice, are they? ” 
 
 Helge smiled, embarrassed. 
 
 “ Perhaps not, but we have some interests in common, and 
 when one goes about without having anybody to talk to. . . .” 
 
 “ Yes, but you must make up your mind to speak Italian; 
 you know the language, don’t you? Come for a walk with 
 me and we will talk Italian all the way. I shall be a very 
 strict maestra, you will see.” 
 
 “ Thank you very much, Miss Jahrman, but I am afraid you 
 will not find me very entertaining — except unwittingly per- 
 haps.” 
 
 “Rubbish! Look here, I’ve got an idea! Two old Danish 
 ladies left for Capri the day before yesterday. Their room 
 may be vacant still. I am sure it is. A nice little room and 
 cheap. I don’t remember the name of the street, but I know 
 where it is. Shall I go with you and have a look at it? Come 
 along.” 
 
JENNY 59 
 
 On the stairs she turned round and smiled awkwardly at 
 him: 
 
 “ I was awfully rude to you the other evening, Mr. Gram. 
 Please accept my apologies.” 
 
 “My dear Miss Jahrman! ” 
 
 “ I was out of sorts that day. You cannot imagine what a 
 scolding I got from Jenny, but I deserved it.” 
 
 “ Not at all. I was to blame for forcing my company upon 
 you, but it was so tempting to speak to you when I saw you and 
 heard that you were Norwegians.” 
 
 “ Of course, an adventure like that could be great fun, but 
 I spoilt it with my bad temper. I was ill, you see. My nerves 
 worry me; I can’t sleep and I can’t work, and then I get horrid 
 sometimes.” 
 
 “ Are you feeling better now? ” 
 
 “Not really. Jenny and Gunnar are working — everybody 
 works but myself. Is your work getting on all right? Aren’t 
 you pleased? Every afternoon I sit to Jenny for my picture. 
 I am having a day off today. I think she does it only to pre- 
 vent me from being alone with my thoughts. Sometimes she 
 takes me for a ride outside the walls. She is like a mother to 
 me — Mia cara mammina.” 
 
 “You are very fond of your friend? ” 
 
 “ I should think so! She is so good to me. I am delicate 
 and spoilt, and nobody but Jenny could stand me in the long 
 run. She is so clever too, intelligent and energetic. And pretty 
 — don’t you think she is lovely? You should see her hair 
 when it is let down! When I am good she lets me do it for 
 her. Here we are,” she said. 
 
 They mounted a pitch-dark staircase. 
 
 “You mustn’t mind the stairs; ours are still worse: you 
 will see for yourself when you pay us a visit. Come one 
 evening. We’ll get hold of the others and all go for a proper 
 rag. I spoilt the last one for you.” 
 
6o 
 
 JENNY 
 
 She rang a bell on the top floor. The woman who opened 
 the door looked nice and tidy. She showed them a room with 
 two beds. It looked out over a grey backyard with washing 
 hanging in the windows, but there were plants on the balconies; 
 loggias and terraces with green shrubs rose above the grey roofs. 
 
 Francesca went on talking to the woman while she examined 
 the beds and looked into the stove, and explained things to 
 Helge : 
 
 “ There’s sun here all the morning. When one bed’s moved 
 out, the room will look bigger; and the stove is all right. The 
 price is forty lire without light and fire, and two for servizio. 
 It is cheap. Shall I say you take it? You can move in to- 
 morrow, if you like.” 
 
 “ Don’t thank me. I just loved to help you,” she said, as 
 they walked down the stairs. “ I hope you will like it. Sig- 
 nora Papi is very clean, I know.” 
 
 “ It is not a common virtue here, I suppose? ” 
 
 “ No, indeed. But I don’t think the people who let rooms 
 in Christiania are much better. My sister and I lived once in 
 rooms in Holbergsgate and I had a pair of patent leather shoes 
 under the bed, but I never dared to take them out. Sometimes 
 I peeped at them under the bed; they looked like two little white 
 woolly lambs.” 
 
 “ I have no experience in that way. I have always lived at 
 home.” 
 
 Francesca burst out laughing all of a sudden. “ The signora 
 thought I was your moglie, do you know, and that we were 
 going to live there together. I said I was your cousin, but she 
 did not catch on. Cugina — it is not an accepted relationship 
 anywhere in the world, it seems.” 
 
 Both laughed. 
 
 “Would you care to go for a walk? ” asked Miss Jahrman 
 suddenly. “ Shall we go to Ponte Molle? Have you been 
 
JENNY 
 
 61 
 
 there? Is it too far? We can come back by tram.” 
 
 “ Is it not too far for you? You’re not well.” 
 
 “ It does me good to walk. ‘ You must walk more,’ says 
 Gunnar always — Mr. Heggen, you know.” 
 
 She chatted all the time, looking at him now and again to 
 see if he was amused. They took the new road along by the 
 Tiber; the yellow-grey river rolled between the green slopes. 
 Small, pearl-tinted clouds sailed over the dark shrubbery of 
 Monte Mario and the blocks of villas between the evergreen 
 trees. 
 
 Francesca nodded to a policeman and said laughingly to 
 Gram: 
 
 “ Do you know, that man has proposed to me. I used to 
 walk here very often alone, and sometimes I spoke to him, and 
 one day he proposed. The son of our tobacconist has also 
 proposed to me. Jenny says it was my own fault, and I sup- 
 pose it was.” 
 
 “ Miss Winge seems to scold you very often. She is a strict 
 mamma, I can see.” 
 
 “No, she isn’t. She only scolds me when I need scolding: 
 I wish somebody had done it long before.” She sighed. 
 “ But nobody ever did.” 
 
 Helge Gram felt quite free and easy in her company. There 
 was something very soft about her — her lissom gait, her voice, 
 and her face under the big mushroom hat. He did not quite 
 like Jenny Winge when he thought of her now; she had such 
 determined grey eyes and such an enormous appetite. Cesca 
 had just told him that she herself could hardly eat anything at 
 present. 
 
 “ Miss Winge is a very determined young lady, I should 
 think,” he said. 
 
 “No doubt about that! She has a very strong character; 
 she has always been wanting to paint, but she had to go on 
 
62 
 
 JENNY 
 
 teaching, teaching! She has had a hard time, poor Jenny. 
 You would not believe it when you see her now. She is so 
 strong, she never gives in. When I first met her at the art 
 school I thought she was very reserved, almost hard — armour- 
 plated, Gunnar called it. She was very retiring; I did not 
 know her really till we came out here. Her mother is a widow 
 for the second time — she is a Mrs. Berner — and there are 
 three more children. They had only three small rooms, im- 
 agine, and Jenny had to live in a tiny servant’s room, work and 
 study to complete her education, besides helping her mother in 
 the house and with money as well. They could not afford a 
 servant. She knew nobody and had no friends. She shuts 
 herself up, as it were, when things go badly, and does not want 
 to complain, but when she is in luck she opens her arms to 
 every one that needs comfort and support.” 
 
 Francesca’s cheeks were burning. She looked at him with 
 her big eyes. 
 
 “ All the bad luck I have had has been my own doing. I am 
 a bit hysterical, and give way to all sorts of moods. Jenny 
 gives me a talking-to; she says that if anything irreparable 
 happens to you it is always your own fault, and if you cannot 
 train your will to master your moods and impulses and so on, 
 and have not complete control of yourself, you might as well 
 commit suicide at once.” 
 
 Helge smiled at her. “ Jenny says,” and “ Gunnar says,” 
 and “ I had a friend who used to say.” How young and trust- 
 ing she seemed! 
 
 “ Don’t you think it possible that Miss Winge’s principles 
 might not apply to you? You are so different, you two. No 
 two people have the same views on life itself even.” 
 
 “ No,” she said quietly. “ But I am so fond of Jenny. I 
 need her so.” 
 
 They came to the bridge. Francesca bent over the railing. 
 Farther up the river there was a factory; its tall chimney stood 
 
JENNY 
 
 63 
 
 reflected in the swift yellow water. Behind the undulating 
 plain, far away, lay the Sabine mountains, mud-grey and bare, 
 and behind them, farther still, rose snowclad peaks. 
 
 “ Jenny has painted this with strong evening light on it. 
 The factory and the chimney are quite red. It was on a hot 
 day, when you cannot see the mountains for mist, but only a 
 few white snow-peaks in the heavy metallic blue of the sky, 
 and the clouds above the snow. It is very pretty. I must ask 
 her to show it to you.” 
 
 “ Shall we have some wine here? ” he asked. 
 
 “ It’ll soon be getting cold, but we might sit down a little.” 
 She led the way across the round piazza behind the bridge. 
 She chose an osteria with a small garden. Behind a shed with 
 chairs and tables stood a seat under some bare elms. At the 
 back of the garden was a meadow, and on the opposite side of 
 the river the slope appeared dark against the limpid sky. Fran- 
 cesca broke a twig from an elder that grew by the fence; it had 
 small green shoots, with tops blackened by the cold. 
 
 “ All the winter they stand like that, shivering with cold, 
 but when spring comes they have not been harmed.” 
 
 When she dropped the twig he picked it up and kept it. 
 They had white wine. Francesca mixed hers with water, and 
 hardly drank any of it. She smiled imploringly: 
 
 “Will you give me a cigarette?” 
 
 “ With pleasure, if you think you can stand it.” 
 
 “ I scarcely ever smoke now. Jenny has almost given it up 
 for my sake. I suppose she is making up for it tonight, though. 
 She is with Gunnar.” She laughed. “ You must not tell 
 Jenny that I smoked, promise me.” 
 
 “ I won’t,” he said, laughing too. 
 
 She smoked in silence for a while: “ I wish she and Gunnar 
 
 would marry, but I am afraid they won’t. They have always 
 been such friends. You don’t easily fall in love with a friend, 
 do you? One you knew so well before. They are very much 
 
JENNY 
 
 64 
 
 alike in character, and it is just the contrast that attracts you, 
 people say. It is stupid it should be so, I think, for it would 
 be much better to fall in love with somebody akin to you, as it 
 were; it would save all the misery and disappointment, don't 
 you think? 
 
 “ Gunnar’s home is a small farm in the country. He came 
 to Christiania, to an aunt, who took care of him, because they 
 were so poor at home. He was only nine then, and had to 
 carry the washing; his aunt kept a laundry. Later he got into 
 a factory. He’s taught himself all he knows by sheer hard 
 work. He reads a lot; he takes an interest in everything, and 
 wants to get to the bottom of it. Jenny says he even forgets to 
 paint. He has learnt Italian thoroughly; he can read any book 
 — poetry, too. 
 
 “ Jenny is the same. She has learnt heaps because it inter- 
 ested her. I can never learn out of books; reading always give 
 me a headache. But when Jenny or Gunnar tell me things, I 
 remember them. You are very clever too; do tell me about the 
 things you are studying. There is nothing I love more, and 
 I store it in my memory. 
 
 “ Gunnar has taught me- to paint too. I always loved to 
 draw; it came naturally. Three years ago I met him in the 
 mountains at home. I had gone there to sketch. I made very 
 nice pictures, quite correct, but not an ounce of art in them. 
 I could see it myself, but I could not understand the reason 
 why. I saw there was something missing in my pictures — 
 something I wanted to put into them — but did not quite know 
 what it was, and had not the least idea how to get it there. 
 
 “ I spoke to him about it, showed him my tilings. He knew 
 less than I about technique — he is only a year older than I — 
 but he could make better use of what he had learnt. Then I 
 made two pictures of a summer night in that wonderful chiaro- 
 scuro, where all the colours are so deep and yet with such a 
 strong light. They were not good, of course, but they had 
 
JENNY 
 
 6 5 
 
 something of what I had wanted. I could see they were done 
 by me and not by any little girl who had just learnt something 
 about drawing. You see what I mean? 
 
 “I’ve a subject out here — on the other way to the city. 
 We’ll go there another time. It is a road between two vine- 
 yards — quite a narrow one. In one place there are two baroque 
 gates with iron gratings, each of them with a cypress beside it. 
 I have made a couple of coloured drawings. There is a heavy 
 dark blue sky above the cypresses and clearness of green air, and 
 a star, and a faint outline of houses and cupolas in the dis- 
 tant city. I wanted the picture to be sort of stirring, you 
 see.” 
 
 Twilight began to fall upon them. Her face looked pale 
 under the brim of her hat. 
 
 “ Don’t you think I ought to get well, and be allowed to 
 work? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” he said in a low voice; “ dear. . . .” 
 
 He could hear that she was breathing heavily. They were 
 both quiet for a moment, then he said : 
 
 “ You are very fond of your friends, Miss Jahrman? ” 
 
 “ I want to like everybody, you see,” she said quietly, taking 
 a long breath. 
 
 Helge Gram bent suddenly forward and kissed her hand, 
 which rested white and small on the table. 
 
 “ Thank you,” said Francesca in a low voice, and after a 
 short pause: 
 
 “Let us go back now; it is getting cold.” 
 
 The next day when he moved into his new room a majolica 
 vase with small blue iris was standing in the sunlight on his 
 table. The signora explained that his “ cousin ” had brought 
 them. When Helge was alone he bent over the flowers and 
 kissed them one by one. 
 
66 
 
 JENNY 
 
 VI 
 
 H ELGE GRAM liked his lodgings by the Ripetta. It 
 seemed easy to do good work at the little table by the 
 window that looked out on the yard with washing and 
 flower-pots on the balconies. The people opposite had two 
 children — a boy and a girl about six and seven. When they 
 came out on their balcony they nodded and waved to him, and 
 he waved back. Lately he had taken to greeting their mother 
 too, and his nodding acquaintance with these people made him 
 feel more at home in the place. Cesca’s vase stood in front of 
 him; he kept it always filled with fresh flowers. Signora Papi 
 was quick at understanding his Italian. It was because she 
 had had Danish lodgers, Cesca said — Danes can never learn 
 foreign languages. 
 
 Whenever some errand brought the signora to his room she al- 
 ways stayed a long while chatting by the door. Mostly about his 
 cousin, “ che bella,” said Signora Papi. Once Miss Jahrman 
 had paid him a visit alone and once she came with Miss Winge, 
 each time to invite him to tea. When Signora Papi at last 
 discovered that she prevented him from working, she broke off 
 the conversation and left. Helge leaned back in his chair, 
 resting his neck on his folded hands. He thought of his room 
 at home, beside the kitchen, where he could hear his mother 
 and sister talking about him, being anxious about him or dis- 
 approving of him. He heard every word, as probably they 
 meant him to do. Every day out here was a precious gift. He 
 had peace at last and could work, work. 
 
 He spent the afternoons in libraries and museums. As often 
 as he could do so without inflicting his company too much upon 
 them, he went to late tea with the two girl artists at Via Van- 
 taggio. As a rule they were both in; sometimes there were 
 other visitors. Heggen and Ahlin were nearly always there. 
 
JENNY 
 
 67 
 
 Twice he found Miss Winge alone, and once Francesca. They 
 were always in Jenny’s room, which was cosy and warm, 
 although the windows stood wide open until the last rays of 
 light had faded. The stove glowed and sparkled, and the kettle 
 on the spirit-lamp was singing. He knew every article in the 
 room now — the drawings and photographs on the walls, the 
 flower vases, the blue tea-set, the bookshelf by the bed, and the 
 easel with Francesca’s portrait. The room was always a little 
 untidy; the table by the window was littered with tubes and 
 paint-boxes, sketch-books and sheets of drawing-paper; Jenny 
 kicked brushes and painting rags under it as she was laying 
 the tea. There was often a litter of needlework or half-darned 
 stockings on the sofa to be put away before sitting down to 
 butter the biscuits. A spirit-lamp and toilet trifles were fre- 
 quently left lying about and had to be removed. 
 
 While these preparations were going on, Gram would sit by 
 the stove and talk to Francesca, but sometimes Cesca would 
 take it into her head to be domesticated and let Jenny be lazy. 
 Jenny begged to be spared, but Cesca hustled about like a 
 whirlwind, putting all the stray articles where Jenny could not 
 find them afterwards, and ended up by putting drawing-pins 
 into pictures that would not hang straight, or curled themselves 
 on the wall, using her shoe as a hammer. 
 
 Gram could not understand Miss Jahrman at all. She was 
 always nice and friendly to him, but never as intimate and 
 confidential as on the day they had walked to Ponte Molle. 
 Sometimes she was strangely absent; she seemed not to grasp 
 what he said, although she answered kindly enough. Once or 
 twice he thought he bored her. If he asked how she was, she 
 hardly answered, and when he mentioned her picture with the 
 cypresses she said sweetly: “You must not be offended, Mr. 
 
 Gram, but I don’t care to speak of my work before it is finished. 
 Not now anyway.” 
 
 He noticed that Ahlin did not like him, and this egged him 
 
68 
 
 JENNY 
 
 on. The Swede, then, considered him a rival? He was under 
 the impression that Francesca had of late been less friendly 
 with Ahlin. 
 
 When he was by himself Helge turned over in his mind what 
 he was going to say to Francesca — in his imagination he held 
 long conversations with her. He longed for a talk like the 
 one they had that day at Ponte Molle; he wanted to tell her all 
 about himself, but when he saw her he felt nervous and awk- 
 ward. He did not know how to lead the conversation on to 
 what he wanted to say, and he was afraid of being pressing 
 or tactless; afraid to do anything that made her like him less. 
 She noticed his embarrassment, and came to the rescue with 
 chatter and laughter, and made it easy for him to joke and 
 laugh with her. He was grateful for the moment; she filled 
 the pauses with small talk and helped him along when he made 
 a start, but when he came home and thought it all over, he was 
 disappointed. Their conversation had again been about all 
 sorts of amusing trifles, nothing more. 
 
 When he was alone with Jenny Winge they always talked 
 seriously — about solid things, so to speak. Sometimes he was 
 slightly bored with these discussions on abstract matters, but 
 more often he liked to talk to her, because the conversation 
 frequently turned from general matters to things concerning 
 himself. Gradually he got into the way of telling her a great 
 deal about himself — about his work, the difficulties he en- 
 countered in life and those in himself. He noticed that Jenny 
 avoided talking about Francesca Jahrman with him, but not 
 that she scarcely ever talked about herself. 
 
 It did not occur to him that the reason why he could not 
 talk to Francesca as he talked to Jenny was that he wanted to 
 appear far more important, confident, and strong to her than 
 he really believed himself to be. 
 
 On Christmas Eve they all went to the club, and afterwards 
 to the midnight mass at S. Luigi de Franchesi. Helge found it 
 
JENNY 
 
 69 
 
 very impressive. The church was in semi-darkness, in spite 
 of the lighted chandeliers ; they hung so high that their blaze of 
 light was lost. The altar was one solitary wall of light from 
 the flashing golden flames of hundreds of wax candles, and the 
 subdued sound of the organ and the singing of the choir floated 
 through the church. He sat beside a lovely young Italian 
 woman, who took a rosary of lapis lazuli from a velvet case 
 and prayed fervently. Gradually Francesca began to mutter 
 more and more audibly. She was sitting beside Jenny in 
 front of him. 
 
 “ Let’s go, Jenny. You don’t think this gives you any sort 
 of real Christmas feeling, do you? It’s like an ordinary con- 
 cert, and a bad one at that. Listen to that man singing now 
 — absolutely no expression. His voice is absolutely done. 
 Ugh! ” 
 
 “ Hush, Cesca! Remember you are in church.” 
 
 “ Church ! It’s a concert, I tell you — didn’t we have to get 
 tickets and a program? I can’t stand it. I shall lose my 
 temper soon.” 
 
 “ We’ll go after this if you like, but do keep quiet while we 
 are here.” 
 
 “ New Year’s night last year was quite different,” said Fran- 
 cesca. “ I went to Gesu. They had the Te Deum; it was very 
 beautiful. I knelt beside an old peasant from the Campagna 
 and a young girl; she looked ill — but oh, so pretty! Every- 
 body sang; the old man knew the whole Te Deum by heart. 
 It was very solemn.” 
 
 As they made their way slowly down the crowded aisle, the 
 Ave Maria sounded through the church. 
 
 “ Ave Maria.” Francesca sniffed. “ Can’t you hear how 
 indifferent she is to what she sings — exactly like a 
 gramophone? I cannot bear to hear that kind of music 
 ill-treated.” 
 
 “ Ave Maria,” said a Dane walking beside her — “ I remem- 
 
70 JENNY 
 
 ber how beautifully it was sung by a young Norwegian lady — 
 a Miss Eck.” 
 
 “Berit Eck. Do you know her, Mr. Hjerrild?” 
 
 “ She was in Copenhagen two years ago studying under Ellen 
 Beck. I knew her quite well. Do you know her? ” 
 
 “ My sister knew her,” said Francesca. “ I think you met 
 my sister Borghild in Berlin. Do you like Miss Eck — or Mrs. 
 Hermann as she is now? ” 
 
 “ She was a very nice girl — and good-looking. Extraordi- 
 narily gifted, too, I think.” 
 
 Francesca and Hjerrild lagged behind. 
 
 Heggen, Ahlin, and Gram were to accompany the ladies 
 home and have supper. Francesca had got a big parcel from 
 home, and the table was laid with Norwegian Christmas fare, 
 decorated with daisies from the Campagna and candles in 
 seven-branched candlesticks. 
 
 Francesca came in last and brought the Dane with her. 
 
 “Wasn’t it nice, Jenny, of Mr. Hjerrild to come too? ” 
 
 There were butter and cheese, cold game and brawn and ham 
 on the table, as well as drinks for the men. Francesca sat by 
 Hjerrild, and when the conversation became more animated 
 and general she turned to speak to him. 
 
 “ Do you know the pianist, Mr. Hermann, who married Miss 
 Eck?” 
 
 “ Yes; I know him very well. I lived at the same boarding- 
 house with him in Copenhagen, and I saw him in Berlin on my 
 way here.” 
 
 “ What do you think of him ? ” 
 
 “ He is a handsome fellow, tremendously talented. He gave 
 me some of his . latest compositions — very original, I call them. 
 I like him very much.” 
 
 “Have you got them here? May I have a look at them? 
 I should like to try them on the piano at the club. I knew him 
 years ago,” said Francesca. 
 
JENNY 71 
 
 “ Oh yes. I remember now, he has a photo of you. He 
 would not say who it was.” 
 
 Heggen’s attention was drawn to their conversation. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Francesca inaudibly; “ I think I gave him a 
 photo once.” 
 
 “ All the same, he is too much of a bully for me,” said Hjer- 
 rild, “ unpardonably rude, but perhaps that is why he is ir- 
 resistible to women. Rather too plebeian for my taste.” 
 
 “ That was exactly what . . .” — she searched for the right 
 words — “ what I admired in him was that he had made his 
 way from the bottom of the ladder to where he now stands — 
 such a struggle must necessarily make one brutal, it seems to 
 me. Don’t you think that a great deal — almost anything — 
 can be excused from that point of view? ” 
 
 “ Nonsense, Cesca,” said Heggen suddenly. “ Hans Her- 
 mann was discovered when he was thirteen, and has been helped 
 along ever since.” 
 
 “ Yes, but to have to accept help always, to have to thank 
 other people for everything and always be afraid of being 
 ignored, neglected, reminded of being — as Hjerrild just said 
 — of plebeian origin.” 
 
 “ I might say the same about myself — the last, I mean.” 
 
 “ No, you cannot, Gunnar. I’m sure you have always been 
 superior to your surroundings. When you came among people 
 of higher social standing than the one you were bom to, you 
 were superior even there. You were cleverer; you had 
 greater knowledge and a finer mind. You could always feel 
 strong in the consciousness of having done it all yourself. 
 You were never obliged to thank people that you knew looked 
 down upon you because of your low birth, who snobbishly sup- 
 ported a talent which they did not understand, and who were 
 inferior, though believing they stood above you. You did not 
 have to thank people you could not feel grateful to. No, Gun- 
 nar, you cannot speak of the feelings of a man of the people, 
 
JENNY 
 
 72 
 
 because you have never had them — you don’t know what they 
 are.” 
 
 “ A man who accepts the kind of help you speak of from 
 people he cannot be grateful to is decidedly a plebeian, it seems 
 to me.” 
 
 “ Oh, but can’t you understand that one does such a thing 
 when one knows one has talent — perhaps genius — that craves 
 to be developed? It seems to me that you, who call yourself 
 a democrat, should not speak like that about lower-class in- 
 dividuals.” 
 
 “ A man who respects his talent does not want to see it 
 prostituted. As to being a democrat — social democracy is the 
 craving for justice, and justice claims that men of his type 
 should be subjugated, pressed down to the very bottom of the 
 community, chained and forgotten. The real, legitimate lower 
 class must be thoroughly subdued.” 
 
 “ A most peculiar socialism,” laughed Hjerrild. 
 
 “ There is no other for grown-up people. I don’t take into 
 account those blue-eyed, childish souls who believe that every- 
 body is good and that all evil is the fault of the community 7 . 
 If every one were good, the community would be a paradise, but 
 the vulgar souls spoil it. You find them in every 7 grade of life. 
 If they are masters, they are cruel and brutal; if they are serv- 
 ants, they are servile and cringing — and stupid. I have 
 found them among the socialists too, for that matter — well, 
 Hermann calls himself a socialist. If they find hands stretched 
 out to lift them up, they grasp them — and stamp on them 
 afterwards. If they see a troop marching past, they join it to 
 get part of the booty, but loyalty and fellowship they have none. 
 They laugh secretly at the aim, the ideal, and they hate justice, 
 for they know that if it w 7 ere to prevail they would come off 
 badly. 
 
 “ All those who are afraid of justice I call legitimately lower- 
 
JENNY 
 
 73 
 
 class, and they should be fought without mercy. If they have 
 any power with the poor and weak, they frighten and tyrannize 
 them till they too become the same. If they are poor and weak 
 themselves, they give up the struggle, and make their way by 
 begging and flattering — or plundering if they have an oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 “No, the ideal is a community governed by upper-class in- 
 dividuals, for they never fight for themselves; they know their 
 own endless resources, and they give with open hands to those 
 who are poorer. They endeavour to bring light and air to 
 every possibility for good and beauty in the inferior souls — 
 those who are neither this nor that; good when they can afford 
 it, bad when the proletariat forces them to be so. The power 
 should be in the hands of those who feel the responsibility for 
 every good impulse that is killed.” 
 
 “ You are wrong about Hans Hermann,” said Cesca quietly. 
 “ It was not for his own sake alone that he rebelled against 
 social injustice. He, too, spoke of the good impulses that were 
 wasted. When we walked about it the east end and saw the 
 pale little children, he said he would like to set fire to the ugly, 
 sad, crowded barracks where they lived.” 
 
 “ Mere talk. If the rent had been paid to him. ...” 
 
 “ For shame, Gunnar! ” said Cesca impetuously. 
 
 “ All the same he would not have been a socialist if he had 
 been born rich — but still a true proletarian.” 
 
 “ Are you sure you would have been a socialist yourself,” 
 said Cesca, “ if you had been born a count, for instance? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Heggen is a count,” said Hjerrild, laughing, “ of many 
 airy castles.” 
 
 Heggen sat silent for a minute. “ I have never felt I was 
 born poor,” he said, speaking as if to himself. 
 
 “ As to Hermann’s love for children,” said Hjerrild, “ there 
 was not much of it for his own child. And the wav he treated 
 
JENNY 
 
 74 
 
 his wife was disgraceful. He begged and pleaded till he got 
 her, but when she was going to have the baby, she had to beg 
 and implore him to marry her.” 
 
 “ Have they got a little boy? ” whispered Francesca. 
 
 “ Yes; he arrived after they had been married six weeks, 
 just the day I left Berlin. When they had been married a 
 month Hermann left her and went to Dresden. I don’t see why 
 they did not marry before, as they had agreed to divorce any- 
 how. She wanted it.” 
 
 “ How disgraceful,” said Jenny, who had been listening to 
 the conversation. “To marry with the intention to divorce! ” 
 
 “ Well,” said Hjerrild, smiling. “ When people know each 
 other in and out, and know they cannot get on, what else is 
 there to do? ” 
 
 “ Not marry at all, of course.” 
 
 “ Naturally. Free love is much better, but she had to marry. 
 She is going to give concerts in Christiania in the autumn and 
 try to get pupils. She could not do it, having the child, unless 
 she had been married.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not, but it is hateful all the same. I have no 
 sympathy with free love, if it means that people should take 
 up with each other although they presume they will tire of one 
 another. It seems to me that even to break an ordinary platonic 
 engagement is a slight stain on the one who breaks it. But if 
 one has been unfortunate enough to make a mistake, and then 
 goes through the marriage ceremony for the sake of what peo- 
 ple say, it is a blasphemy to stand there and make a promise 
 that one has agreed beforehand not to keep.” 
 
 By dawn the visitors left. Heggen stayed a second after the 
 others had gone. Jenny opened the balcony doors to let out 
 the smoke. The sky was grey, with a pale, reddish light ap- 
 pearing above the housetops. Heggen went up to her: 
 
 “ Thanks so much. We’ve had a pleasant Christmas. What 
 are you thinking of? ” 
 
JENNY 
 
 75 
 
 “ That it is Christmas morning. I wonder if they got my 
 parcel at home in time.” 
 
 “ I daresay they did. You sent it on the eleventh, didn’t 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ I did. It was always so nice on Christmas morning to go 
 in and look at the tree and the presents in daylight — but I 
 was young then,” she added, smiling. “ They say there’s been 
 lots of snow this winter. I suppose the children are tobaggan- 
 ing in the mountains today.” 
 
 “ Yes, probably,” said Heggen. “ You are getting cold. 
 Good-night, and thanks again.” 
 
 “ Good-night, and a happy Christmas to you, Gunnar.” 
 
 They shook hands. She stayed by the window a little while 
 after he had gone. 
 
 NE day during Christmas week Gram went into a 
 
 overcoat, he heard Heggen say: 
 
 “ I don’t like that man.” 
 
 “ No; he is disgusting,” said Jenny, sighing. 
 
 “ It is not good for her either — with this sirocco blowing 
 She will be a rag tomorrow. I suppose she does not work at 
 all — only walks about with that fellow?” 
 
 “Work, no! But I can do nothing. She walks from here 
 to Viterbo with him in those thin slippers of hers, in spite of 
 the cold and the sirocco — only because the man can tell her 
 about Hans Hermann.” 
 
 Gram greeted them as he passed. They made a movement 
 as if inviting him to sit at their table, but he pretended not to 
 see, and sat down farther up the room with his back to them. 
 He understood that they were speaking about Francesca. 
 
 VII 
 
 trattoria. Heggen and Jenny were sitting at a table, 
 but they did not see him. As he was taking off his 
 
76 
 
 JENNY 
 
 He was almost a daily visitor now at the Via Vantaggio; he 
 could not help it. Miss Winge was always alone, reading or 
 sewing, and seemed pleased to see him. He thought she had 
 changed a little of late; she was not so determined or so ready 
 with her opinions as she used to be; not so inclined to argue 
 and to lay down the law. She seemed almost a little sad. He 
 asked her once if she were not quite well. 
 
 “ Yes, I am very well, thank you. Why do you ask? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know — you seem so quiet nowadays.” 
 
 She had lighted the lamp meanwhile, and he noticed that 
 she blushed. 
 
 “ I may have to go home soon. My sister is ill with pneu- 
 monia, and my mother is so upset about it. I am very sorry to 
 go,” she added after a pause. “ I should have liked to stay 
 for the spring at least.” 
 
 She sat down to her needlework. He wondered in his mind 
 if it was Heggen — he had never been able to find out if there 
 was an understanding between them. For the present, Heggen, 
 who was said to be rather impressionable generally, was very 
 much attached to a young Danish nurse staying in Rome with 
 an elderly lady. It seemed so strange that she should blush ; it 
 was not like her. 
 
 Francesca came in that evening before he left. He had not 
 seen her much since Christmas Eve, but enough to understand 
 that he was quite indifferent to her. She was never in a temper, 
 or childishly impetuous; she went about as if she did not see 
 anybody, her mind completely absorbed by something or other. 
 At times she seemed almost to walk in a trance. 
 
 He saw a great deal of Jenny; he went to the trattoria where 
 she used to have her meals, and also to her rooms. He scarcely 
 knew why, but he felt he wanted to see her. 
 
 One afternoon Jenny went into Francesca’s room to look for 
 some turpentine. Francesca always took whatever she needed 
 from Jenny’s belongings, but she never put the things back. 
 
JENNY 
 
 77 
 
 Cesca was lying on the bed sobbing, with her head deep in the 
 pillow. Jenny had not heard her come in. 
 
 “ My dear, what is the matter ? Are you ill ? ” 
 
 “No, but please go away, Jenny, do! I won’t tell you; 
 you’ll only say it’s my own fault.” 
 
 Jenny understood it was no good talking to her when she was 
 in that state, but at tea-time she knocked at her door. Cesca 
 thanked her, but did not want any tea. 
 
 That night, when Jenny was reading in bed, Cesca suddenly 
 came into the room in her nightdress. Her eyes were red and 
 swollen with crying. 
 
 “ May I sleep with you tonight? I don’t want to be alone.” 
 
 Jenny made room for her. She did not like the idea of shar- 
 ing her bed, but Cesca used to come when she was very unhappy 
 and ask to be allowed to sleep with her. 
 
 “ Go on reading, Jenny; I won’t disturb you. I shall lie 
 very still here by the wall.” 
 
 Jenny pretended to read for some time. Now and then a 
 sigh like a sob was heard from Francesca. 
 
 “ Shall I put out the lamp, or would you like it burning? ” 
 Jenny asked. 
 
 “ No, put it out, please.” 
 
 In the dark she put her arm round Jenny and told her, sob- 
 bing, that she had been to the Campagna again with Hjerrild, 
 and he had kissed her. At first she had just scolded him a 
 little, thinking it was only fun, but he soon became so disgust- 
 ing that she got angry. “ And he wanted me to go and stay 
 at an hotel with him tonight. He said it exactly as he would 
 have asked me to go to a confectioner’s with him. I was 
 furious, and he got very angry and said some nasty, horrid 
 things.” She shivered as in a fever. “ He spoke about Hans 
 — he said that Hans, when he showed him my picture, had 
 spoken to him about me in such a way as to make Hjerrild 
 believe — you know what I mean ? ” She nestled close to 
 
JENNY 
 
 78 
 
 Jenny. “Can you understand it — for I don’t — that I still 
 care for that cad of a man? Hans had not mentioned my 
 name, though, and he did not imagine, of course, that Hjerrild 
 would meet me or know me from the photograph; it was taken 
 when I was eighteen.” 
 
 Jenny’s birthday was on the seventeenth of January. She and 
 Francesca were having a dinner-party in the Campagna, in a 
 small osteria in the Via Appia Nuova. Ahlin, Heggen, Gram, 
 and Miss Palm, the Danish nurse, made up the party. 
 
 From the tram terminus they walked two and two along the 
 sunny, white road. Spring was in the air, the brown Campagna 
 had a greyish-green tinge; the daisies, which had been blos- 
 soming more or less all the winter, began to spread all over in 
 silvery spots, and the impatient clusters of tender green shoots 
 on the elder bushes along the fences had grown. 
 
 The larks hung trembling high up in the blue-white sky, 
 and there was a haze over the city and the ugly, red blocks of 
 houses it had sprinkled over the plain. Beyond the massive 
 arches of the canal, the Alban mountains, with small white 
 villages, showed faintly through the mist. 
 
 Jenny walked in front with Gram, who carried her grey dust- 
 coat. She was radiantly beautiful in a black silk dress; he had 
 never seen her in anything but her grey dress or coat and skirt. 
 It seemed to him almost as if he walked with a new and strange 
 woman. Her waist was so small in the shiny black material 
 that her form above it seemed round and supple; the bodice 
 was cut open in a deep square in front, and her hair and skin 
 were dazzlingly fair. She wore a big black hat, in which he 
 had seen her before, but without specially noticing it. Even 
 her pink beads looked quite different with the black dress. 
 
 They ate out of doors in the sunshine under the vine, which 
 threw a shadow in the form of a fine bluish net over 
 the tablecloth. Miss Palm and Heggen wanted to decorate 
 
JENNY 
 
 79 
 
 the table with daisies; the macaroni was quite ready, but the 
 others had to wait until they came back with the decorations. 
 The food was good and the wine was excellent; Cesca had 
 brought fruit, and coffee, which she was going to make herself, 
 to make sure it should be good. After dinner Miss Palm and 
 Heggen investigated marble reliefs and inscriptions that had 
 been found on the site and fitted into the masonry of the house. 
 After a while they disappeared round a comer. Ahlin re- 
 mained sitting at the table smoking, his eyes half shut against 
 the glare. 
 
 The osteria lay at the foot of a small hill. Gram and Jenny 
 walked up the slope at random. She picked small wild flowers 
 that grew in the yellow earth. 
 
 “ There are masses of these at Monte Testaccio. Have you 
 been there, Mr. Gram? ” 
 
 “ Yes, several times. I went there yesterday to have a look 
 at the Protestant cemetery. The camelia trees are covered with 
 blossoms, and in the old part I found anemones in the grass.” 
 
 “ Yes, they are out now. Somewhere at Via Cassia, beyond 
 Ponte Molle, there are lots of them. Gunnar gave me some 
 almond blossoms this morning; they have them already at the 
 Spanish stairs, but I daresay they are forced.” 
 
 They reached the top and began strolling about. Jenny 
 walked with her eyes on the ground; the short grass was spring- 
 ing up everywhere, and variegated thistle-leaves and some big, 
 silver-grey ones were basking in the sun. They walked to- 
 wards a solitary wall, which rose out of a mound of gravel; the 
 Campagna extended around them in every direction, grey-green 
 below the light spring skies and the warbling larks. Its bound- 
 aries were lost in the haze of the sun. The city beyond them 
 seemed a mirage only, the mountains and the clouds melted to- 
 gether, and the yellow arches of the canal appeared, only to 
 vanish again in the mist. The countless ruins were reduced 
 
8o 
 
 JENNY 
 
 to small, glistening pieces of walls, strewn about on the green, 
 and pines and eucalyptus trees by the red or ochre houses stood 
 solitary and dark on this fine day of early spring. 
 
 “ Do you remember the first morning I was here, Miss Winge? 
 I imagined I was disappointed, and I believed it to be because 
 I had longed so much and dreamt so much that everything I 
 was going to see would be colourless and poor, compared to my 
 dreams. Have you noticed how on a summer day, when you 
 lie in the sun with your eyes closed, all colours seem grey and 
 faded when you first open them? It is because the eyes are 
 weakened by not being used and cannot at once grasp the com- 
 plexity of the colours as they really are; the first impression is 
 incomplete and poor. Do you understand what I mean? ” 
 
 Jenny nodded. 
 
 “ It was my case in the beginning here. I was overwhelmed 
 by Rome. Then I saw you passing by, tall and fair and a 
 stranger. I did not pay any attention to Francesca then — 
 not till we were in the tavern. When I sat there with you, 
 who were all strange to me — it was really the first time such 
 a thing happened to me. Up till then my association with 
 strangers had been only an occasional meeting on my way be- 
 tween school and home. I was confused; it seemed impossible 
 to speak to people. I almost longed for home and all it meant 
 — and I longed for Rome as I knew it from hearsay and from 
 pictures. I thought I could not settle down to anything but 
 look at pictures made by others — read books other men had 
 written — made the best use of the work of others and live in 
 a world of fiction. I felt desperately lonely among you. You 
 once said something about being lonely; I understand now what 
 you meant. 
 
 “ Do you see that tower over there? I went there yesterday. 
 It is the remnant of a fortress from the Middle Ages, from 
 feudal times. There are a good many of them in the city and 
 round about. You see sometimes an almost windowless wall 
 
JENNY 81 
 
 built in between the houses in a street. It is a bit of the Rome 
 of the robber barons. We know comparatively little about that 
 time, but I am very interested in it at present. I find in the 
 records names of dead people, of whom sometimes nothing is 
 known but their names, and I long to know more about them. 
 I dream of Rome in the Middle Ages, when they fought in the 
 street with fierce cries, and the town was full of robber-castles, 
 where their womenfolk were shut up — daughters of those wild 
 beasts and with their blood in their veins. Sometimes they 
 broke away from their prison and mixed in the life, such as it 
 was, inside the red-black walls. We know so little about those 
 times, and the German professors do not take great interest in 
 them, because they cannot be remade so as to convey abstract 
 ideas; they are simply naked facts. 
 
 “ What a mighty current of life has washed over this country! 
 — breaking into billows round every spot with town and castle 
 on it. And yet the mountains rise above it bare and desolate. 
 Think of the endless number of ruins here in the Campagna 
 only; of the stacks of books written on the history of Italy — 
 and on the history of the whole world for that matter — and 
 think of the hosts of dead people we know. Yet the result of 
 all these waves of life, rolling one after the other, is very, very 
 small. It is all so wonderful! 
 
 “ I have talked to you so often and you have talked to me; 
 yet I don’t really know you. You are just as much a mystery 
 to me as that tower. — I wish you could see how your hair shines 
 where you are standing now. It is glorious. 
 
 “ Has it ever struck you that you have never seen your face? 
 Only the reflection of it in the glass. We can never see what 
 our face looks like when we sleep or shut our eyes — isn’t it 
 odd? It was my birthday the day I met you; today it is yours. 
 Are you glad to be twenty-eight, you who think that every year 
 completed is a gain? ” 
 
 “ I did not say that. I said that you may have had so much 
 
82 JENNY 
 
 to go through the first twenty-five years of your life that you 
 are glad they are over.” 
 
 “ And now? ” 
 
 “Now. . . 
 
 “ Yes; do you know exactly what you want to attain during 
 the next year — what use you are going to make of it? Life 
 seems to me so overwhelmingly rich in possibilities that even 
 you, with all your strength, cannot avail yourself of them. 
 Does it ever occur to you, and does it make you sad, Jenny? ” 
 
 She only smiled in answer, and looked down. She threw the 
 end of her cigarette on the ground and put her foot on it; her 
 white ankle showed through the thin black stocking. She fol- 
 lowed with her eyes a pack of sheep running down the opposite 
 slope. 
 
 “ We are forgetting the coffee, Mr. Gram — I am sure they 
 are waiting for us.” 
 
 They returned to the osteria in silence; on the slope, which 
 stretched right down to where they had been lunching, they 
 noticed that Ahlin was lying forward over the table, his head 
 on his arms. Francesca in her bright green gown bent over 
 him, her arms round his neck, trying to lift his head. 
 
 “Oh, don’t, Lennart! Don’t cry. I will love you. I will 
 marry you — do you hear? — but you must not cry like that. 
 I will marry you, and I think I can be fond of you, only don’t 
 be so miserable.” 
 
 Ahlin sobbed: “No, no — not if you don’t love me, Cesca; 
 
 I don’t want you to. . . .” 
 
 Jenny turned and went back along the slope. Gram noticed 
 that she flushed a deep red down to her neck. A path took 
 them down by the other side of the house into the orchard. 
 Heggen and Miss Palm were chasing each other round the little 
 fountain, splashing each other with water. Miss Palm shrieked 
 with laughter. Helge saw the colour again mount to Jenny’s 
 
JENNY 83 
 
 face and neck as he walked behind her between the vegetable 
 beds. Heggen and Miss Palm had made peace. 
 
 “The same old round,” said Helge; “take your partners.” 
 
 Jenny nodded, with the shadow of a smile. 
 
 The atmosphere at the coffee-table was somewhat strained. 
 Miss Palm alone was in good spirits. Francesca tried to make 
 conversation while they were sipping their liqueurs, and, as 
 soon as she decently could, proposed that they should go for a 
 walk. 
 
 The three couples made for the Campagna, the distance be- 
 tween them increasing, until they lost sight of one another alto- 
 gether among the hills. Jenny walked with Gram. 
 
 “ Where are we going really ? ” she said. 
 
 “ W’e might go to the Egeria grotto, for instance.” 
 
 The grotto lay in quite an opposite direction to the one 
 chosen by the others. They started to walk across the scorched 
 slopes to the Bosco Sacro, where the ancient cork trees stretched 
 their dark foliage to the burning sun. 
 
 “ I ought to have put on my hat,” said Jenny, passing a hand 
 over her hair. The ground of the sacred grove was covered 
 with bits of paper and other litter; on the stump of a tree near 
 the edge two ladies were seated, doing crochet work, and some 
 little English boys played hide-and-seek behind the massive 
 trunks. Jenny and Gram turned out of the grove and walked 
 down the slope towards the ruin. 
 
 “ Is it worth while going down? ” said Jenny, and without 
 waiting for an answer, sat down on the slope. 
 
 “No; let us stay here,” and Helge lay down at her feet on 
 the short, dry grass, took off his hat, and, steadying himself on 
 his elbow, looked up at her in silence. 
 
 “How old is she?” he asked suddenly. “I mean Cesca.” 
 
 “ Twenty-six.” She sat looking at the view in front of her. 
 
 “ I am not sorry,” he said quietly. “ You have noticed it, I 
 
JENNY 
 
 84 
 
 daresay. A month ago I might have. . . . She was so sweet 
 to me once, so kind and confidential, and I was not used to that 
 kind of thing. I took it as — well, as I’invitation å la valse, 
 you see, but now ... I still think she is sweet, but I don’t 
 mind in the least if she dances with somebody else.” 
 
 He was lying looking at her: “ I believe it is you, Jenny, 
 
 I am in love with,” he said suddenly. 
 
 She turned half-way towards him, with a faint smile, and 
 shook her head. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Helge firmly; “ I think so. I don’t know for 
 certain, for I have never been in love before — I know that now 
 — although I have been engaged once.” He smiled to himself. 
 “ It was one of my blunders in the old foolish days. 
 
 “ This, I am sure, is love. It was you, Jenny, I saw that 
 evening — not her. I noticed you already in the afternoon 
 when you crossed the Corso. I stood there thinking that life 
 was new, full of adventure, and just then you passed me, fair 
 and slender, and stranger. Later, when I had wandered about 
 in this foreign town, I met you again. I also noticed Cesca, 
 of course, and no wonder I was a little flustered for a moment, 
 but it was you I saw first. And now we are sitting here to- 
 gether — we two.” 
 
 Her hand was close to him as she sat leaning on it ; suddenly 
 he stroked it — and she drew it away. 
 
 “ You are not cross with me, are you? It is really nothing 
 to be cross about. Why should I not tell you that I believe I 
 am in love with you ? I could not resist touching your hand — 
 I wanted to feel that it was real, for it seems to me so won- 
 derful that you are sitting here. I do not really know you, 
 though we have talked about many things. I know that you 
 are clever, level-headed, and energetic — and good and truthful, 
 but I knew that the moment I saw you and heard your voice. 
 I don’t know any more about you now, but there is of course a 
 great deal more to learn — and perhaps I shall never learn it. 
 
JENNY 
 
 85 
 
 But I can see for myself, for instance, that your silk skirt is 
 glowing hot, and that if I laid my face in your lap I should 
 burn myself.” 
 
 She made an involuntary movement with her hand across her 
 lap. 
 
 “ It attracts the sun; there are sparks in your hair, and the 
 sunrays filter through your eyes. Your mouth is quite trans- 
 parent; it looks like a raspberry in the sun.” 
 
 She smiled, looking a little embarrassed. 
 
 “ Will you give me a kiss? ” he said suddenly. 
 
 ” ‘ L’ invitation å la valse?’” She smiled lightly. 
 
 “ I don’t know — but you cannot be cross with me because 
 I ask you for one single little kiss — on a day like this. I am 
 only telling you what I am longing for, and, after all, why 
 could you not do it ? ” 
 
 She did not move. 
 
 “ Is there any reason why not? — I shall not try to kiss you, 
 but I cannot see why you should not bend down for a second 
 and give me a tiny little kiss as you sit there with the sun right 
 on your lips. It is no more to you than when you pat a bam- 
 bino on the head and give him a soldo. It is nothing to you, 
 Jenny, and to me it is all I wish for — just this moment I long 
 for it so much,” he said, smiling. 
 
 She bent suddenly down and kissed him. Only for a second 
 did he feel her hair and lips brush his cheek, and he saw the 
 movement of her body under the black silk as she bent down 
 and rose again. Her face, he noticed, which was smiling 
 serenely as she kissed him, now looked embarrassed, almost 
 frightened. He did not move, but lay still, musing contentedly 
 in the sunshine. She became herself again. 
 
 “ There, you see,” he said at last laughingly, “ your mouth 
 is exactly as before; the sun is shining on your lips, right into 
 the blood. It was nothing to you — and I am so happy. You 
 must not believe that I want you to think of me — I only want 
 
86 
 
 JENNY 
 
 you to let me think of you, while you may sit and think of 
 anything in the world. Others may dance — to me this is 
 much better — if only I may look at you.” 
 
 They were both silent. Jenny sat with her face turned away, 
 looking at the Campagna bathing in the sun. 
 
 As they walked back to the osteria, Helge chatted merrily 
 about all sorts of things, telling her about the learned Germans 
 he had met in the course of his work. Jenny stole a glance 
 at him now and again; he used not to be like that, so free and 
 easy. He was really handsome as he walked, looking straight 
 ahead, and his light brown eyes were radiant like amber in the 
 sun. 
 
 VIII 
 
 J ENNY did not light the lamp when she got in, but, put- 
 ting on an evening cloak in the dark, she went out to sit 
 on the balcony. The night was cold, the skies stretched 
 over the roofs like black velvet, covered with glittering stars. 
 He had said when they parted : “ I may come up tomorrow and 
 
 ask you to go with me for a trip in the Campagna? ” 
 
 Well, nothing had really happened — she had merely given 
 him a kiss, but it was the first kiss she had ever given to a 
 man, and it had not happened in the way she had expected. 
 It was almost a joke — kissing him like that. She was not in 
 love with him, yet she had kissed him. She had hesitated and 
 thought: I have never kissed, and then a strange sensation of 
 
 indifference and soft languor stole over her. Why be so 
 ridiculously solemn about it? — and she did it — why not? It 
 did not matter; he had asked for it quite candidly, because he 
 thought he was in love with her and the sun was bright. He 
 had not asked her to love him, and he had made no further 
 advances; he had not claimed anything, only that one little 
 kiss, and she had given it without a word. It was altogether 
 beautiful; she had done nothing to be ashamed of. 
 
JENNY 
 
 87 
 
 She was twenty-eight, and she would not deny to herself 
 that she longed to love and to be loved by a man, to nestle in 
 his arms, young, healthy, and good to look upon as she was. 
 Her blood was hot and she was yearning, but she had eyes that 
 saw clearly, and she had never lied to herself. She had met 
 men now and then and had asked herself: Is he the man? — 
 
 one or two of them she might have loved if she had tried, if she 
 could have closed her eyes to the one little thing that always 
 was there, making her feel an opposition which she had to 
 master. She had not met any one whom she felt compelled 
 to love, so had not risked it. Cesca would let one man after 
 another kiss and fondle her, and it made no difference; it 
 merely grazed her lips and skin. Not even Hans Hermann, 
 whom she loved, could warm her strangely thin, chilly blood. 
 
 She herself was different; her blood was red and hot, and the 
 joy she coveted should be fiery, consuming, but spotlessly clean. 
 She would be loyal and true to the man to whom she gave her- 
 self, but he must know how to take her wholly, to possess her 
 body and soul, so that not a single possibility in her would be 
 wasted or left neglected in some corner of her soul — to decay 
 and fester. No, she dared not, would not be reckless — not 
 she. Yet she could understand those who did not trouble their 
 heads about such things; who did not subdue one instinct and 
 call it bad, and give in to another, calling it good, or renounce 
 all the cheap little joys of life, saving up all for the great joy 
 that after all might never come. She was not so sure herself 
 that her road led to the goal — not sure enough not to be im- 
 pressed sometimes by people who quite cynically admitted that 
 they had no road, no goal, and that to have ideals and morals 
 was like trying to catch the moon on the water. 
 
 Once, many years ago, a man had asked her one night to 
 go with him to his rooms, much in the same way as he would 
 have offered to take her out to tea. It was no temptation to 
 her — she knew, besides, that her mother was waiting up for 
 
88 
 
 JENNY 
 
 her, which made it quite impossible. She knew the man very 
 slightly, did not like him, and was cross because he was to 
 see her home; and it was not because her senses were stirred, 
 but from purely mental curiosity, that she turned the question 
 for a moment over in her mind: what if she did? — what would 
 be her feelings if she threw overboard will, self-control, and 
 her old faith? A voluptuously exciting shiver ran through her 
 at the thought. Was that kind of life more pleasant than 
 her own? She was not pleased with hers that evening; she 
 had again sat watching those who danced, she had tasted the 
 wine and had listened to the music, and she had felt the dread- 
 ful loneliness of being young and not knowing how to dance 
 or how to speak the language of the other young people and 
 share their laughter, but she had tried to smile and look and 
 talk as if she enjoyed it. And when she walked home in the 
 icy-cold spring night she knew that at eight o’clock next morn- 
 ing she had to be at the school to act as substitute for one of 
 the teachers. She was working that time at her big picture, 
 but everything she did seemed dull and meaningless, and at six 
 o’clock she had to go home and teach mathematics to her private 
 pupils. She was very hard worked; she sometimes felt her 
 nerves strained to the utmost, and did not know how she would 
 be able to carry on till the long vacation. 
 
 For an instant she felt herself drawn by the man’s cynicism 
 — or thought she was — but she smiled at him and said “ no ” 
 in the same dry and direct way that he had asked her. He 
 was a fool, after all, for he began preaching to her — first com- 
 monplace flattery, then sentimental nonsense about youth and 
 spring, the right and freedom of passion, and the gospel of the 
 flesh, until she simply laughed at him and hailed a passing 
 cab. 
 
 And now — she was old enough now to understand those who 
 brutally refused to deny themselves anything in life — who 
 simply gave in and drifted, but the greenhorns, who boasted of 
 
JENNY 
 
 89 
 
 having a mission to fill, when they enjoyed life after their 
 fashion, the champions of the eternal rights of nature, who did 
 not trouble to brush their teeth or clean their nails — they could 
 not impose on her. 
 
 She would be true to her own old moral code, which aimed 
 at truth and self-control, and originated from the time she was 
 sent to school. She was not like the other children; even her 
 clothes were unlike theirs, and her little soul was very, very 
 different. She lived with her mother, who had been left a 
 widow at the age of twenty, and had nothing in the world but 
 her little daughter. Her father had died before she was old 
 enough to remember him. He was in his grave and in heaven, 
 but in reality he lived with them, for his picture hung above 
 the piano and heard and saw everything they said and did. 
 Her mother spoke of him constantly, telling her what he thought 
 of everything and what Jenny might or must not do because of 
 father. Jenny spoke of him as if she knew him, and at night, 
 in bed, she spoke to him, and to God as one who was always 
 with father and agreed with him about everything. 
 
 She remembered her first day at school, and smiled at the 
 recollection. Her mother had taught her herself until she was 
 eight years old. She used to explain things to Jenny by com- 
 parison; a cape, for instance, was likened to a small point near 
 the town, which Jenny knew well, so when the teacher asked 
 her in the geography lesson to name some Norwegian capes, she 
 answered without hesitation: “ Naesodden.” The teacher 
 
 smiled and all the pupils laughed. “ Signe,” said the teacher, 
 and another girl stood up briskly to answer: “ Nordkap, 
 
 Lindesnaes, Stat.” Jenny smiled in a superior way, not heed- 
 ing their laughter. She had never had child friends, and she 
 never made any. 
 
 She had smiled indifferently at their sneering and teasing, but 
 a quiet, implacable hatred grew in her towards the other chil- 
 dren, who to her mind formed one compact mass, a many-headed 
 
90 
 
 JENNY 
 
 savage beast. The consuming rage which filled her when they 
 tormented her was always hidden behind a scornful, indifferent 
 smile. Once she had nearly cried her eyes out with rage and 
 misery, and when on one or two occasions she had lost control 
 of herself, she had seen their triumph. Only by putting on 
 an air of placid, irritating indifference could she hold her own 
 against them. 
 
 In the upper form she made friends with one or two girls; 
 she was then at an age when no child can bear to be unlike 
 others, and she tried to copy them. These friendships, however, 
 did not give her much joy. She remembered how they made 
 fun of her when they discovered that she played with dolls. 
 She disowned her beloved children and said they belonged to 
 her little sisters. 
 
 There was a time when she wanted to go on the stage. She 
 and her friends were stage-struck; they sold their school books 
 and their confirmation brooches to buy tickets, and night after 
 night they went to the gallery of the theatre. One day she told 
 her friends how she would act a certain part that interested 
 them. They burst out laughing; they had always known she 
 was conceited, but not that she was a megalomaniac. Did she 
 really believe that she could become an artist, she, who could 
 not even dance? It would be a pretty sight indeed to see her 
 walk up and down the stage with that tall, stiff skeleton of 
 hers. 
 
 No, she could not dance. When she was quite a child her 
 mother used to play to her, and she twisted and turned, tripped 
 and curtseyed as she liked, and her mother called her a little 
 linnet. She thought of her first party, how she had arrived full 
 of anticipation, happy in a new white dress which her mother 
 had made after an old English picture. She remembered how 
 she stiffened all over when she began to dance. That stiffness 
 never quite left her; when she tried to learn dancing by herself 
 her soft, slim body became stiff as a poker. She was no good 
 
JENNY 
 
 9i 
 
 at it. She was very anxious to go to a dancing class, but it 
 never came to anything. 
 
 She laughed at the recollection of her school friends. She 
 had met two of them at the exhibition at home, the first time 
 she had got one of her pictures hung and a few lines of praise in 
 the papers. She was with some other artists — Heggen was 
 one of them — when they came up to congratulate her: 
 “Didn’t we always say you’d be an artist? We were all sure 
 that some day we should hear more of you.” 
 
 She had smiled: “Yes, Ella; so was I.” 
 
 Lonely! She had been lonely ever since her mother met 
 Mr. Berner, who worked with her in the same office. She was 
 about ten at that time, but she understood at once that her 
 dead father had departed from their home. His picture was 
 still hanging there, but he was gone, and it dawned upon her 
 what death really meant. The dead existed only in the mem- 
 ory of others, who had the power conditionally to end their 
 poor shadow life — and they were gone for ever. 
 
 She understood why her mother became young and pretty 
 and happy again; she noticed the expression on her face when 
 Berner rang the bell. She was allowed to stay in the room and 
 listen to their talk ; it was never about things the child could not 
 hear, and they did not send her out of the room when they 
 were together in her home. In spite of the jealousy in her 
 little heart, she understood that there were many things a 
 grown-up mother could not speak about with a little girl, and a 
 strong feeling of justice developed in her. She did not wish 
 to be angry with her mother, but it hurt very much all the 
 same. 
 
 She was too proud to show it, and when her mother in mo- 
 ments of self-reproach suddenly overwhelmed her child with 
 tenderness and care, she remained cold and passive. She said 
 not a word when her mother wanted her to call Berner father 
 ^nd said how fond he was of her. In the night she .tried to 
 
JENNY 
 
 92 
 
 speak to her own father, with a passionate longing to keep him 
 alive, but she felt she could not do it alone; she knew him only 
 through her mother. By and by Jens Winge became dead to 
 her too, and since he had been the centre of her conception of 
 God, and heaven, and eternal life, all these faded away with 
 his picture. She remembered quite distinctly how, at thirteen, 
 she had listened to the Scriptures at school without believing 
 anything, and because the others in her form believed in God 
 and were afraid of the devil, and yet were cowardly and cruel, 
 and mean and common — in her opinion at least — religion 
 became to her something despicable, cowardly, something as- 
 sociated with them. 
 
 She got to like Nils Berner against her will; she preferred 
 him almost to her mother in the first period of their married 
 life. He claimed no authority over his step-daughter, but by 
 his wise and kind, frank ways he won her over. She was the 
 child of the woman he loved — that was reason enough for him 
 to be fond of Jenny. 
 
 She had much to thank her stepfather for; how much, she 
 had not understood till now. He had fought and conquered 
 much that was distorted and morbid in her. When she lived 
 alone with her mother in the hothouse air of tenderness, care, 
 and dreams, she had been a nervous child, afraid of dogs, of 
 trams, of matches — afraid of everything — and she was sensi- 
 tive to bodily pain. Her mother dared scarcely let her go 
 alone to school. 
 
 The first thing Berner did was to take the girl with him to 
 the woods; Sunday after Sunday they went to Nordmarken, in 
 broiling sunshine or pouring rain, in the thaws of spring, and 
 in winter on ski. Jenny, who was used to conceal her feel- 
 ings, tried not to show how tired and nervous she was, and 
 after a time she did not feel it. 
 
 Berner taught her to use map and compass, he talked to her 
 as to a friend, and he taught her to observe the signs of wind 
 
JENNY 
 
 93 
 
 and clouds, which brought about a change in the weather, 
 and to reckon time and distance by the sun. He made her 
 familiar with animals and plants — root and stalk, leaf and 
 bud, blossom and fruit. Her sketch-book and his camera were 
 always in their knapsack. 
 
 All the kindness and devotion her stepfather had put into this 
 work of education she appreciated now for the first time — for 
 he was a well-known ski-runner and mountaineer in the Jotun- 
 heim and Nordlandstinderne. 
 
 He had promised to take her there too. The summer when 
 she was fifteen, she went with him grouse-shooting. Her mother 
 could not go with them: she was expecting the little brother by 
 that time. 
 
 They stayed in a solitary mountain saeter below Rondane. 
 She had never been so happy in all her life as when she awoke 
 in her tiny bunk. She hurried out to make coffee for her step- 
 father, and he took her to the Ronde peaks, into the Styg moun- 
 tains, and on fishing tours; and they went down together to the 
 valley for provisions. When he was out shooting, she bathed 
 in the cold mountain brooks and went for endless walks on the 
 moors; or sat in the porch knitting and dreaming, weaving 
 romances about a fair saeter maiden and a huntsman, who was 
 very like Berner, but young and handsome, and who could tell 
 about hunting and mountaineering like Berner used to do in 
 the evening by the fire. And he should promise to give her a 
 gun and take her up to unknown mountain-tops. 
 
 She remembered how tormented, ashamed, and unhappy she 
 was when she knew that her mother was going to have a baby. 
 She tried to hide her thoughts from her mother, but she knew 
 she only partly succeeded. Berner’s anxiety about his wife 
 as the time drew near brought a change in her feelings. He 
 spoke to her about it: “I am so afraid, Jenny, because I love 
 
 your mother so dearly,” and he told her that when she herself 
 was born her mother was very ill. The belief that her mother’s 
 
JENNY 
 
 94 
 
 condition was unclean and unnatural left her when he spoke, 
 but with it went also the feeling that the bond between her 
 mother and herself was mysterious, supernatural. It became 
 everyday, commonplace; she had been born and her mother had 
 suffered; she had been small and needed her mother, and be- 
 cause of that her mother had loved her. Another little child 
 was soon coming, who needed her mother more. Jenny -felt 
 she had grown up all at once; she sympathized with her mother 
 as well as with Berner, and comforted him in a precocious 
 way: “ It will pass off quite well; it always does, you know. 
 
 They scarcely ever die of it.” 
 
 When she saw her mother with the new child, who took all 
 her time and care, Jenny felt very forlorn, and she cried, but 
 by and by she became very fond of the baby, especially when 
 little Ingeborg was over a year old and was the sweetest, dark- 
 est little gipsy doll you could imagine — and her mother had 
 another tiny infant. 
 
 She had never considered the Berner children as her sisters; 
 they were exactly like their father. Her relationship to them 
 was more that of an aunt — she felt herself almost as an 
 elderly, sensible aunt to her mother as well as to the children. 
 
 When the accident happened her mother was younger and 
 weaker than she. Mrs. Winge had become young again in her 
 second happy marriage, and she was a little tired and worn 
 after her three confinements in the comparatively short time. 
 Nils was only five months old when his father died. 
 
 Berner fell one summer when out mountaineering, and w r as 
 killed on the spot. Jenny was then sixteen. Her mother’s 
 grief was boundless; she had loved her husband and been 
 worshipped by him. Jenny tried to help her as much as she 
 could. How deeply she herself mourned her stepfather she 
 never told anybody; she knew that she had lost the best friend 
 she had ever had. 
 
 When she had finished school she began to take drawing 
 
JENNY 
 
 95 
 
 lessons, and helped her mother in the house. Berner had al- 
 ways been interested in her drawings; he had been the first to 
 teach her perspective and such things — all he knew about it 
 himself. He had believed she had some talent. 
 
 They could not afford to keep his dog. The two little pup- 
 pies were sold, and Mrs. Berner thought Leddy ought to be 
 sold too — it cost so much to feed her. But Jenny objected; 
 nobody should have the dog, which was mourning for its mas- 
 ter, if they could not keep it, and she had her way. She took 
 the dog herself one evening to Mr. Iversnaes, Berner’s friend, 
 who shot and buried Leddy. 
 
 What Berner had been to her — a friend and a comrade — 
 she tried to be to his children. As the two girls grew up, 
 the relations between them and Jenny became less intimate, 
 though still quite friendly, but the great difference in age made 
 a breach between them which Jenny never tried to cross. 
 
 They were now quite nice little girls in their teens, with 
 anæmia, small flirtations, friendships, parties, and all the rest 
 of it — a merry pair, but somewhat indolent. The friendship 
 between Nils and her had grown in strength as time went on. 
 His father had called the tiny baby Kalfatrus; Jenny had 
 adopted the name, and the boy called her Indiana. 
 
 During all those sad years now behind her, the rambles in 
 Nordmarken with Kalfatrus were the only occasions when she 
 could breathe freely. She enjoyed them specially in spring or 
 autumn, when there were few people about, and she and the 
 boy sat quietly gazing into the burning pile of wood they had 
 made, or lay on the ground talking to one another in their par- 
 ticular slang, which they dared not use at home for fear of 
 vexing their mother. Her portrait of Kalfatrus was the first 
 of her paintings to please her; it was really good. 
 
 Gunnar scolded her for not exhibiting it ; he thought it would 
 have been bought for the picture gallery at home. She had 
 never painted so good a picture since. 
 
96 
 
 JENNY 
 
 She was to have painted Berner — papa. She had begun to 
 call him thus when his own children started to talk, and also 
 to call her mother mamma. This marked to her mind the 
 change that had taken place in the relations between her and 
 the mother of her brief childhood. 
 
 The first part of the time out here, when at last she was 
 freed from the constant strain, was not pleasant. She realized 
 that her every nerve was quivering from the strain, and she 
 thought it impossible ever to regain her youth. From her stay 
 in Florence she remembered only that she had been cold, felt 
 lonely, and been unable to assimilate all that was new around 
 her. Little by little the endless treasure of beauty was re- 
 vealed to her, and she was seized by a great longing to grasp 
 it and live in it, to be young, to love and be loved. She thought 
 of the first spring days when Cesca and Gunnar took her to 
 Viterbo — of the sunshine on the bare trees and the masses of 
 anemones, violets, and cowslips in the faded grass. Of the 
 steppe-like plain outside the city, with fumes of boiling, strongly 
 smelling sulphur springs wafted through the air, and the ground 
 all round white with curdling lime. The thousands of swift 
 emerald-green lizards in the stone walls, the olive trees in the 
 green meadows, where white butterflies fluttered about. The 
 old city with singing fountains and black mediaeval houses, 
 and the towers in the surrounding wall with moonlight on 
 them. And the yellow, slightly effervescent wine, with a fiery 
 taste from the volcanic soil on which it was grown. 
 
 She called her new friends by their names. In the night 
 Francesca made a confession of her young, eventful life, and 
 crept into her bed at last to be comforted, repeating time after 
 time: “ Fancy, you being like this! I was always afraid of 
 
 you at school. I never thought you could be so kind! ” 
 
 Gunnar was in love with both of them. He was full of fire, 
 
JENNY 
 
 97 
 
 like a young faun in spring-time, and Francesca let herself be 
 kissed, and laughed and called him a silly boy. 
 
 But Jenny was afraid, though not of him. She dared not 
 kiss his hot, red mouth, for the sake of something intangible, 
 intoxicating, frivolous, which would last only while they were 
 there amid sun and anemones — something irresponsible. She 
 dared not put aside her old self ; she felt that she could not take 
 a flirtation light-heartedly, and neither could he. She had 
 already seen enough of Gunnar Heggen to know that in his 
 affairs with other women he was such as they were — and yet 
 not quite — for in his inmost self he was a good man, much 
 better than most women are. His infatuation had soon turned 
 into friendship, and during the lovely, peaceful time in Paris, 
 when they had worked hard, and afterwards out here, it had 
 grown stronger and stronger. 
 
 It was quite a different matter with Gram. He did not 
 arouse any adventurous fancies or wild longings in her. He 
 was not at all stupid, as she had thought at first; it was only 
 that he seemed almost stunted, checked in mental growth, when 
 he came out here, and she at least ought to have understood it. 
 There was something gentle and young and sound about him, 
 which she liked — he seemed more than two years her junior. 
 His talk of being in love with her was nothing but a surplus of 
 the joy he felt at the freedom of his new life. There was no 
 danger in it, either for him or for her. They were fond of her 
 at home, of course, and Gunnar and Francesca were fond of 
 her too, but did any one of them think of her tonight? She 
 was not altogether sorry to know that there was some one who 
 did. 
 
9 8 
 
 JENNY 
 
 IX 
 
 W HEN she awoke in the morning she told herself 
 that he would very likely not come at all, and so 
 much the better — but when he knocked at her 
 door she was pleased all the same. 
 
 “ I have had nothing to eat yet, Miss Winge. Could you 
 give me a cup of tea and some bread? ” 
 
 Jenny looked about her in the room. 
 
 “ Yes, but the room isn’t done yet.” 
 
 “ I’ll shut my eyes while you lead me on to the balcony,” 
 said Gram from behind the door. “ I am dying for a cup of 
 tea.” 
 
 “ Very well, half a minute.” Jenny covered her bed with 
 the counterpane, tidied the dressing-table, and changed her 
 dressing-jacket for a long kimono. “ Come in, and please go 
 and sit on the balcony while I get your tea.” She brought out 
 a stool and placed some bread and cheese on it. 
 
 Gram looked at her bare, white arms in the long, fluttering 
 sleeves of the dark blue kimono with a pattern of yellow and 
 purple iris. 
 
 “ What a pretty thing you have on. It looks like a real 
 geisha dress.” 
 
 “ It is real. Cesca and I bought these in Paris to wear at 
 home in the morning.” 
 
 “ It is a capital idea, I think, to go about like that and look 
 pretty when you are alone. I like it.” 
 
 He lit a cigarette and gazed at the smoke as it rose in the 
 air. 
 
 “ Ugh! At home the maid and my mother and sister used 
 to look like anything in the morning. Don’t you think women 
 ought always to make themselves look as pretty as possible?” 
 “ Yes, but it isn’t always possible when you have to do house- 
 work.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 99 
 
 “ Perhaps not, but they might at least do their hair before 
 breakfast and put on a thing like that, don’t you think? ” 
 
 He was just in time to save a cup, which she was on the point 
 of brushing down with her sleeve. 
 
 “You see how practical it is. Now, drink your tea; you 
 said you were thirsty.” 
 
 She discovered suddenly that Cesca’s whole stock of coloured 
 stockings were hanging to dry on the balcony, and she removed 
 them a little nervously. 
 
 While he was having his tea he explained : 
 
 “ I lay awake last night thinking, almost until dawn, and 
 then, of course, I overslept, so had no time to stop at the latteria 
 on my way. I think we should go to Via Cassia to that 
 anemone place of yours.” 
 
 “ Anemone place.” Jenny laughed. “ When you were a boy 
 did you, too, have special places for violets and bluebells, and 
 kept them a secret from the others and went there all alone every 
 year? ” 
 
 “ Of course I had. I know a beech grove by the old road 
 to Holmenkollen, where there are real scented violets.” 
 
 “ I know it too,” she interrupted triumphantly, “ to the right, 
 just before the road branches off to Sorkedal.” 
 
 “ Exactly. I had some other places too, on Fredriksborg 
 and ” 
 
 “ I must go in and put on my dress,” said Jenny. 
 
 “ Put on the one you had yesterday, please! ” he called after 
 her. 
 
 “ It will get so dusty ” — but she changed her mind in the 
 same moment. Why should she not make herself look nice? 
 The old black silk had been her best for a good many years; 
 she need not treat it with such deference any more. 
 
 “ I don’t care! but it fastens at the back, and Cesca’s not in.” 
 
 “ Come out here and I’ll button it for you. I am an expert 
 at it. It seems to me I have done nothing all my 
 
100 
 
 JENNY 
 
 life but fasten mother’s and Sophy’s buttons at the back.” 
 She could manage all but two, and she allowed Gram to 
 help her with them. As she stood by him in the sunshine while 
 he fastened her dress, he became aware of the faint, mild 
 fragrance of her hair and her body. He noticed one or two 
 small rents in the silk, which were carefully darned, and the 
 sight of it filled his heart with an infinite tenderness towards 
 her. 
 
 “ Do you think Helge a nice name? ” he asked, when they 
 were having lunch at an osteria far out on the Campagna. 
 
 “ Yes; I like it.” 
 
 “ Do you know that it is my Christian name? ” 
 
 “ Yes; I saw you had written it in the visitors’ book at the 
 club.” She blushed slightly, thinking he might believe that 
 she had looked it up on purpose. 
 
 “ I suppose it is nice. On the whole, there are few names 
 that are nice or ugly in themselves; it all depends if you like 
 the people or not. When I was a boy we had a nurse called 
 Jenny; I could not bear her, and ever since I thought the name 
 was hideous and common. It seemed to me preposterous that 
 you should be called Jenny, but now I think it so pretty; it gives 
 one an idea of fairness. Can you not hear how delicately fair 
 it sounds? — Jenny — a dark woman could not be called that, 
 not Miss Jahrman, for instance. Francesca suits her captially, 
 don’t you think? It sounds so capricious, but Jenny is nice 
 and bright.” 
 
 “ It is a name we’ve always had in my father’s family,” she 
 said, by way of an answer. 
 
 “ What do you think of Rebecca, for instance? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know. Rather harsh and clattering, perhaps, but 
 it is pretty, though.” 
 
 “ My mother’s name is Rebecca,” said Helge. “ I think it 
 sounds hard, too. My sister’s name is Sophy. She married 
 
JENNY 
 
 101 
 
 only to get away from home, I am sure, and have a place of 
 her own. I wonder mother could be so delighted to get her 
 married, considering the cat-and-dog life she herself has led 
 with my father. But there was no end of a fuss about the Rev. 
 Arnesen, when my sister got engaged to him. I can’t stand my 
 brother-in-law, neither can father, I believe, but mother! . . . 
 
 “ My fiancée — I was engaged once, you know — her name 
 was Catherine, but she was always called Titti. I saw she 
 had that name put into the papers, too, when her marriage was 
 announced. 
 
 “ It was a stupid thing altogether. It was three years ago. 
 She was giving some lessons in the school where I was teach- 
 ing. She was not a bit pretty, but she flirted with everybody, 
 and no woman had ever taken any notice of me — which you 
 can easily understand, when you think of me as I w 7 as here at 
 first. She always laughed at everything — she was only nine- 
 teen. Heaven knows why she took to me. 
 
 “ I was jealous, and it amused her. The more jealous she 
 made me, the more in love was I. I suppose it was less love 
 than male vanity, having a sweetheart very much in demand. 
 I was very young then. I wanted her to be exclusively taken 
 up with me — a very difficult proposition as I was then. I 
 have often wondered what she wanted me for. 
 
 “ My people wanted our engagement to be kept secret, be- 
 cause we were so young. Titti wanted it made public, and 
 when I reproached her for being too much interested in other 
 men, she said she could not spend all her time with me, as our 
 engagement was a secret. 
 
 “ I took her home, but she could not get on with my mother. 
 They always quarrelled, and Titti simply hated her. I sup- 
 pose it would have made no difference to mother if I had been 
 engaged to somebody else; the fact that I was going to marry 
 was enough to put her against any woman. Well — Titti 
 broke it off.” 
 
102 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ Did it hurt you very much? ” Jenny asked quietly. 
 
 “ Yes, at the time. I did not quite get over it till I came 
 here, but I think it was mostly my pride that suffered. Don’t 
 you think that if I had loved her really, I should have wished 
 her to be happy when she married another? But I didn’t.” 
 
 “ It would have been almost too unselfish and noble,” said 
 Jenny, smiling. 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t know. That is how you ought to feel if you 
 really love. Don’t you think it is strange that mothers never 
 care for their sons’ sweethearts? They never do.” 
 
 “ I suppose a mother thinks no woman is good enough for 
 her boy.” 
 
 “ When a daughter gets engaged it is quite different. I saw 
 that in the case of my sister and the fat, red-haired cleargyman. 
 There was never much sympathy between my sister and myself, 
 but when I saw that fellow making love to her, and thought 
 that he . . . Ugh! 
 
 “ I sometimes think women who have been married some 
 time become more cynical than we men ever are. They don’t 
 give themselves away, but you notice it all the same. Marriage 
 to them means merely business. When a daughter marries they 
 are pleased to have her saddled on to some one who can feed 
 and clothe her, and if she has to put up with the shady side of 
 marriage in return, it’s not worth making a fuss about. But if 
 a son takes upon himself the same kind of burden for a similar 
 return, they are not so enthusiastic about it. Don’t you think 
 there is something in it? ” 
 
 “ Sometimes,” said Jenny. 
 
 When she came home that evening she lit the lamp and sat 
 down to write to her mother to thank her for the birthday greet- 
 ings and tell her how she had spent the day. 
 
 She laughed at herself for having been so solemn the night 
 before. Heaven knows, she had had difficulties and been 
 lonely, but so had most of the young people she knew. Some 
 
JENNY 103 
 
 of them had been worse off than she. She thought of all the 
 young girls — and the old ones — who had taught at the school; 
 nearly all of them had an old mother to support, or sisters and 
 brothers to help. And Gunnar? — and Gram? Even Cesca, 
 the spoilt child from a rich home, had fought her way, since 
 she had left home at twenty-one and kept herself on the little 
 money left her by her mother. 
 
 As to loneliness, she had chosen it herself. All said and 
 done, she had perhaps not been quite sure about her own powers, 
 and to deaden her doubts, had held by the idea that she was 
 different from other people — and they had been repelled. 
 She had made some headway since, had proved to herself that 
 she could do something, and had grown more friendly, less re- 
 served, than before. She was obliged to admit that she had 
 never made any advances, either as a child or since; she had 
 always been too proud to take the first step. All the friends 
 she had — from her stepfather to Gunnar and Cesca — had 
 first stretched out their hands to her. And why had she al- 
 ways imagined that she was passionate? Such nonsense! She 
 who had reached twenty-eight without ever having been the 
 least in love. She believed that she would not be a failure as 
 a woman, if once she were fond of a man, for she was healthy, 
 good looking, and had sound instincts, which her work and 
 outdoor life had developed. And very naturally she longed 
 to love and be loved — longed to live. But to imagine that she 
 would be able, from sheer rebellion of her senses, to fall into 
 the arms of any man who happened to be near at a critical mo- 
 ment was utter nonsense. It was only because she would not 
 admit to herself that she was dull sometimes and wished to 
 make a conquest and flirt a little just like other girls — a pas- 
 time which in reality she did not approve of — that she pre- 
 ferred to imagine she was consumed by a thirst for life and 
 clamouring senses. Such high-flown words were only invented 
 by men, poor things, not knowing that women generally are 
 
JENNY 
 
 104 
 
 simple and vain, and so stupid that they are bored unless there 
 is a man to entertain them. That is the origin of the legend 
 of the sensual woman — they are as rare as black swans, or 
 disciplined, educated women. 
 
 Jenny moved Francesca’s portrait on to the easel. The white 
 blouse and the green skirt looked hard and ugly. It would have 
 to be toned down. The face was well drawn, the position 
 good. 
 
 This episode with Gram was really nothing to be serious 
 about. It was time she became reasonable. She must do away 
 with those silly notions that she was afraid of every man she 
 met — as with Gunnar in the beginning — afraid of falling in 
 love with him, and almost more of his falling in love with her: 
 a thing she was so unused to that it bewildered her. 
 
 Why could one not be friends with a man? If not, the 
 world would be all a muddle. She and Gunnar were friends — 
 a solid, comfortable friendship. 
 
 There was much about Gram that would make a friendship 
 between them quite natural. They had had much the same 
 experiences. He was so young and so full of confidence in her; 
 she liked his “ Is it not? ” and “ Don’t you think? ” He had 
 talked yesterday about being in love with her — he thought at 
 least he was, he said. She smiled to herself. A man would 
 not speak to her as he had done if he had really fallen in love 
 with a woman and wanted to win her. 
 
 “ He is a dear boy; that’s what he is.” 
 
 Today he had not broached the subject. She liked him when 
 he said that if he had been really fond of the girl he would 
 have wished her happiness with the other man. 
 
JENNY 
 
 105 
 
 X 
 
 J ENNY and Helge were running hand in hand down Via 
 Magnanapoli. The street was merely a staircase, leading 
 to the Trajan Forum. On the last step he drew her to 
 him and kissed her. 
 
 “Are you mad? You mustn’t kiss people in the street 
 here.” 
 
 And they both laughed. One evening they had been spoken 
 to by two policemen on the Lateran piazza for walking up and 
 down under the pines along the old wall kissing each other. 
 
 The last sunrays brushed the bronze figures on top of the 
 pillar and burned on the walls and on the tree-tops in the gar- 
 dens. The piazza lay in the shade, with its old, rickety houses 
 round the excavated forum below the street level. 
 
 Jenny and Helge leaned over the railing and tried to count 
 the fat, lazy cats which had taken their abode among the 
 stumps of pillars on the grass-covered plot. They seemed to 
 revive a little as the twilight began to fall. A big red one 
 which had been lying on the pedestal of the Trajan pillar 
 stretched himself, sharpened his claws on the masonry, jumped 
 down on to the grass, and ran away. 
 
 “ I make it twenty-three,” said Helge. 
 
 “ I counted twenty-five.” She turned round and dismissed 
 a post card seller, who was recommending his wares in frag- 
 ments of every possible language. 
 
 She leaned again over the railing and stared vaguely at the 
 grass, giving way to the pleasant languor of a long sunny day 
 and countless kisses out in the green Campagna. Helge held 
 one of her hands on his arm and patted it — she moved it along 
 his sleeve until it rested between both of his. Helge smiled 
 happily. 
 
 “ What is it, dear? ” 
 
io6 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ I am thinking of those Germans.” She laughed too — 
 quietly and indifferently, as happy people do at trifles that do 
 not concern them. They had passed the Forum in the morning 
 and sat down a moment on the high pedestal of the Focas pillar, 
 talking in whispers. Beneath them lay the crumbled ruins, 
 gilded by the sun, and small black tourists rambled among the 
 stones. A newly married German couple were walking by 
 themselves, seeking solitude in the midst of the crowd of 
 travellers. He was fair and ruddy of face, wore knickerbockers 
 and carried a kodak, and read to his wife out of Baedeker. 
 She was very young, plump, and dark, with the inherited stamp 
 of hausfrau on her smooth, floury face. She sat down on a 
 tumbled pillar, posing to her husband, who took a snapshot of 
 her. And the two who sat above, under the Focas pillar, whis- 
 pering of their love, laughed, heedless of the fact that they were 
 sitting above the Forum Romanum. 
 
 “ Are you hungry? ” asked Helge. 
 
 “ No; are you? ” 
 
 “No — but do you know what I should like to do?” 
 “Well?” 
 
 “ I should like to go home with you and have supper. What 
 do you say to that? ” 
 
 “ Yes, of course.” 
 
 They walked home arm in arm through small side streets. 
 In her dark staircase he drew her suddenly to him, and kissed 
 her with such force and passion that her heart began to beat 
 violently. She was afraid, and at the same time angry with 
 herself for being so, and whispered in the dark: “ My darling,” 
 
 to prove to herself that she was calm. 
 
 “ Wait a moment,” whispered Helge, when she was going to 
 light the lamp, and he kissed her again. “ Put on the geisha- 
 dress; you look so sweet in it. I will sit on the balcony while 
 you change.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 107 
 
 Jenny changed her dress in the dark; she put the kettle on 
 and arranged the anemones and the almond sprigs before she 
 called him in and lighted up. 
 
 He took her again in his arms and said: 
 
 “ Oh, Jenny, you are so lovely. Everything about you is 
 lovely; it is heavenly to be with you. I wish I could be with 
 you always.” 
 
 She took his face between her two hands. 
 
 “ Jenny — you wish it — that we could be always together? ” 
 
 She looked into his beautiful brown eyes: 
 
 “ Yes, Helge; I do.” 
 
 “ Do you wish that this spring — our spring — never would 
 end?” 
 
 “ Yes — oh yes.” She threw herself suddenly into his arms 
 and kissed him; her half-open lips and closed eyes begged for 
 more kisses; his words about their spring, that should never 
 cease, awoke a painful anxiety in her heart that the spring and 
 their dream would come to an end. And yet behind it all was 
 a dread, which she did not try to explain to herself, but it 
 came into existence when he asked if she wished they could 
 always be together. 
 
 “ I wish I were not going home,” said Helge sadly. 
 
 “ But I am going home soon too,” she said softly, “ and we 
 shall probably come back here together.” 
 
 “ You are quite determined to go? Are you sorry that I have 
 upset all your plans in this way? ” 
 
 She gave him a hurried kiss and ran to the kettle, which was 
 boiling over. 
 
 “ No, you silly boy. I had almost made up my mind before, 
 because mamma wants me badly.” She gave a short laugh. 
 “ I am ashamed of myself — she is so pleased that I am com- 
 ing home to help her, and it is really only to be with my lover. 
 But it is all right. I can live cheaper at home even if I help 
 
io8 
 
 JENNY 
 
 them a little, and I may be able to earn something. What I can 
 save now, I shall want here later.” 
 
 Helge took the cup she gave him and seized her hand: 
 
 “But next time you come here you will come with me; for 
 I suppose you will — you mean — that we should marry? ” 
 
 His face was so young and so anxiously inquiring that she 
 had to kiss him several times, forgetting that she had been 
 afraid of that word, which had not been mentioned between 
 them before. 
 
 “ I suppose that will be the most practical plan, you dear 
 boy, since we have agreed to be together always.” 
 
 Helge kissed her hand, asking quietly: “When?” 
 
 “When you like,” she answered as quietly — and firmly. 
 Again he kissed her hand. 
 
 “ What a pity we can’t be married out here,” he said a mo- 
 ment after in a different voice. 
 
 She did not answer, but stroked his hair softly. Helge 
 sighed : 
 
 “ But I suppose we ought not to, as we are going home so 
 soon in any case. Your mother would feel hurt, don’t you 
 think, at such a hurried marriage? ” 
 
 Jenny was silent. It had never occurred to her that she 
 owed her mother any account of her doings — her mother had 
 not consulted her when she had wanted to marry again. 
 
 “ It would hurt my people, I know. I don’t like to admit 
 it, but it is so, and I should much prefer to write and tell them 
 that I am engaged. As you are going home before me, it would 
 be nice of you to go and see them.” 
 
 Jenny bent her head as if to shake off a disagreeable sensa- 
 tion, and said: 
 
 “ I will, dear, if you wish me to — of course.” 
 
 “ I don’t like it at all. It has been so lovely here — only 
 you and I, nobody else in all the world. But mother would be 
 so vexed, you see, and I don’t want to make things worse for 
 
JENNY 
 
 109 
 
 her than they are already. I don’t care for my mother any 
 longer — she knows it, and is so grieved at it. It is only 
 a formality, I know, but she would suffer if she thought I 
 wanted to keep her out in the cold. She would think it was 
 vengeance for the old story, you know. When we are through 
 with all that, we will get married, and nobody will have any- 
 thing more to say. I wish so much that it would be soon — 
 don’t you ? ” 
 
 She kissed him in answer. 
 
 “ I want you,” he whispered, and she made no resistance 
 when he caressed her. But he let her go suddenly and, butter- 
 ing his biscuit, began to eat. 
 
 Afterwards they sat by the stove smoking, she in the easy- 
 chair and he on the floor with his head in her lap. 
 
 “ Isn’t Cesca coming back tonight either? ” he asked sud- 
 denly. 
 
 “ No; she is staying in Tivoli till the end of the week,” 
 Jenny answered a little nervously. 
 
 “ You have such pretty, slender feet.” 
 
 “You are so lovely — oh, so lovely — and I am so fond of 
 you. • You don’t know how I love you, Jenny — I should like 
 to lie down on the floor at your feet.” 
 
 “Helge! Helge! ” His sudden violence frightened her, but 
 then she said to herself: he is my own darling boy. Why 
 should I be afraid of him. 
 
 “ No, Helge — don’t. Not the shoes I stamp about with in 
 those dirty streets.” 
 
 Helge rose — sobered and humble. She tried to laugh the 
 whole matter away. “ There may be many dangerous bacilli 
 on those shoes, you know.” 
 
 “ Ugh ! What a pedant you are. And you pretend to be an 
 artist.” He laughed too, and to hide his embarrassment, he 
 went on boisterously: “A nice sweetheart you are. Let me 
 
 smell: I thought so — you smell of turpentine and paint.” 
 
no 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ Nonsense, dear; I have not touched a brush for three weeks. 
 But you will have to wash, sir.” 
 
 “ Have you any carbolic, in case of infection? ” While he 
 was washing his hands he said : “ My father used to say that 
 
 women are utterly destitute of poetry.” 
 
 “ Your father is quite right.” 
 
 “ And they can cure people by ordering cold baths,” he said, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 Jenny became suddenly serious. She went to him, put her 
 hands on his shoulders, and kissed him : “ I did not want you 
 
 at my feet, Helge.” 
 
 When he had gone she was ashamed of herself. He was 
 right. She did want to give him a cold bath, but she would 
 not do it again, for she loved him. She had played a poor part 
 tonight. She had thought of Signora Rosa. What would she 
 have said if anything had happened? It was rather humiliat- 
 ing to realize that she had been afraid of a scene with an angry 
 signora — and tried to get out of her promise to her lover. In 
 accepting his love and responding to his kisses she had as good 
 as bound herself over to give him all he asked. She, of all 
 people, would not play a game where she took everything and 
 gave but little — not more than she could easily withdraw, if she 
 changed her mind. 
 
 It was only nerves — this dread of something she had never 
 tried. But she was glad he had not asked for more than she 
 could willingly give, for there would come a moment, she 
 thought, when she herself would wish to give him all. 
 
 It had all come so slowly and unnoticeably — just like spring 
 in the south — and as steadily and surely. No sudden transi- 
 tion, no cold and stormy days that made one long desperately 
 for the sun, for wealth of light and consuming heat. There 
 had been none of those tremendously clear, endless, maddening 
 spring nights of her own country. When the sunny day was 
 past, night came quietly, the cold and darkness bringing peace- 
 
JENNY 
 
 m 
 
 ful sleep between the bright, warm days — each new day a little 
 warmer than the one before, each day with more flowers on the 
 Campagna, which did not seem greener than yesterday, yet was 
 much more green and mellow than the week before. 
 
 Her love for him had come in the same way. Every night 
 she looked forward to the next sunny day with him on the 
 Campagna, but gradually it was more himself and his young 
 love that she longed for. She had let him kiss her because it 
 gave her pleasure, and from day to day their kisses had grown 
 more frequent, till at last words faded away and kisses took 
 their place. 
 
 He had become more manly and mature from day to day; 
 the uncertainty and the sudden despondency of the earlier days 
 had quite left him. She herself was brighter, friendlier, more 
 sure of herself, not the coldness of youth, always ready to 
 fight, but more a calm confidence in herself. She was not dis- 
 appointed with life now because it would not shape itself ac- 
 cording to her dreams, but accepted each day, trusting that the 
 unknown was right and could be turned to advantage. 
 
 Why should not love come in the same way, slowly, like 
 the warmth that grows day by day, thawing and tempering, and 
 not as she had always believed it would come — as a storm that 
 would change her at once into a woman she did not know, and 
 whom her will could not control. 
 
 Helge accepted this slow, sound growth of her love quite 
 naturally and calmly. Every night when they parted her heart 
 was filled with gratitude to him, because he had not asked for 
 more than she could give that day. 
 
 Oh, if they could have stayed here till May — till summer — 
 the whole of summer, so that their love might ripen until they 
 belonged to one another completely. They would go together to 
 the mountains in the summer; the marriage could take place 
 here later, or at home in the autumn, for they would marry, of 
 course, in the ordinary way, since they were fond of each other. 
 
1 12 
 
 JENNY 
 
 When she thought of her journey home, she was almost afraid 
 that she would awake as from a dream, but she told herself such 
 thoughts were nonsense, since she loved him and he loved her. 
 She did not like the disturbing elements of engagements, visiting 
 relations, and so on, though they were trifles after all. 
 
 Heaven be praised for this blessed spring in Rome that had 
 brought them together — they two alone on the green Campagna 
 among the daisies. 
 
 “ Don’t you think Jenny will be sorry some day that she ever 
 got engaged to that Gram? ” asked Francesca one evening when 
 she was sitting in Heggen’s room. 
 
 He shook the ashes from his cigarette without answering. He 
 discovered all of a sudden that it had never struck him as in- 
 discreet to speak about Francesca’s affairs to Jenny. But to 
 speak about Jenny’s to Francesca was quite another matter. 
 
 “ Can you understand what she wants with him? ” she asked 
 again. 
 
 “ Well, it’s hard to say. We don’t always understand what 
 you women want with this or that man. We imagine that we 
 choose for ourselves, but we are more like our brothers, the 
 dumb animals, than we care to think. Some say we are dis- 
 posed to love — because of our natural state — place and op- 
 portunity do the rest.” 
 
 “ Ugh! ” said Francesca, shrugging her shoulders. “ If that 
 is so, you, I should say, are always disposed.” 
 
 Gunnar laughed reluctantly: “ Or I have never been dis- 
 
 posed enough; I have never thought of any woman as the only 
 one — and so on, and that is an essential condition in love — 
 because of our natural state.” 
 
 Francesca stared thoughtfully in front of her. 
 
 “ I daresay you are right. But it happens sometimes that 
 one falls in love with somebody for some special reason — not 
 only because time and circumstances are favourable. I for one 
 love him — you know who I mean — because I don’t under- 
 
JENNY 
 
 113 
 
 stand him. It seems to me impossible that anybody could really 
 be what he appeared to be. I always expected something would 
 happen that would explain what I saw. I searched for the 
 hidden treasure. You know how desperately anxious one gets 
 to find the longer one seeks. Even now, when I think that some 
 other woman may find it, I . . . But there are some who love 
 because the loved one is perfect to them — can give them all 
 they need. Have you ever been in love with any woman to 
 such an extent that you thought everything in her was right 
 and good and beautiful — that you could love everything in 
 her? 
 
 “ No,” he said briskly. 
 
 “ But that is real love, don’t you think? And that is how I 
 thought Jenny would love, but it is impossible for her to love 
 Helge Gram like that.” 
 
 “ I don’t know him really. I know only that he is not so 
 stupid as he looks — as the saying goes — I mean, there is more 
 in him than you’d think at first sight. I suppose Jenny has 
 found out his real value.” 
 
 Cesca was quiet. She lit a cigarette and watched the flame 
 of the wax vesta till it burnt out. 
 
 “ Have you noticed that he always asks, ‘ Don’t you think? ’ 
 and ‘ Is it not? ’? Has it not struck you that there is some- 
 thing effeminate, something unfinished, about him? ” 
 
 “ Perhaps so. Possibly that’s what attracted her. She is 
 strong and independent herself, and might love a man weaker 
 than herself.” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you what I think. I don’t believe that Jenny really 
 is so strong and independent. She’s only been forced to be. 
 At home she had to help and support, and there was nobody to 
 support her. She had to take care of me, because I needed her 
 — now it is Gram. She is strong and determined, and she 
 knows it, and nobody asks her in vain for help, but nobody 
 can go on for ever giving help and never getting any them- 
 
JENNY 
 
 114 
 
 selves. Don’t you see that it will make her very lonely, always 
 being the strongest? She is lonely now, and if she marries that 
 fellow she will never be anything else. We all talk to her about 
 ourselves, and she has nobody she could talk to in the same way. 
 She ought to have a husband she could look up to, whose author- 
 ity she should feel, one to whom she could say: This is how 
 
 I have lived and worked and fought, for I thought it right, and 
 who could judge if it was right? Gram cannot, because he is 
 her inferior. How can she know if she has been in the right, 
 when she has nobody with authority to confirm it? Jenny 
 should ask, ‘ Is it not? ’ and ‘ Don’t you think? ’ — not he.” 
 
 They sat both quiet a while, then Heggen said: 
 
 “ It is rather curious, Cesca, that when it is a question of 
 your own affairs you cannot make head or tail of it, but when 
 it concerns somebody else, I think you often can see clearer than 
 any of us.” 
 
 “ Perhaps. That is why I think sometimes I ought to go 
 into a convent. When I am outside a trouble I seem to un- 
 derstand it all, but when I am mixed up in it myself I can’t see 
 a thing.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 “5 
 
 XI 
 
 T HE juicy, blue-grey giant leaves of the cactus were 
 scarred by names, initials, and hearts carved in the 
 flesh. Helge was carving an H and a J, and Jenny 
 stood with her arms round his shoulder, looking on. 
 
 “ When we come back here our initials will be a brown scar 
 like all the others,” said he. “ Do you think we shall be able 
 to find them ? ” 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 “ Among all the others? ” he inquired in doubt. “ There are 
 so many. We will go and look for them, won’t we? ” 
 
 “ Of course we will.” 
 
 “You do think we shall come back here, don’t you? And 
 stand as we are now.” He put his arm round her. 
 
 “ Yes; I don’t see why we should not, dear.” 
 
 With arms encircled they went to the table and sat down, 
 looking in silence out over the Campagna. 
 
 The sunlight seemed to move and the shadows wandered 
 along the hillocks. Sometimes the rays came in thick bunches 
 between white clouds, sailing in the sky. On the horizon, 
 where the dark eucalyptus grove by the Fontane peeped over 
 the farthest hill, rose a pearl-yellow haze, which would grow 
 towards evening and cover the whole sky. 
 
 Far on the plain the Tiber hurried to the sea, golden when 
 the sunshine fell on it, but silvery grey like the side of a fish 
 when it mirrored the clouds. The daisies on the hill looked 
 like new-fallen snow; on the field behind the osteria pale-grey, 
 silky wheat was coming up, and two almond trees were covered 
 with light pink blossoms. 
 
 “ Our last day in the Campagna,” said Helge. “ It’s quite 
 sad! ” 
 
ii6 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ Till next time,” she said, kissing him and trying not to 
 give in to her own sad mood. 
 
 “ Yes. Have you thought of it, Jenny, that when we sit 
 here again it cannot be exactly the same as now? One changes 
 day by day; we shall not be the same when we sit here again. 
 Next year — next spring — is not this spring? — we shall not 
 be the same either. We may be just as fond of one another, 
 but not exactly in the same way as now.” 
 
 Jenny shivered: “A woman would never say that, Helge.” 
 
 “You think it strange that I should say it? I cannot help 
 thinking it, because these months have made such a change in 
 me — and in you, too. Don’t you remember, you told me on 
 that first morning how different you are now from the time you 
 first came here? You could not have been fond of me as I was 
 when we first met — could you, now? ” 
 
 She stroked his cheek : “ But, Helge, dear boy, the great 
 
 change is just that we have got so fond of one another, and 
 our love will ever increase. If we change, it will be only be- 
 cause our love has grown, and that is nothing to be afraid of, 
 is it? Do you remember the day at Via Cassia — my birthday 
 — when the first fine threads between us were spun ? They 
 have grown stronger now, and grow stronger every day. Is 
 there anything in that to make you afraid? ” 
 
 He kissed her neck: “You are leaving tomorrow. . . .” 
 
 “ And you are coming to me in six weeks.” 
 
 “Yes; but we are not here. We cannot go about in the 
 Campagna. We have to leave in the midst of spring.” 
 
 “It is spring at home too — and larks are singing there as 
 well. Look at those driving clouds — just like those at home. 
 Think of Nordmarken. We shall go there together. Spring 
 is lovely at home, with strips of melting snow on all the hills 
 round the deep blue fjords, the last runs on ski when the snow 
 is melting and the brooks are rushing down the mountain-side; 
 when the sky is green and clear at night with large, bright 
 
JENNY 
 
 117 
 
 golden stars, and the ski scrape and sing on the icy crust of 
 the snow. We may be able to go there together yet this spring.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes — but I have been to all these places — Vester 
 Aker, Nordmarken — so often alone that I dread them. It 
 seems to me almost as if fragments of my old discarded souls 
 were hanging on every shrub up there.” 
 
 “ Hush, hush, dear. I should love to go there with my 
 dearest friend, after being there alone and sad so many a 
 spring.” 
 
 They wandered hand in hand in the green Campagna — the 
 haze had risen towards evening, and a slight breeze blew in 
 their direction. From the road came the creaking of hay-carts, 
 pulled by white oxen, and the tinkling of bells on the red harness 
 of mules in front of blue vinecarts. 
 
 Jenny looked tenderly at everything, bidding farewell in her 
 mind to all the things she knew so well, and that were so dear 
 to her. She had seen it all day after day with him, without 
 knowing she had noticed it, and now suddenly she understood 
 that it was all imprinted in her mind together with the mem- 
 ories of those happy days: here was the slope, where the short 
 grass had grown softer and greener from day to day, and the 
 faithful daisies in the meagre soil; the thorny hedges along the 
 roads and the rich green leaves of the calla under the bushes; 
 the unceasing warble of the larks in the sky, and the innumera- 
 ble concertinas that played to the dancers in the osterias on the 
 plain — concertinas with the peculiar, glassy sound, for ever 
 playing the same short Italian tunes. Why must she leave it 
 all now? 
 
 The wind chilled her like a bath, till her body felt like a cool 
 rich leaf, and she longed to give it to him. 
 
 They said good-bye for the last time at her door, and they 
 could not part. 
 
1 18 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ Oh, Jenny, if only you could be mine! ” 
 
 She nestled closer in his arms and whispered: “ Why not? ” 
 
 His arms closed tight about her shoulders and her waist, 
 but she trembled the instant she had said it. She did not know 
 why she was afraid; she did not want to be, and she repented 
 of having made a movement, as if she wished to get out of his 
 passionate embrace, and he let her go. 
 
 “No, no; I know it is impossible.” 
 
 “ I would like you to,” she said humbly. 
 
 He kissed her: “ I know. But I must not. Thank you for 
 
 everything. Oh, Jenny, my Jenny! Good-night! Thank you 
 for loving me!” 
 
 The tears streamed down her cheeks as she lay in bed. She 
 tried to tell herself that there was no sense in crying like that, 
 as if something were gone for ever. 
 
PART TWO 
 
I 
 
 T HERE was a wait of several minutes at Frederiks- 
 hald — time for a cup of coffee. Jenny hurried 
 along the platform; then suddenly she stopped to 
 listen. Somewhere, near by, a lark was singing overhead. 
 Once back in her compartment she leaned back in her corner 
 and closed her eyes, her heart heavy with longing for the 
 south. 
 
 The train rushed past small rocks of red granite, torn as it 
 were from the mountain range, and between them dazzling 
 glimpses of deep-blue fjords met the eye. Spruce trees clung 
 to the mountain-side, with the afternoon sun on their reddish 
 trunks and dark green, shiny needles. Everything in nature 
 seemed conspicuously clear and clean after its bath of melting 
 snow. The naked branches of foliferous trees stood out dis- 
 tinctly against the thin air, and little streamlets gurgled along- 
 side the line. 
 
 It was all so different from the southern spring, with its 
 slow, sound breathing and softly blended colours — she missed 
 it so much. The sharp colouring now before her eyes reminded 
 her of other springs, when she had been filled with longing for 
 a joy far different from her present restful happiness. 
 
 Oh! for the spring out there, with the sprouting vegetation 
 on the immense plain and the firm, severe lines of the encircling 
 mountains, which , man has robbed of their woods, to build 
 stone-grey cities on the spurs and plant olive groves on the 
 slopes. For thousands of years life has been teeming on the 
 sides of the mountain, borne by it in patience, yet it raises its 
 crown in eternal solitude and quiet towards heaven. Its proud 
 outlines and subdued green and silvery grey colouring, the 
 
 121 
 
122 
 
 JENNY 
 
 ancient cities and the slowly advancing spring — in spite of all 
 that can be said of the tumultuous life of the south — make 
 one’s own life run with a calmer, healthier beat, that meets the 
 coming of spring with greater equanimity than here, where it 
 comes in such mighty waves. 
 
 Oh, Helge! She longed to be out there with him. It was 
 so far away, and so long since it all happened. Not quite a 
 week, yet it seemed almost a dream, as if she had never been 
 away at all. But she had been there — not here to see and feel 
 how the white, frosty, peaceful winter yielded and the dry, 
 strong, light blue air, drenched with mist in the middle of the 
 day, hung quivering over the ground. Every outline was 
 blurred or broken, but the colours were vivid and sharp — 
 naked, as it were — until evening came, w r hen even- thing froze 
 under a sky of pale green, everlasting light. 
 
 — You dear boy of mine — what are you doing now? I 
 miss you so, and I want to be with you. I can scarcely believe 
 that you are mine, and I can’t bear to be alone, longing for you, 
 all this bright, long spring. — 
 
 As the train proceeded on its way the scenery changed. 
 Strips of snow showed among the trees and along the fences; 
 the soft, shaded brown of the faded meadows and the ploughed 
 fields met the eye, and the intense blue of the sky toned down 
 near the horizon. The undulating line of the forest-clad moun- 
 tain slopes lay far away; the branches of detached groups of 
 trees in the fields gave the effect of lattice-work against the sky. 
 The old grey houses of the farms shone like silver, and the new- 
 barns were glowing red. The pine needles formed an olive 
 green background for the purple buds of the beeches and the 
 light green of the aspens. 
 
 Such is spring: glowing colours that last a little while, then 
 everything turns a golden green, swelling with the sap of life, 
 and ripens in a few weeks into full summer — spring, when no 
 joy is great enough. Evening fell, the last long red sunrays 
 
JENNY 
 
 123 
 
 vanished behind a ridge, and the golden light in the cloudless 
 sky faded slowly. 
 
 When the train left Moss, the mountain ridge stood dark 
 against the clear sky, and the reflection of it in the green fjord 
 was black and transparent. One single large, bright star rose 
 behind the range; its light was mirrored in a filmy golden 
 thread on the water. 
 
 It reminded her of Francesca’s nocturnes; she was fond of 
 reproducing the colourings after sunset. Jenny wondered how 
 things were going with Cesca, and she felt a pang of conscience 
 when she realized that she had seen very little of her in the 
 two last months. Cesca was working hard and was perhaps 
 in difficulties, but all Jenny’s intentions to have a good long 
 talk with her had come to nothing. 
 
 It was dark when she arrived at her destination; her mother, 
 Bodil, and Nils were at the station to meet her. 
 
 It was as if she had seen her mother a week ago, but Mrs. 
 Berner cried when she kissed her daughter: “Welcome home, 
 
 my darling child — God bless you ! ” Bodil had grown, and 
 looked very smart in a long coat and skirt. Kalfatrus greeted 
 her shyly. 
 
 As she came out of the station she smelt the odour peculiar 
 to the railway square of Christiania — a mixture of sea-water, 
 coal smoke, and dried herring. 
 
 The cab drove along Carl Johan, past the old familiar houses. 
 Mrs. Berner asked about the journey, and where she had spent 
 the night. It seemed all so commonplace to Jenny, as if she 
 had never been away from it. The two young people on the 
 back seat said never a word. 
 
 Outside a garden gate in Wergelandsveien a young couple 
 stood kissing each other good-night. A few stars twinkled in 
 the clear deep blue sky above the naked trees in the Castle 
 gardens. A smell of mouldering leaves came through the car- 
 riage window, reminding her of melancholy springs of old. 
 
JENNY 
 
 124 
 
 The cab stopped at the house where they lived. There was 
 light still in the dairy on the ground floor; the woman came out 
 on the doorstep, when she heard the cab, and said: “ Good 
 
 evening; welcome back,” to Jenny. Ingeborg came rushing 
 down the stairs to embrace her, and hurried up again, carrying 
 her sister’s bag. Supper was laid in the sitting-room, and 
 Jenny saw her napkin with her father’s silver ring in her old 
 place beside Kalfatrus. Ingeborg hurried into the kitchen, and 
 Bodil went with Jenny to her old room at the back, which had 
 been Ingeborg’s during her absence, and still harboured some 
 of her belongings. On the walls were some picture cards of 
 actors; Napoleon and Madame Récamier in mahogany frames 
 hung on either side of Jenny’s old empire mirror above the 
 antique chest of drawers. 
 
 Jenny washed and did her hair; she felt an irritation in her 
 skin from the journey, and passed the powder-puff a couple of 
 times over her face. Bodil sniffed the powder to see if it was 
 scented. They went to supper. Ingeborg had a nice hot meal 
 ready; she had been to a cookery school that winter. In the 
 light of the lamp Jenny saw that her young sisters had their 
 thick curly hair tied up with silk bows. Ingeborg’s small, dark 
 face was thinner, but she did not cough any longer. She saw, 
 too, that mamma had grown older — or had she perhaps not 
 noticed, when she was at home and saw her every day, that 
 the small wrinkles in her mother’s pretty face increased, that 
 the tall, girlish figure stooped a little, and that the shoulders 
 lost their roundness? Since she grew up she had always been 
 told that her mother looked like an elder and prettier sister of 
 hers. 
 
 They spoke about everything that had happened at home 
 during the year. 
 
 “ Why didn’t we take a taxi? ” said Nils suddenly. “ How 
 stupid of us to ride home in an old four-wheeler! ” 
 
JENNY 125 
 
 “ Well, it’s too late now; no good crying over spilt milk,” 
 laughed Jenny. 
 
 The luggage arrived; her mother and sisters watched the 
 unpacking with interest. Ingeborg and Bodil carried the things 
 into Jenny’s room and put them in the drawers; the embroidered 
 underlinen, which Jenny told them she had bought in Paris, was 
 handled almost with reverence. There was great joy over the 
 gifts to themselves: shantung for summer dresses and Italian 
 bead necklaces. They draped themselves in the stuff before the 
 glass, and tried the effect of the beads in their hair. Kalfatrus 
 alone showed some interest in her pictures, trying to lift the box 
 that contained her canvases. 
 
 “ How many have you brought? ” 
 
 “ Twenty-six, but they are mostly small ones.” 
 
 “ Are you going to have a private exhibition — all by your- 
 self? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know yet — I may, some day.” 
 
 While the girls were washing up and Nils was making his 
 bed on the sofa, Mrs. Berner and Jenny had a chat in Jenny’s 
 room over a cup of tea and a cigarette. 
 
 “ What do you think of Ingeborg? ” asked Mrs. Berner anx- 
 iously. 
 
 “ She looks well and bright, but, of course, she will need 
 looking after. We must send her to live in the country till she 
 gets quite strong again.” 
 
 “ She is so sweet and good always — bright and full of fun, 
 and so useful in the house. I am so anxious about her; I 
 think she has been out too much last winter, dancing too much, 
 and keeping late hours, but I had not the heart to refuse her 
 anything. You had such a sad childhood, Jenny — I know 
 you missed the company of other children, and I was sure you 
 and papa would think it right to let the child have all the 
 pleasure she could.” She sighed. “ My poor little girls, they 
 
126 
 
 JENNY 
 
 have nothing to look forward to but work and privations. 
 What am I to do if they get ill besides? I can do so little.” 
 
 Jenny bent over her mother and kissed the tears from her 
 pretty, childish eyes. The longing to give and to receive tender- 
 ness, the remembrance of her early childhood, and the conscious- 
 ness that her mother did not know her life — its sorrows before 
 and its happiness now — melted into a feeling of protecting 
 love, and she gathered her mother into her arms. 
 
 “ Don’t cry, mother dear. Everything will come all right. 
 I am going to stay at home for the present, and we have still 
 something left of Aunt Katherine’s money.” 
 
 “ No, Jenny, you must keep that for yourself. I understand 
 now that you must not be hampered in any way in your work. 
 It was such a joy to us all when your picture at the exhibition 
 was sold last autumn.” 
 
 Jenny smiled. The fact that she had sold a picture and had 
 two or three lines in the papers about it made her people look 
 upon her work in quite a different light. 
 
 “ Don’t worry about me, mother. It is all right. I may 
 be able to earn something while I am here. I must have a 
 studio, though,” she said, after a pause, adding as an explana- 
 tion: “ I must finish my pictures in a studio, you see.” 
 
 “ But you will live at home, won’t you? ” asked the mother 
 anxiously. 
 
 Jenny did not answer. 
 
 “ It won’t do, my dear child, for a young girl to live alone in 
 a studio.” 
 
 “ Very well,” said Jenny; “ I shall live at home.” 
 
 When she was alone she took out Helge’s photo and sat 
 down to write to him. She had been home only a couple of 
 hours, and yet everything she had lived through out there, 
 where he was, seemed so far away and altogether apart from her 
 life here, before or now. The letter was one single cry of 
 yearning. 
 
JENNY 
 
 127 
 
 II 
 
 J ENNY 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 stock- 
 ings. Next moment the sun came out again. 
 
 The Grams lived in Welhavensgate. At the comer Jenny 
 stopped for a moment to look about; the two rows of grey houses 
 
128 
 
 JENNY 
 
 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 smell 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 step- 
 father 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 photo- 
 graph. 
 
 “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. 
 
JENNY 
 
 129 
 
 “ 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 chil- 
 dren 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 scorn- 
 
JENNY 
 
 130 
 
 ful 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 browm 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 al- 
 ways 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, kno-ws 
 her slightly — she stayed with us at Christmas. She said there 
 were other reasons why the Colonel did not want to have any- 
 thing 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 
 
JENNY 
 
 131 
 
 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 accept- 
 ing 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 — Correg- 
 gio’s “ Danae ” 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. 
 
JENNY 
 
 132 
 
 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 paint- 
 ing 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 differ- 
 ently? ” 
 
 “ 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 
 
JENNY 
 
 133 
 
 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. 
 
 Ill 
 
 T WO 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 con- 
 temporaries? ” asked Jenny. 
 
 “ No, never,” he answered curtly. 
 
JENNY 
 
 134 
 
 “ 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 wait- 
 ing 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 any- 
 thing — 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 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 let- 
 ters 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. 
 
JENNY 
 
 135 
 
 “ 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.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 136 
 
 “ 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 — wdiat 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 w r as 
 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 tilings at home. k 
 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?” 
 
JENNY 
 
 137 
 
 “ Yes,” said Jenny quietly. 
 
 “Good-bye. I am happy about you for Helge’s sake — be- 
 lieve 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 hav- 
 ing 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. 
 
 IV 
 
 T OWARDS 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 fright- 
 ened 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. 
 
JENNY 
 
 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 men- 
 tion 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 some- 
 thing to eat.” 
 
 “ No, thanks. We’ll go out and have supper somewhere to- 
 gether.” 
 
JENNY 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 Fran- 
 
 cesca.” 
 
 “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: ‘Tomor- 
 
 row 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 
 
JENNY 
 
 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 pic- 
 ture ? ” 
 
 “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 
 
JENNY 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 per- 
 haps 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 — al- 
 though 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 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ 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 
 
 J ENNY 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 Van- 
 
 taggio, 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 dole- 
 ful 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, 
 
JENNY 
 
 H3 
 
 strumming on Cesca’s guitar and singing Cesca’s Italian songs. 
 And she was seized with a sudden, desperate longing for every- 
 thing 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 an- 
 swered, 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 JENNY 
 
 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 ex- 
 pected 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. 
 
 Je nn y 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, kliss 
 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 
 
JENNY 
 
 H5 
 
 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 man- 
 ners 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 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 
 Stener sgaten 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 paintbox 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 
 
JENNY 
 
 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 
 
JENNY 
 
 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 — 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? ” 
 
148 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ 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 after- 
 noon 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 vmuld like better, but if w ? e refuse to 
 be a party to their midsummer outing it will only make tilings 
 more unpleasant at home.” 
 
 “ Not more than usual, I suppose,” she said scornfully. 
 
JENNY 
 
 149 
 
 “ 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 
 
JENNY 
 
 150 
 
 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 en- 
 trance. 
 
 “ 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- 
 
JENNY 151 
 
 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.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 152 
 
 “ 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. 
 
 VI 
 
 HESE are the things I wanted you to see,” said 
 Gert Gram, rising. He had been on his knees, 
 looking for something on the lower shelf of his 
 
 Jenny pushed the sketch-books aside and pulled the electric 
 lamp nearer. He wiped the dust from the big portfolio and 
 placed it before her. 
 
 “ I have not shown these to anybody for a great many years, 
 or looked at them myself, but I have been wanting you to see 
 them for some time — in fact, from the day I called on you at 
 your studio. When you came here to look at Helge’s picture 
 I meant to ask you if you cared to see them, and all the time 
 you were working close by here I had it in my mind. 
 
 “ It is strange to think, Jenny, that here in this little office 
 I have buried all my dreams of youth. There in the safe they 
 lie like corpses in their tomb, and I myself go about a dead and 
 forgotten artist.” 
 
 
JENNY 
 
 153 
 
 Jenny said nothing. Gram sometimes used expressions that 
 were rather too sentimental, she thought, although she knew 
 that the bitter feelings which dictated them were real enough. 
 In a sudden impulse she bent forward and stroked his grey 
 
 hair. 
 
 Gram bowed his head as if to prolong the slight caress — 
 and without looking at her, untied the portfolio with trembling 
 hands. 
 
 She realized in surprise that her own hands shook as she 
 took the first sheet from him, and she felt a strange fear and 
 oppression at heart, as of a danger threatening. She was sud- 
 denly afraid when she realized that she did not want anybody 
 to know of her visit and that she dared not tell Helge about it. 
 At the mere thought of her lover she became depressed; she had 
 long since consciously stopped analysing her real feelings for 
 him. She did not want to heed the foreboding that crossed 
 her mind at this moment, not to let herself be disturbed by 
 inquiring into Gert Gram’s feelings for her. 
 
 She turned over the sheets of the portfolio with the dreams 
 of his youth; it was a melancholy business. He had told her 
 about this work often when they were alone, and she understood 
 that he thought he had been born an artist for the sake of this 
 and nothing else. The pictures hanging in his home he called 
 the amateur work of a conscientious and diligent pupil, but 
 these — they were his own. They were illustrations to Land- 
 stad’s Folksongs. 
 
 At first sight these big sheets with frames of Roman foliage 
 and ornate black-letter writing were good enough. The colour- 
 ing was pure and effective in most of them, in some really fine, 
 but the figures in the vignettes and borders were without style 
 and life, although the miniature drawings were correct in every 
 detail. Some of them were naturalistic, others approaching 
 Italian mediaeval art to such an extent that Jenny recognized 
 certain Annunciation angels and madonnas in the cloaks of 
 
JENNY 
 
 154 
 
 knights and maidens, and the leaves in gold and purple she 
 remembered having seen in a book of mass in the San Marco 
 library. The words of the songs looked very strange, hand- 
 printed in elegant monastic Latin types. In some of the larger 
 full-page illustrations the composition was baroque, a direct 
 copy of Roman altar pictures. It was an echo of all he had 
 seen and lived among and loved — an echo of the melody of 
 Gert Gram’s youth; not a single note was his own, but this 
 melody of many notes was resounded in a particularly soft, 
 melancholy tone. 
 
 “ You don’t quite like them,” he said. “ I can see you 
 don’t.” 
 
 “ Yes, I like them. There is much that is pretty' and delicate 
 about them, but, you know ” — she searched for the right ex- 
 pression — “ the effect is a little strange on us, who have seen 
 the same subjects treated differently and so perfectly, that we 
 cannot conceive them treated in another way.” 
 
 He sat opposite her, resting his chin in his hand. By and 
 by he looked up, and she was sad at heart to meet his eyes. 
 
 “ I seem to remember them as being much better than they 
 are,” he said quietly, trying to smile. “ I have not opened this 
 portfolio for many a year, as I told you.” 
 
 “ I have never quite understood that you were so attracted 
 by the later renaissance and the baroque,” she said, to divert 
 the conversation. 
 
 “ I am not surprised, Jenny dear, that you don’t understand 
 it.” He looked into her face with a melancholy smile. 
 “ There was a time when I believed in myself as an artist, but 
 not so completely that I did not have a slight doubt sometimes, 
 not of succeeding to express what I wanted, but as to what I 
 really wanted to express. I saw that romantic art had had its 
 day and was on the decline — there was decadence and false- 
 hood all along — and yet in my heart I was devoted to romance, 
 not in painting alone, but in real life. I wanted the Sunday- 
 
JENNY 
 
 155 
 
 peasants of romance, although I had lived long enough in the 
 country as a boy to know they did not exist, and when I went 
 abroad it was to the Italy of romance I turned my steps. I 
 know that you and your contemporaries seek beauty in things 
 as they are, tangible and real. To me there was beauty only 
 in the transformation of reality, which had already been done 
 by others. In the eighties there came a new art-creed. I tried 
 to adopt it, but the result was lip-service only, for my heart 
 rebelled against it.” 
 
 “ But reality, Gert, is not a fixed conception. It appears 
 different to every one who sees it. An English painter once 
 said to me : ‘ There is beauty in everything ; only your eyes 
 
 see it or do not see it.’ ” 
 
 “ I was not made to conceive reality, only the reflection of it 
 in the dreams of others. I lacked entirely the capacity to form 
 a beauty for myself out of the complexity of realities; I knew 
 my own ineffectiveness. When I came to Italy the baroque took 
 my heart and fancy. Can you not understand the agony of my 
 soul on realizing my inefficiency? To have nothing new or 
 personal wherewith to fill up form, only develop the technique 
 in soaring fancies, break-neck foreshortenings, powerful effects 
 of light and shade, and cunningly thought-out compositions. 
 The emptiness of it all is to be hidden under the esctasy — con- 
 torted faces, twisted limbs, saints, whose only true passion is 
 the dread of their own engulfing doubt, which they try to drown 
 in sickly exaltation. It is the despair of the good, the work 
 of an epigon school wishing to fascinate — mostly themselves.” 
 
 Jenny nodded. “ What you say, Gert, is at least your own 
 subjective view. I am not so sure that the painters you speak 
 of were not highly pleased with themselves.” 
 
 He laughed and said : “ Perhaps they were — and perhaps 
 
 this is my hobby-horse because for once I had — as you say — 
 a subjective view,” 
 
JENNY 
 
 156 
 
 “ But the picture of your wife in red is impressionistic, ex- 
 cellent.' The more I look at it, the more I like it.” 
 
 “ Yes, but that is a solitary instance.” After a pause 
 “ When I painted it, she was all the world to me. I was 
 very much in love with her — and I hated her intensely al- 
 ready.” 
 
 “ Was it because of her you gave up painting? ” asked Jenny. 
 
 “No. All our misfortunes are of our own making. I know 
 you have not what they call faith, neither have I — but I be- 
 lieve in a God, if you like, or a spiritual power which punishes 
 justly. 
 
 “ She was cashier in a shop in the High Street; I happened 
 to see her there. She was remarkably pretty, as you can see 
 still. One evening when she went home I waited for her and 
 spoke to her. We made friends — and I seduced her,” he said 
 in a low and harsh voice. 
 
 “ And you married her because she was going to have a 
 child ? — I thought so. F or twenty-seven years she has tor- 
 mented you in return. Do you know what I think of the deity 
 you believe in? — that it is rather relentless.” 
 
 He smiled wearily. “ I am not quite so old-fashioned as you 
 may think. I don’t consider it a sin if two young people, who 
 love and believe in one another, join their lives in a lawful or 
 unlawful way. But in my case I was the abductor. She was 
 innocent when I met her — innocent in every way. I under- 
 stood her better than she did herself. I saw that she was pas- 
 sionate, and would be jealous and tyrannical in her love, but I 
 did not care. I was flattered that her passion was for me, 
 that this beautiful girl was all mine, but I never meant to be 
 hers alone, the way I knew she wanted it. I did not exactly 
 mean to leave her, but I thought I should be able to arrange 
 our life in such a way as not to share with her my interests, my 
 work, my real life in fact, as I knew she would want to do. It 
 was stupid of me, knowing that I was weak and she strong and 
 
JENNY 157 
 
 ruthless. I thought that her great passion would give me, who 
 was comparatively cold, a hold on her. 
 
 “ Beyond her great faculty of loving there was nothing in 
 her. She was vain and uneducated, envious and crude. There 
 could be no mental fellowship between us, but I did not miss 
 it; to possess her beauty and her passionate love was all I 
 cared for.” 
 
 He rose and went over to the side where Jenny was sitting. 
 He took both her hands and pressed them against his eyes. 
 
 “ What else but misery could I expect from a marriage with 
 her? But we reap as we sow, and I had to marry her. I had 
 a dreadful time of it. At first, when she come to my studio, 
 she was proud to be my mistress, arrogant in her denunciation 
 of old prejudices, declaring that the only life worth living was 
 that of free love. The moment things went wrong she changed 
 her tone. Then it was all about her respectable family in 
 Frederikshald, her unstained virtue, and her good reputation. 
 Many men had wanted her, but she had not listened to any- 
 body, and I was a scoundrel and a wretch if I did not marry 
 her at once. I had nothing to marry on; I had neglected my 
 studies and had learnt nothing but painting. Some months 
 went by — at last I had to apply to my father. My people 
 helped me through. We got married, and two months later 
 Helge arrived. 
 
 “ I had had hopes of a great artistic work — my folklore 
 illustrations — but I had to give up my dreams for the reality 
 of making bread and butter. Once I had to come to an agree- 
 ment with my creditors. She took her share of the struggle and 
 poverty loyally and without complaint — she would willingly 
 have starved for me and the children. Feeling as I did to- 
 wards her, it was hard to accept what she gave in working, 
 suffering, and renouncing for my sake. 
 
 “ I had to sacrifice everything I loved; she forced me to give 
 it up inch by inch. From the very first she and my father were 
 
JENNY 
 
 158 
 
 mortal enemies. He could not bear his daughter-in-law, and 
 that was a blow to her vanity, so she set about to make trouble 
 between him and me. My father was an official of the old 
 school — a bit narrow and stiff maybe, but right-minded and 
 loyal, noble and good at heart. You would have liked him, I 
 am sure. We had been so much to one another, but our in- 
 timacy was put a stop to. 
 
 “ As for my painting, I understood that I had not the talent 
 I once had imagined, and I lacked energy to make continued 
 efforts when I did not believe in myself — dead tired as I was 
 of the struggle and of my life at her side, which became more 
 and more of a caricature. She reproached me, but secretly she 
 triumphed. 
 
 “ She was jealous of the children too, if I was fond of them 
 or they were fond of me. She would not share them with me 
 nor me with them. 
 
 “ Her jealousy has grown into a kind of madness as the years 
 have gone by. You have seen it for yourself. She can scarcely 
 bear to see me in the same room with you even when Helge is 
 there.” 
 
 Jenny went to him and laid her hands on his shoulders: 
 
 “ I cannot understand,” she said — “ I really cannot — that 
 you have been able to stand such a life.” 
 
 Gert Gram bent forward, resting his head on her shoulder: 
 
 “ I don’t understand it myself.” 
 
 When he raised his head and their eyes met, she put her hand 
 to his neck and, overwhelmed by a tender compassion, kissed 
 him on the cheek and forehead. 
 
 She felt a sudden fear when she looked down at his face 
 resting on her shoulder, with eyes closed, but the next moment 
 he lifted his head and rose, saying: 
 
 “ Thank you, Jenny dear.” 
 
 Gram put the drawings back in their cover and straightened 
 the table. 
 
JENNY 
 
 159 
 
 “ I hope you will be very, very happy. You are so bright 
 and courageous, so energetic and gifted. Dear child, you are 
 everything I wanted to be, but never was.” He spoke in a low, 
 absent-minded voice. 
 
 “ I think,” he said a moment later, “ that when relations 
 between two people are new, before their life is perfectly ac- 
 corded, there are many small difficulties to overcome. I wish 
 you could live elsewhere, not in this town. You should be alone, 
 far from your own people — at first at least.” 
 
 “ Helge has applied for a post in Bergen, as you know,” 
 said Jenny, and the feeling of despair and anguish again seized 
 her when she thought of him. 
 
 “ Do you never speak to your mother about it? Why don’t 
 you? Are you not fond of your mother? ” 
 
 “ Of course I am fond of her.” 
 
 “ I should think it would be a good thing to talk to her about 
 it — get her advice.” 
 
 “It is no good asking anybody’s advice — I don’t like to 
 speak to any one about these things,” she said, wishing to dis- 
 miss the subject. 
 
 “No, you are perhaps. ...” He had been standing half- 
 way turned to the window. Suddenly his face changed, and 
 he whispered in a state of excitement: 
 
 “ Jenny, she is down there in the street! ” 
 
 “Who?” 
 
 “ She — Rebecca! ” 
 
 Jenny rose. She felt she could have screamed with exaspera- 
 tion and disgust. She trembled; every fibre of her body was 
 quivering with revolt. She would not be involved in all this — 
 these wicked, odious suspicions, quarrels, spiteful words, and 
 scenes — no, she would not. 
 
 “Jenny, my child, you are shivering — don’t be afraid. I 
 won’t let her hurt you.” 
 
 “Afraid? Far from it.” She steeled herself at once. “I 
 
i6o 
 
 JENNY 
 
 have been here to fetch you; we have looked at your drawings, 
 and we are now going to your house to supper.” 
 
 “ She may not have noticed anything.” 
 
 “Heavens! we have nothing to hide. If she had not seen 
 that I am here she will soon get to know it. I am going with 
 you ; we must do it for your sake as well as for mine — do you 
 hear? ” 
 
 Gram looked at her: “ Yes, let us go, then.” 
 
 When they got down in the street Mrs. Gram was gone. 
 “Let us take the tram, Gert; it is late,” she said, adding 
 in a sudden temper : “ Oh, we must stop all this — if only for 
 
 Helge’s sake.” 
 
 Mrs. Gram opened the door. Gert Gram ventured an ex- 
 planation; Jenny looked frankly into the angry eyes of his 
 wife: “ I am sorry Helge is out for the evening. Do you 
 think he will be home early? ” 
 
 “ I am surprised you did not remember it,” Mrs. Gram said 
 to her husband. “ It is no pleasure to Miss Winge to sit here 
 with us two old people.” 
 
 “ Oh, that is all right,” said Jenny. 
 
 “ I don’t remember hearing that Helge was going out this 
 evening,” said Gram. 
 
 “ Fancy your coming without any needlework,” said Mrs. 
 Gram, when they were sitting in the drawing-room after supper. 
 “You are always so industrious.” 
 
 “ I left the studio so late, I had no time to go home in be- 
 tween. Perhaps you could find me something?” 
 
 Jenny conversed with Mrs. Gram about the price of em- 
 broidery patterns at home and in Paris, and about books she 
 had lent her. Gram was reading. Now and again she felt 
 his eyes on her. Helge returned about eleven. 
 
JENNY 161 
 
 “What is the matter?” he asked, when they walked down 
 the stairs. “ Has there been a scene again? ” 
 
 “ No, not at all,” she replied, in a short, irritated voice. “ I 
 suppose your mother did not like my coming home with your 
 father.” 
 
 “ It seems to me, too, that you need not have done it,” said 
 Helge humbly. 
 
 “ I am going home by tram.” Overwrought, and unable to 
 control herself, she pulled her arm out of his. “ I cannot stand 
 any more tonight, and I will not have these scenes with you 
 every time I have been to your home. Good-night.” 
 
 “Jenny! Wait! Jenny! . . .” He hurried after her, but 
 she was already at the stop when the tram came, and got in, 
 leaving him without a word. 
 
 VII 
 
 J ENNY walked listlessly about in her studio next morning 
 and could not settle down to anything. The pouring 
 rain was beating against the big window. She stopped 
 to look at the wet tiles of the roofs, the black chimneys, and 
 the telephone wires, along which the small raindrops were 
 rolling down like pearls until they gathered into one large one 
 and fell off, to be replaced immediately by others. 
 
 She might go to her mother and the children in the country 
 for a few days. She must go away from all this. Or she 
 might go to an hotel in some other town and write for Helge 
 to come and talk things over with her quietly. If they could 
 only be together again — they two alone ! She tried to think 
 of their spring in Rome, of the silvery haze over the mountains, 
 and of her own happiness in it all. But she could not recon- 
 struct the picture of Helge from that time — as he had appeared 
 to her enamoured eyes. 
 
 Those days seemed already so far away; they were an isolated 
 
162 
 
 JENNY 
 
 episode in her life, and although she knew they were a reality 
 she could not connect them with her present existence. 
 
 Helge — her Helge was lost to her in the home at Welhavens- 
 gaten, and she herself could not fit in there. It seemed un- 
 thinkable that she should have anything to do with those people 
 now and in all the time to come. Yes — Gram was right — 
 they must go away. 
 
 And she would go at once — before Helge came, asking for 
 an explanation of her behaviour yesterday. She packed a bag, 
 and as she was putting on her mackintosh somebody knocked at 
 the door — again and again — she knew it was Helge. She 
 stood absolutely still and waited till he had gone. After a 
 while she took her bag, locked the studio, and w 7 ent. Half-w T ay 
 down the stairs she saw a man sitting in one of the windows. 
 It was Helge. He had seen her too, so she went down to him. 
 They looked at each other in silence. 
 
 “ Why did you not open just now? ” he asked. 
 
 Jenny did not answer. 
 
 “ Did you not hear me knocking? ” He looked at her bag: 
 “ Are you going to your mother? ” 
 
 She hesitated a little, then said: “No; I thought of going 
 
 to Holmestrand for a few days and writing to you from there 
 to come down, so that we could be together for a time without 
 undue interference and scenes. I should like to talk matters 
 over with you in peace and quiet.” 
 
 “ I am anxious to speak to you too. Can we not go up to 
 your place? ” 
 
 She did not answer directly. 
 
 “ Is there anybody there? ” he asked. 
 
 Jenny looked at him: “ Anybody in my studio when I have 
 
 left? ” 
 
 “ There might be somebody you do not wish to be seen 
 with.” 
 
JENNY 163 
 
 She turned purple in the face: “ Why? How could I know 
 
 that you were sitting there spying on me? ” 
 
 “ My dear Jenny, I don’t mean to say that there was any 
 harm in it, not on your part at least.” 
 
 Jenny said nothing, but went up the stairs again. In the 
 studio she placed her bag on the floor, and without taking off 
 her things stood looking at Helge while he hung up his coat 
 and put his umbrella in the corner. 
 
 “ Father told me this morning that you had been to the office 
 and that mother had been below in the street.” 
 
 “ Yes. It is a peculiar manner you people have — of spy- 
 ing, I mean. I must say, I find it hard to get accustomed 
 to it.” 
 
 Helge turned very red. 
 
 “ Forgive me, Jenny — I had to speak to you, and the porter 
 said he was sure you were in. You know very well that I 
 don’t suspect you.” 
 
 “ Really, I hardly know anything,” she said, overcome with 
 it all. “ I cannot bear it any longer. All this suspicion and 
 secrecy and discord. Good heavens, Helge ! — can’t you pro- 
 tect me from all this ? ” 
 
 “ My poor Jenny.” He rose and went to the window, where 
 he remained standing with his back to her. “ I have suffered 
 more than you know. It is all so hopeless. Can you not 
 see for yourself that mother’s jealousy is not without founda- 
 tion? ” 
 
 Jenny began to shiver. He turned round and saw it. 
 
 “ I don’t believe father is aware of it himself. If he were, 
 he would not give in like that to his desire to be with you. 
 But he told me himself that we ought to go away from here, both 
 of us. I am not so sure that your going away now is not his 
 idea too.” 
 
 “No; I decided myself to go to Holmestrand, but he spoke 
 
i 64 JENNY 
 
 to me yesterday about leaving town, when — when we got 
 married.” 
 
 She went to him and put her hands on his shoulders. 
 
 “ Dearest — if it is as you say, I will have to go away. 
 Helge, Helge! What shall we do?” 
 
 “ I am going,” he said abruptly, lifting her hands from his 
 shoulders and pressing them against his face. 
 
 They stood a moment in silence. 
 
 “But I must go too. Can you not understand? As long 
 as I thought your mother absurd, even common, I could keep 
 my countenance, but now it is different. You should not have 
 said it, Helge — even if you are mistaken. I cannot go there 
 any more with that on my mind. Whether she is justified or 
 not, I cannot meet her eyes. I shall not be myself, and I shall 
 look guilty.” 
 
 “ Come,” said Helge, leading her to the sofa and sitting down 
 beside her. 
 
 “ I am going to ask you a question. Do you love me, 
 Jenny? ” 
 
 “ You know I do,” she said quickly, as if frightened. 
 
 He took her cold hand between both of his: “ I know you 
 
 did once — though, God knows, I never understood why. But 
 I knew it was true when you said so. You were loving and 
 kind to me, and I was happy, but I was always afraid of a 
 time coming when you would not love me any longer.” 
 
 She looked up in his face, saying: “ I am very, very fond of 
 
 you, Helge.” 
 
 “ I know,” he answered, with a shadow of a smile. “ I 
 don’t think you turn cold all at once to somebody you have 
 loved — you are not that kind. I know that you don’t wish to 
 make me suffer, and that you will suffer yourself the moment 
 you understand that you don’t love me any longer. I love you 
 above everything.” 
 
 He bent his head in tears. She put her arms round him. 
 
JENNY 
 
 165 
 
 “ Helge — my own darling boy.” 
 
 He raised his head and pushed her gently away from him: 
 “Jenny, that time in Rome I could have made you mine — 
 you wanted it yourself, for you believed that we could only 
 find happiness in a life together. I was not so sure, I suppose, 
 as I did not risk it. But here at home I have been wanting you 
 more than ever. I wanted you to be mine entirely, for I was 
 afraid of losing you, but I saw you were frightened every time 
 you understood that I was longing for you.” 
 
 She looked at him in awe. Yes, he was right — she had not 
 wished to admit it, but it was so. 
 
 “ If I asked you now — this moment — would you consent? ” 
 Jenny moved her lips; then came a quick and firm “ Yes.” 
 Helge smiled sadly, kissing her hand: “ Gladly, because 
 
 you wish to be mine? Because you cannot conceive of any 
 happiness unless you are mine and I am yours? Not only be- 
 cause you want to be kind to me or don’t want to break your 
 word — tell me the truth.” 
 
 She threw herself down on his knee and sobbed: “Let me 
 
 go away for a time. I want to go up in the mountains. I 
 must recover myself. I want to be your Jenny, as I was in 
 Rome. I do want it, Helge, but I am so confused now. When 
 I am myself again I will write you to come, and I will be 
 your own Jenny again — yours only.” 
 
 “ I am my mother’s son,” said Helge quietly. “ We have 
 got estranged from one another. Will you not convince me 
 that I am everything in the world to you, the only man, more 
 than anything else? — more than your work and your friends, 
 to whom I felt you belonged more than to me — just as you feel 
 a stranger among the people I belong to.” 
 
 “ I did not feel a stranger towards your father.” 
 
 “ No, but my father and I are strangers to one another. 
 There is one interest — your work — which I cannot share 
 with you completely, and I know now that I should be jealous 
 
i66 
 
 JENNY 
 
 of it. You see, I am her son. If I am not convinced that I 
 am everything in the world to you, I cannot help being jealous 
 — anxiously fearing that some day there might come another 
 whom you could love more, who could understand you better. 
 I am jealous by nature.” 
 
 “ You must not be jealous, or everything will go to pieces. 
 I cannot bear to be distrusted. I would rather you deceived me 
 than doubted me — I could better forgive you that.” 
 
 “ I could not ” — with a bitter smile. 
 
 Jenny stroked the hair from his forehead and dried his eyes. 
 “ We love one another, don’t we, Helge? When we get away 
 from all this and we both wish everything to be well and right, 
 don’t you think we can make one another happy? ” 
 
 “ I have seen too much. I dare not trust my good intentions 
 or yours. Others have built their hopes on this and failed — 
 I have seen what a hell two people can make life for each other. 
 You will have to give me an answer to what I asked you. Do 
 you love me ? Do you wish to be mine — as you did in Rome ? 
 Do you wish it more than anything else in the world ? ” 
 
 “ I love you very dearly, Helge,” she said, crying piteously. 
 “ Thank you,” he said, kissing her hand. “ I know you 
 cannot help it, poor darling, that you don’t love me.” 
 
 “ Helge,” she said imploringly. 
 
 “ You cannot say that you wish me to stay because you would 
 not be able to live without me. Dare you take the responsibility 
 for everything that may happen if you say you love me — only 
 so as not to send me away in sadness ? ” 
 
 Jenny sat looking down. 
 
 Helge put on his overcoat. 
 
 “ Good-bye, Jenny.” He clasped her hand. 
 
 “Are you going away from me, Helge?” 
 
 “ Yes. I am going.” 
 
 “ And you will not come back? ” 
 
 “ Not unless you can say what I asked you to say.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 167 
 
 “ I cannot say it now,” she whispered in agony. 
 
 Helge touched her hair lightly, and left. 
 
 Jenny remained on the sofa crying long and bitterly — her 
 mind a perfect blank. Tired with crying, and worn out after 
 all these months of petty, racking humiliation and quarrels, 
 she felt her heart empty and cold. Helge was probably right. 
 
 After a while she began to feel hungry, and, looking at her 
 watch, saw it was six. She had been sitting like this for four 
 hours. When she rose to put on her coat she noticed that she 
 had had it on all the time. 
 
 By the door she perceived a small pool of water running on 
 to some of her pictures standing against the wall. She went for 
 a duster to wipe it up, and, realizing suddenly that the pool 
 was left from Helge’s umbrella, she leaned her forehead against 
 the door and cried again. 
 
 VIII 
 
 H ER dinner did not take long. She tried to read a 
 paper to divert her mind for a moment, but it was no 
 no good. She might just as well go home and sit 
 
 there. 
 
 On the upper landing a man stood waiting. He was tall 
 and thin. She took the last steps running, calling out Helge’s 
 name. 
 
 “ It is not Helge,” came the answer. It was his father. 
 Jenny stood breathless before him, stretching out her hands: 
 “ Gert — what is it? — has anything happened?” 
 
 “Hush, hush! ” He took her hand. “Helge has gone — 
 he went to Kongsberg on a visit to a friend — a schoolfellow of 
 his who lives there. Were you afraid, child, that something else 
 had happened ? ” 
 
1 68 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “Oh, I don’t know.” 
 
 “My dear Jenny — you are quite beside yourself.” 
 
 She went past him in the passage and opened her door. 
 There was still daylight in the studio and Gert Gram looked at 
 her. He was pale himself. 
 
 “Do you feel it so much? Helge said — at least that is 
 what I understood him to say — that you have agreed to — that 
 you both think you are not suited to each other.” 
 
 Jenny was silent. Hearing somebody else say it, she wanted 
 to protest. Up to now she had not quite realized that it was 
 all over, but here was this man saying that they had agreed to 
 part, and Helge had gone and her love for him was gone — 
 she could not find it in her any more. It was all over, but, 
 heavens! how was it possible, when she had not w r anted it to 
 end? 
 
 “Does it hurt so much?” he asked again. “Do you still 
 love him? ” 
 
 “ Of course I love him.” Her voice shook. “ One does not 
 cease all at once loving somebody one has been very fond of, and 
 one cannot be indifferent to having caused suffering.” 
 
 Gram did not speak at once; he sat down on the sofa, twist- 
 ing his hat between his fingers: “ I understand that it is very 
 
 painful to both of you, but don’t you believe, Jenny, when you 
 think it over, that it is for the best ? ” 
 
 She did not reply. 
 
 “ I cannot tell you how pleased I was when I met you and 
 saw what kind of a woman my son had won. It looked to me 
 as if my boy had got everything that I have had to renounce in 
 life. You were so pretty and refined, I had an impression that 
 you were as good as you were clever, strong, and independent. 
 And you were a talented artist as well, with no hesitation as 
 to your aim and means. You spoke of your work with jov and 
 tenderness and of your lover in the same way. 
 
JENNY 
 
 169 
 
 “Then Helge came home. You seemed to change then — 
 in a remarkably short time. The disagreeable things which 
 are the order of the day in our home impressed you too much; 
 it seemed impossible that an unsympathetic future mother-in- 
 law could completely spoil the happiness of a young loving 
 woman. I began to fear that there was some other deeper 
 cause that you would see for yourself later on, and that per- 
 haps you realized your love for Helge was not so strong as you 
 had imagined. Or that you understood you were not really 
 suited to each other, and that it was more a temporary emotion 
 which had brought you together. In Rome you were both 
 alone, young and free, happy in your work; in strange circum- 
 stances, without the pressure of everyday ties, and both with 
 the youthful longing for love in your hearts. Was that not 
 enough to awaken a mutual sympathy and understanding even 
 if they did not penetrate to the very inmost of your being? ” 
 Jenny stood by the window looking at him. While he was 
 speaking she felt an intense indignation at his words — al- 
 though he might be right. Yet he did not understand, as he 
 sat there plucking it all asunder, what it was that really hurt 
 her: 
 
 “ It does not make it easier even if there is some sense in 
 what you say. Perhaps you are right.” 
 
 “ Is it not better anyhow that you have realized it now than 
 if it had happened later, when the bonds would be stronger, 
 and the suffering much greater in breaking them? ” 
 
 “ It is not that — it is not that.” She interrupted herself 
 suddenly: “It is that I — yes — I despise myself. I have 
 
 given way to an emotional impulse — lied to myself; I ought 
 to have known if I could keep my word before I said: I love. 
 
 I have always hated that kind of levity more than anything in 
 the world. Now — to my shame — I find I have done that 
 very thing.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 170 
 
 Gram looked at her. Suddenly he turned pale — and then 
 crimson. After a while he said, speaking with effort: 
 
 “ I said it was better for two people who were not in perfect 
 understanding to realize it before their relations had made such 
 a change in their lives that neither of them — especially she — 
 could ever obliterate the traces. If such be the case, they 
 should try with some resignation and goodwill on either side to 
 bring about harmony. Should this not be possible, then there 
 is still the other way out. I don’t know, of course, if you and 
 Helge — how far you are affected. . . .” 
 
 Jenny laughed scornfully: 
 
 “ I understand what you mean. To me it is just as binding 
 that I have wanted to be his — promised it and cannot keep 
 my promise — and just as humiliating as if I had really given 
 myself to him — perhaps even more so.” 
 
 “ You will not speak like that when once you meet the man 
 you can love with true, deep feeling.” 
 
 Jenny shrugged her shoulders: 
 
 “ Do you really believe in true and great love as you say? ” 
 “ Yes, I do. I know that you young people find the ex- 
 pression ludicrous, but I believe in it — for a good reason.” 
 
 “ I believe that every one loves according to his individuality; 
 those who have a greater mind and are true to themselves do 
 not fritter themselves away in little love affairs. I thought 
 that I myself. . . . But I was twenty-eight when I met Helge, 
 and I had never yet been in love. I was tired of waiting and 
 wanted to try it. He was in love, young, warm-blooded, and 
 sincere — and it tempted me. I lied to myself — exactly as 
 all other women do. His intensity warmed me, and I was 
 ready enough to imagine that I shared it, although I knew such 
 an illusion can only be kept alive as long as there is no claim 
 on one to prove one’s love. 
 
 “ Other women live under this illusion quite innocently, be- 
 cause they do not know the difference between good and bad, 
 
JENNY 
 
 171 
 
 and go on lying to themselves, but I can plead nothing of that 
 kind in my defence. I am really just as small and selfish and 
 false as other women, and you may depend upon it, Gert, I 
 shall never know what that great and true love of yours is.” 
 
 “ Well, Jenny,” said Gert, with his same melancholy smile 
 — “ God knows, I am neither great nor strong, and I’ve lived 
 in lies and abominations for twelve years. But I was ten 
 years older than you are now when I met a woman who taught 
 me to believe in the feeling you speak of with such scorn, and 
 my faith in it has never been shaken.” 
 
 They were silent for a moment. 
 
 “ And you remained with her? ” said Jenny at last. 
 
 “We had the children. I did not understand then that I 
 should never have any influence on my own children, when 
 another woman than their mother possessed my whole heart and 
 soul. 
 
 “ She was married too — very unhappily. Her husband was 
 a drunkard. She had a little girl whom she could have brought 
 with her. But we both stayed. 
 
 “ It was part of the punishment, you see, for my relations with 
 her who only gratified my senses, but was nothing to my soul. 
 Our love was too beautiful to live on a lie; we had to conceal 
 it like a crime. 
 
 “ Believe me, Jenny, there is no other happiness than a great 
 love.” 
 
 She went up to him and he rose; they stood an instant close 
 to one another without speaking. 
 
 “ I must go now,” he said abruptly, in a strained voice. “ I 
 must be back in time, or she will suspect something.” 
 
 Jenny nodded, and followed him to the door. 
 
 “ You must not believe that your heart is beyond love,” he 
 said; “it is a proud heart — and a warm one. Will you still 
 count me among your friends, little girl? ” 
 
 “ Yes, thank you,” said Jenny, giving him her hand. 
 
172 JENNY 
 
 He bent over it and held it long to his lips — longer than 
 ever before. 
 
 IX 
 
 G UNNAR HEGGEN and Jenny Winge were to have an 
 exhibition together in November. He came to town 
 for that purpose. He had been in the country that 
 summer, painting red granite, green pines, and blue sky, and 
 had lately been to Stockholm, where he had sold a picture. 
 
 “ How is Cesca? ” asked Jenny, when Heggen -was in her 
 studio one morning having a drink. 
 
 “ Cesca is all right.” Gunnar took a gulp from his glass, 
 smoked, and looked at Jenny, and she looked at him. 
 
 It was so nice to be together again and talk about people 
 and things she had got so far away from. It seemed almost 
 as if it had been in a remote country beyond all oceans that 
 she had known him and Cesca, lived and worked with them, and 
 been happy with them. 
 
 She looked at his open sunburnt face and crooked nose; it 
 had been broken when he was a child. Cesca once said that 
 the blow had saved Gunnar’s face from being the most perfect 
 fashion-plate type. 
 
 There was some truth in it. Looking at his features sepa- 
 rately, they were exactly those of a rustic Adonis. His brown 
 hair curled over a low, broad forehead and big steely blue 
 eyes; the mouth was red, with full lips and beautiful white 
 teeth. His face and his strong neck were tanned by the sun, 
 and his broad, somewhat short body with well-knit muscles 
 was almost brutally well shaped. But the sensual mouth and 
 heavy eyelids had a peculiarly innocent and unaffected ex- 
 pression, and his smile could be most refined. The hands 
 were regular working hands, with short fingers and strong 
 joints, but the way he moved them was particularly graceful. 
 He had grown thinner, but looked very well and contented, 
 
JENNY 173 
 
 while she herself felt tired and dissatisfied. He had been 
 working the whole summer, reading Greek tragedies and Keats 
 and Shelley when he was not painting. 
 
 “ I should like to read the tragedies in the original,” said 
 Gunnar, “ and I am going to learn Greek and Latin.” 
 
 “Dear me!” exclaimed Jenny. “I am afraid there are 
 so many things you will want to study before you get any peace 
 in your mind that you will end by not painting at all — except 
 in your holidays.” 
 
 “ I have to learn those two languages because I am going to 
 w'rite some articles.” 
 
 “You!” cried Jenny, laughing. “Are you going to write 
 articles too? ” 
 
 “ Yes; a long series of them about many different things. 
 Amongst others, that we must introduce Latin and Greek into 
 our schools again; we must see that we get some culture up 
 here. We cannot go on like this any longer. Our national 
 emblem will be a wooden porringer with painted roses on it 
 and some carving, which is supposed to be a clumsy imitation 
 of the poorest of all European styles, the rococo. That is how 
 we are national up here in Norway. You know that the best 
 praise they can give anybody in this country — artist or other 
 decent fellow — is that he has broken away — broken away 
 from school, tradition, customary manners, and ordinary civ- 
 ilized people’s conception of seemly behaviour and decency. 
 
 “ I should like to point out for once that, considering our 
 circumstances, it would be much more meritorious if somebody 
 tried to get into touch with, appropriate, exchange, and bring 
 home to this hole of ours some of the heaped-up treasures in 
 Europe that are called culture. 
 
 “ What we do is to detach a small part from a connective 
 whole — a single ornament of a style, literally speaking — and 
 carve and chip such an ugly and clumsy copy of it that it 
 becomes unrecognizable. Then we boast that it is original or 
 
174 JENNY 
 
 nationally Norwegian. And it is the same with spiritual move- 
 ments.” 
 
 “ Yes, but those sins were committed even when classical 
 education was the official foundation of all education.” 
 
 “ Quite so. But it was only a small part of the classics — 
 a detached piece. A little Latin grammar and so on. We 
 have never had a complete picture among the stories of our 
 valued ancestors of what you might call the classical spirit. 
 As long as we cannot have that, we are outside Europe. If 
 we do not consider Greek and Roman history as the oldest 
 history of our own culture, we have not got European culture. 
 It does not matter what that history was in reality, but the 
 version of it matters. The war between Sparta and Messene, 
 for instance, was in fact only the fights between some half- 
 savage tribes a very long time ago, but in the delivery of it, 
 as we know it, it is the classic expression for an impulse which 
 makes a sound people let themselves be killed to the last man 
 rather than lose their individuality or the right to live their 
 own life. 
 
 “ Bless you, for many a hundred years we have not fought 
 for our honour; we have lived merely to nurse our insides. 
 The Persian wars were really trifles, but for a vigorous people 
 Salamis, Thermopylae, and the Acropolis mean the bloom of all 
 the noblest and soundest instincts, and as long as these instincts 
 are valued, and a people believes that it has certain qualities 
 to uphold, and a past, a present, and a future to be proud of, 
 these names will be surrounded by a certain glamour. And a 
 poet can write a poem on Thermopylae and imprint it with the 
 feelings of his own time, as Leopardi has done in his ‘ Ode 
 to Italy.’ Do you remember I read it to you in Rome? ” 
 
 Jenny nodded. 
 
 “ It is a bit rhetorical, but beautiful, is it not? Do you 
 remember the part about Italia, the fairest of women, -who 
 sits in the dust chained and with loosened hair, her tears drop- 
 
JENNY 
 
 175 
 
 ping into her lap? And how he wishes to be one of the young 
 Greeks who go to meet death at Thermopylæ, fearless and 
 merry as if going to dance? Their names are sacred, and 
 Simonides in dying sings songs of praise from the top of 
 Antelos. 
 
 “ And all the old beautiful tales, symbols, and parables that 
 will never grow old. Think of Orpheus and Eurydice — so 
 simple; the faith of love conquers death even; a single instant 
 of doubt and everything is lost. But in this country they know 
 only that it is the book of an opera. 
 
 “ The English and the French have used the old symbols in 
 making new and living art. Abroad, in certain good periods, 
 there were people born with instincts and feelings so highly 
 cultivated that they could be developed into an ability to make 
 the fate of the Atrides understood and moving as a reality. 
 The Swedes, too, have living connections with the classics — 
 but we have never had them. What kind of books do we read 
 here — and write ? — feminine novels about sexless fancy-fig- 
 ures in empire dress, and dirty Danish books, which do not 
 interest any man above sixteen, unless he is obliged to wear 
 an electric belt. Or about some green youth, prattling of the 
 mysterious eternal feminine to a little chorus girl who is im- 
 pertinent to him and deceives him, because he has not sense 
 enough to understand that the riddle can be solved by means 
 of a good caning.” 
 
 Jenny laughed. Gunnar was walking up and down the 
 door. 
 
 “ Hjerrild, I think, is working at a book on the ‘ Sphinx ’ 
 at present. As it happens, I also knew the lady once. It never 
 went so far that I soiled my hands by giving her a thrashing, 
 but I had been fond enough of her to feel it rather badly when 
 I discovered her deceit. I have worked it off, you see. I 
 don’t think there is anything you cannot get over in time by 
 your own effort.” 
 
176 JENNY 
 
 Jenny sat silent for a second, then said: “Tell me about 
 
 Cesca.” 
 
 “ Well, I don’t think Cesca has touched a paint-brush since 
 she married. When I went to see them she opened the door; 
 they have no servant. She wore a big apron and had a broom 
 in her hand. They have a studio and two small rooms; they 
 cannot both work in the studio, of course, and her whole time 
 is taken up with the house, she said. The first morning I was 
 there she sprawled on the floor the whole time. Ahlin was 
 out. First she swept, then she crept round and poked under 
 the furniture with a brush for those little tufts of dust, you 
 know, that stick in the corners. Then she scrubbed the floor 
 and dusted the room, and you should have seen how awkwardly 
 she did it all. We went out to buy food together; I was to 
 lunch with them. When Ahlin came home she retired to the 
 kitchen, and when the lunch was ready at last, all her little 
 curls were damp — but the food was not bad. She washed 
 up in the most unpractical way, going to the sink with every 
 article to rinse it under the tap. Ahlin and I helped her, and 
 I gave her some good advice, you know. 
 
 “ I asked them to dine with me, and Cesca, poor thing, was 
 very pleased at not having to cook and wash up. 
 
 “ If there are going to be children — as I suppose there are 
 — you may depend upon it that Cesca has done with painting, 
 and it would be a great pity. I cannot help thinking it’s 
 sad.” 
 
 “ I don’t know. Husband and children always hold the 
 first place with a woman; sooner or later she will long to have 
 them.” 
 
 Gunnar looked at her — then sighed : 
 
 “ If they are fond of one another, that is to say.” 
 
 “Do you think Cesca is happy with Ahlin?” 
 
 “ I don’t really know. I think she is very fond of him. 
 Anyhow it was ‘ Lennart thinks ’ and ‘ Will you ? ’ and ‘ Shall 
 
JENNY 
 
 177 
 
 I? ’ and ‘ Do you think the sauce is all right, Lennart? ’ and 
 so on the whole time. She has taken to speaking a shocking 
 mixture of Swedish and Norwegian. I must say that I don’t 
 quite understand their relations. He was very much in love 
 with her, you remember, and he in not despotic or brutal — 
 quite the contrary — but she has become so cowed and humble, 
 our little Cesca. It cannot be housekeeping worries only, al- 
 though they seemed to weigh heavily on her. She has no talent 
 in that direction, but she is a conscientious little thing in her 
 way, and they are rather badly off, I understand. 
 
 “ Perhaps she has made some great mistake, profited by the 
 wedding night, for instance, to tell him about Hans Hermann, 
 Norman Douglas, and Hjerrild, and all the rest of her achieve- 
 ments from one end to the other. It might have been just a little 
 overwhelming.” 
 
 “ Cesca has never concealed anything about her doings. I 
 am sure he knew all her story before.” 
 
 “ H’m,” said Gunnar, mixing himself a fresh drink. “ There 
 might have been one or two points she has kept quiet so far, 
 and thought she ought to tell her husband.” 
 
 “ For shame, Gunnar,” said Jenny. 
 
 “ Well - — - you never really know what to think about Cesca. 
 Her version of the Hans Hermann business is very peculiar, 
 though I am sure Cesca has not done anything that I would 
 call wrong. I cannot — on the whole — see what difference 
 it makes to a man if his wife has had a liaison — or several — 
 before, provided she had been true and loyal while it lasted. 
 This claim of physical innocence is crude. If a woman has 
 been really fond of a man and has accepted his love, it is rather 
 mean of her to leave him without spending a gift on him. 
 
 “Naturally I should prefer my wife never to have loved 
 anybody else before, so, perhaps, when it is your own wife you 
 may think differently. Old prejudices and selfish vanity may 
 count for something.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 178 
 
 Jenny sipped at her drink, and was on the point of saying 
 something when she checked herself. Gunnar had stopped 
 by the window, standing with his back to her, his hands in his 
 trouser pockets: 
 
 “Oh, I think it is sad, Jenny — I mean when once in a 
 while you meet a woman who is really gifted in one way or 
 another and takes a pleasure in developing her gift by energetic 
 work — feels that she is an individual who can decide for her- 
 self what is right or wrong, and has the will to cultivate facul- 
 ties and instincts that are good and valuable and eradicate 
 others which are bad and unworthy of her; and then one fine 
 day she throws herself away on a man, gives up everything, 
 work, development — herself for the sake of a wretched male. 
 Don’t you think it sad, Jenny? ” 
 
 “ It is. But that is how we are made — all of us.” 
 
 “ I don’t understand it. We men never do understand you, 
 and I think it is because we cannot get it into our heads that 
 individuals who are supposed to be reasonable beings are so 
 completely devoid of self-esteem, for that is what you are. 
 Woman has no soul — that is a true word. You admit more 
 or less openly that love affairs are the only things that really 
 interest you.” 
 
 “ There are men who do the same — at least in their be- 
 haviour.”’ 
 
 “ Yes, but a decent man has no respect for those effeminates. 
 Officially at least we do not wish it to be considered anything 
 but a natural diversion beside our work. Or a capable man 
 wishes to have a family because he know T s he can provide for 
 more than himself, and wants somebody to continue his work.” 
 “ But surely woman has other missions in life.” 
 
 “ That is mere talk — unless she wants to be a reasonable 
 being and work, and not content herself with being a female 
 only. What is the good of producing a lot of children if they 
 
JENNY 179 
 
 are not meant to grow up for any other purpose than continued 
 production — if the raw material is not to be used? ” 
 
 “ It may be true to a certain extent,” Jenny said, smiling. 
 
 “ I know it is. I have seen enough of women to know, ever 
 since I was a youngster and went to the workers’ academy. I 
 remember a girl at one of the English classes; she wanted to 
 learn the language to be able to talk to the sailors on the foreign 
 men-of-war. The only aim of the girls that counted for any- 
 thing was to get a situation in England or America. We boys 
 studied because we wanted to learn something for the sake of 
 mental gymnastics and to complete as much as possible what 
 we had learnt at school. The girls read novels. 
 
 “Take socialism, for instance. Do you think any woman 
 has an idea what it really means, unless she has a husband 
 who has taught her to see? Try to explain to a woman why 
 the community must arrive at such a stage that every child 
 born must have the opportunity to cultivate its faculties, if it 
 has any, and to live its life in liberty and beauty — if it can 
 bear liberty and has a sense of beauty. Women believe that 
 liberty means no work and no restrictions as to their behaviour. 
 Sense of beauty they have none; they only want to dress up in 
 the ugliest and most expensive things, because they are the 
 fashion. Look at the homes they arrange. The richer, the 
 uglier. Is there any fashion, be it ever so ugly or indecent, 
 that they don’t adopt if they can afford it? You cannot deny 
 it. 
 
 “ I won’t mention their morals, because they haven’t any. 
 Let alone your treatment of us men, the way you treat one an- 
 other is disgusting.” 
 
 Jenny smiled. She thought he was right in some things and 
 wrong in others, but she was not inclined to discuss them. Yet 
 she felt she ought to say something: 
 
 “Aren’t you rather hard on us? ” she ventured. 
 
i8o 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ You shall see it all in print one day,” he said complacently. 
 “There is something in it, but all women are not alike; 
 there is a difference even if it be only a difference in de- 
 gree.” 
 
 “ Certainly, but what I have said applies to a certain extent 
 to all of you, and do you know why? Because the principal 
 thing to all of you is a man — one you have or one you miss. 
 The only thing in life which is serious and worth anything — 
 I mean work — is never a serious thing to you. To the best 
 of you it is so for a short time, and I believe it is because you 
 are sure when you are young and pretty that ‘ he ’ will come 
 along. But as time goes and he does not turn up, and you get 
 on in years, you get slack and weary and dissatisfied.” 
 
 Jenny nodded. 
 
 “ Look here, Jenny. I have always placed you on the same 
 level as a first-class man. You will soon be twenty-nine, and 
 that is about the right age to begin independent work. You 
 don’t mean to say that now, when you should begin your in- 
 dividual life in earnest, you wish to encumber yourself wnth 
 husband, children, housekeeping, and all those things which 
 would only be so many ties and a hindrance in your work? ” 
 Jenny laughed softly. 
 
 “ If you had all those things and were going to die, sur- 
 rounded by husband and kiddies and all that, and you felt you 
 had not attained what you knew you might have done, don’t 
 you think you would repent and regret? I am sure you would.” 
 “ Yes, but if I had reached the farthest goal of my abilities 
 and I knew, when dying, that my life and my work would live 
 a long time after I had gone — and I were alone, with no living 
 soul belonging to me, don’t you think I should regret and re- 
 pent then too? ” 
 
 Heggen was silent a moment. 
 
JENNY 
 
 181 
 
 “Yes. Celibacy, of course, is not the same to women as 
 to men. It often means that they are kept outside all those 
 things in life which people make the most fuss about — simply 
 that whole groups of organs, mental as well as physical, are 
 wasting away unused. Ugh! Sometimes I almost wish you 
 would be a little frivolous for once and have done with it all, 
 so that you could work in peace and quiet afterwards.” 
 
 “ Women who have been a little frivolous, as you say, are 
 not done with it. If they were disappointed the first time, 
 they hope for better luck the next. One does not settle down 
 disappointed, and before you know it you have had many a 
 try.” 
 
 “ Not you,” he said quickly. 
 
 “ Thanks. It is quite new to hear you speak like that. You 
 have always said that when women begin such a life they in- 
 variably end by being dragged down completely.” 
 
 “ Most of them do. But there must be some exceptions. It 
 applies to those who have no other instincts in life than a man 
 — not to those who are something by themselves and not only 
 of female sex. Why should you, for instance, not be true and 
 loyal to a man even if you both saw that you could not give up 
 everything to tie yourself down as his wife for the rest of your 
 life? Love always dies sooner or later. Don’t let yourself be 
 deceived on that point.” 
 
 “Yes; we know it — but still we won’t believe it.” She 
 laughed. “No, my friend — either we love and believe it is 
 the only thing worth living for, or we do not love — and are 
 unhappy because we don’t.” 
 
 “ Jenny, I don’t like to hear you speak like that. No; to 
 feel oneself in full vigour, with all faculties alert, ready to 
 adopt and appropriate, to adapt and produce, make the utmost 
 possible of oneself — work — that is the only thing worth living 
 for, believe me.” 
 
182 
 
 JENNY 
 
 X 
 
 J ENNY bent over Gert Gram’s chrysanthemums: “ I am 
 
 so glad you like my pictures.” 
 
 “ Yes, I like them very much, especially the one of 
 the young girl with the corals — as I told you already.” 
 
 Jenny shook her head. 
 
 “ I think the colouring is so lovely,” said Gram. 
 
 “ It is not well finished. The scarf and the dress should 
 have been more thoroughly worked up, but when I was painting 
 it both Cesca and I were distracted by other things.” 
 
 After a while she asked: 
 
 “ Do you hear from Helge? How is he? ” 
 
 “ He does not write much. He is working at the essay for 
 his doctor of science degree — you know he prepared himself 
 for it in Rome. He says he is all right. He does not write to 
 his mother at all, and she, of course, is very vexed about it. 
 She has not improved as a companion, I am sorry to say, but 
 she is not happy, poor thing, at present.” 
 
 Jenny moved the flowers to her writing-table and began to 
 arrange them: 
 
 “ I am glad Helge is working again. He did not get much 
 done in the summer.” 
 
 “ Neither did you, dear.” 
 
 “ No, it is true, and the worst of it is that I have not been 
 able to start yet. But I don’t feel the least inclined to, and I 
 was going to begin etching this winter, but. . . .” 
 
 “ Don’t you think it quite natural that a disappointment like 
 yours should take some time to get over? Your exhibition is 
 a success, and has been well spoken of in the papers. Don’t 
 you think that is enough to make you want to work again? 
 You have got a bid for the Aventine picture already — are you 
 going to accept it ? ” 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders: 
 
JENNY 
 
 183 
 
 “ Of course. I am obliged to accept. They always need 
 money at home, as you know. Besides, I must go abroad; it is 
 not good for me to stay here long.” 
 
 “Do you want to go abroad?” said Gram gently, looking 
 down. “ Well, I suppose you are; it is only natural.” 
 
 “ Oh, this exhibition,” said Jenny, sitting down in the rock- 
 ing-chair — “ all my pictures were painted such a long time 
 ago, it seems to me, even the recent ones. The sketch of the 
 Aventine was finished the day I met Helge, and I painted the 
 picture while we were together — that of Cesca as well. And 
 the one from Stenersgaten in your place, while I was waiting 
 for him to come home. I have done nothing since. Ugh! 
 So Helge is at work again ? ” 
 
 “It is only natural, my dear, that an experience like yours 
 should leave deeper traces in a woman.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, yes — a woman; that is the whole misery of it. It 
 is just like a woman to become uninterested and utterly lazy 
 because of a love that does not even exist.” 
 
 “ My dear Jenny,” said Gram, “ I think it quite natural that 
 it should take some time for you to get over it — to get beyond 
 it, as it were; one always does, and then one understands that 
 the experience has not been in vain, but that one’s soul is the 
 richer for it in some way or other.” 
 
 Jenny did not reply. 
 
 “ I am sure there is much you would not like to have missed 
 — all the happy, warm, sunny days with your friend in that 
 beautiful country. Am I not right ? ” 
 
 “ Will you tell me one thing, Gert? — is it your own personal 
 experience that you have been able to enrich your soul, as you 
 say, by the incidents of your life? ” 
 
 He gave a start as if hurt and surprised at her brutality; it 
 was a moment before he answered her: 
 
 “ It is quite a different thing. The experiences which are 
 the results of sin — I don’t mean sin in the orthodox sense, but 
 
JENNY 
 
 184 
 
 the consequences of acting contrary to your understanding — 
 are always far from sweet. I mean that my experiences have 
 made my life in a way richer and deeper than a lesser mis- 
 fortune might have done — since it was my fate not to attain 
 the greatest happiness. I have a feeling that once it will be 
 the case in a still higher degree, and will help me to under- 
 stand the real meaning of life. 
 
 “ In your case, I meant it in a different way. Even if your 
 happiness proved to be of a passing nature, it was pure and 
 guiltless while it lasted, because you believed in it implicitly 
 and enjoyed it without any mental reservation. You deceived 
 nobody but yourself.” 
 
 Jenny did not speak. She would have had a great deal 
 to say in opposition, but she felt dimly that he would not un- 
 derstand her. 
 
 “Don’t you remember Ibsen’s words: 
 
 “ ‘ Though I ram my ship aground, it was grand to sail the 
 seas ’ ? ” 
 
 “ I am surprised at you, Gert, for repeating those idiotic 
 words. Nowadays we have too great a feeling of responsibility 
 and too much self-esteem, most of us, to accept that kind of 
 reasoning. If I am wrecked and sink, I will try not to wince, 
 if I know that I have not run my ship aground myself. As 
 far as I understand, the best sailors prefer to go down with 
 their ship if the fault is theirs, rather than survive the dis- 
 aster.” 
 
 “ I am of the opinion that, as a rule, one can thank oneself 
 for every misfortune,” said Gram, smiling, “ but that one can 
 nearly always draw some spiritual benefit out of it.” 
 
 “ I agree with you on the first point — and on the second 
 on the condition that the misfortune does not consist in the 
 diminution of one’s self-esteem.” 
 
 “ You should not take this so seriously. You are quite ex- 
 cited and bitter. I remember what you said on the day Helge 
 
JENNY 
 
 185 
 
 left, but, my dear child, you cannot really mean that one 
 should quench every affection at its birth unless one can 
 guarantee the moment it comes into life that it will last until 
 one’s death, endure all adversity, be ready for every sacrifice, 
 and that it will understand the personality of its object as in a 
 vision, show up its most sacred depths to prevent later change 
 of opinion about him or her.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Jenny sharply. 
 
 “Have you ever felt this yourself? ” asked Gram. 
 
 “ No, but I know it, all the same. I have always known 
 that it should be so. But when I was twenty-eight and still an 
 old maid, longing to love and be loved, and Helge came and 
 fell in love with me, I laid aside all claims on myself and my 
 love, taking what I could get — to a certain extent in good faith. 
 It will be all right, I thought — I am sure it will — although I 
 did not feel assured in my inmost heart that nothing else could 
 be possible. Let me tell you what my friend Heggen told me 
 the other day. He despises women truly and honestly — and 
 he is right. We have no self-esteem, and we are so lazy that 
 we can never make up our mind in earnest to shape our life and 
 happiness ourselves, and to work with that purpose. Secretly 
 we all nourish the hope that a man will come and offer us 
 happiness, so that we need not make any effort ourselves. The 
 most womanly of us, who by happiness mean only idleness and 
 finery, hang on to the man who can give them plenty of it. 
 If amongst us there are a few who really have the right feel- 
 ings and are longing to become good and strong, and making 
 efforts in that direction — we still hope to meet a man on the 
 way and to become what we want to be through his love. 
 
 “We can work for a time pretty honestly and seriously, and 
 take a pleasure in it too, but in our hearts we are waiting for 
 a still greater joy, which we cannot acquire by our work, but 
 must receive as a gift. We women can never get to the point 
 where our work is everything to us.” 
 
i86 JENNY 
 
 “ Do you believe work alone is enough for a man? Never,” 
 said Gram. 
 
 “ It is for Gunnar. You may depend on it that he will keep 
 women in their right place in his life — as trifles.” 
 
 Gram laughed: “ How old is your friend Heggen? I hope 
 
 for the man’s own sake that he will change his opinion some 
 day about the most conclusive influence in life.” 
 
 “ I don’t,” said Jenny vehemently, “but I hope I, too, shall 
 learn some day to put this nonsense about love in its right 
 place.” 
 
 “ My dear Jenny, you speak as if — as if you had no sense, 
 I was going to say, but I know you have,” said Gram, with a 
 melancholy smile. “ Shall I tell you something of what I know 
 about love, little one? If I did not believe in it, I should not 
 have the least particle of faith in men — or in myself. Do you 
 believe that it is only women who think life meaningless, and 
 find their hearts empty and frozen if they have nothing but 
 their work to love or to depend upon? Do you believe there 
 is a single soul living who has not moments of doubt in him- 
 self? You must have somebody in whose keeping you can 
 give the best in you — your love and your trust. 
 
 “ When I say that my own life since my marriage has been 
 a hell, I am not using too strong words, and if I have been able 
 to stand it in a way it is because I think the love Rebecca has 
 for me partly exonerates her. I know that her feelings of 
 mean pleasure at having the power to torment and humiliate 
 me with her jealousy and rage are a caricature of betrayed love, 
 and it is a kind of satisfaction to my sense of justice that there 
 is a reason for my unhappiness. I betrayed her when I took 
 her love without giving her mine — intending secretly to give 
 her only crumbs — the small coin of love — in payment for 
 the best of herself she offered me. If life punishes every sin 
 against the sacredness of love so ruthlessly, it proves to me that 
 there is nothing holier in life, and that he who is true to his 
 
JENNY 187 
 
 ideal of love will reap his recompense in the greatest and purest 
 bliss. 
 
 “ I told you once that I learnt to know and to love a woman 
 when it was too late. She had loved me from the time we 
 were children without my knowing, or caring to know it. When 
 she heard of my marriage she accepted a man who vowed that 
 she could save and raise him if she married him. I know you 
 would scorn any such means of saving, but you don’t know, 
 child, how you would act yourself, if you knew the being you 
 loved with your whole soul was in the arms of another, and 
 found your life not worth living, and if you heard an erring 
 human being ask you to give him the life you did not value and 
 save him thereby. 
 
 “ Helene was unhappy, and so was I. Later we met, under- 
 stood one another, and it came to an explanation which, how- 
 ever, did not result in what people call happiness. We were 
 both bound by ties we dared not break, and I must admit that 
 my love for her changed as the hope of making her my wife 
 slowly died, but the memory of her is the greatest treasure of 
 my life. She is now living in another part of the world, de- 
 voting her life to her children and trying to lessen for them 
 the misery of having to live with a father who is a drunkard 
 and a moral wreck. For her sake I have held on to my faith 
 in the purity of the human soul, in its beauty and its strength 
 — and in love, and I know, too, that the remembrance of me 
 inspires Helene with the strength to struggle on and to suffer 
 because she loves me today as she did in our childhood, and 
 believes in me, in my talent, my love, and that I was worthy of 
 a better fate. I am still something to her, don’t you think?” 
 
 Jenny did not answer. 
 
 “ The happiness in life is not only to be loved, Jenny; the 
 greatest happiness is to love.” 
 
 “ H’m. A very poor sort of happiness, I should say, to love 
 when your love is not returned.” 
 
i88 JENNY 
 
 He sat quiet for a while, looking down; then said almost in 
 a whisper: 
 
 “ Great or small, it is happiness to know somebody of whom 
 one thinks only good, about whom one can say: God give her 
 
 happiness, for she deserves it — give her all that I never had. 
 She is pure and beautiful, warm-hearted and sweet, talented 
 and kind. It means happiness to me, dear Jenny, to be able to 
 pray like this for you. No; it is nothing to be afraid of, little 
 one.” 
 
 He had risen, and she rose too, making a movement as if 
 she were afraid he would come nearer. Gram stopped and 
 smiled : 
 
 “ How could you help seeing it — you who are so clever. 
 I thought you saw it before I understood it myself. It has 
 come quite naturally. My life is running its course towards 
 old age, inactivity, darkness, death, and I knew that I should 
 never reach what I have longed for all my life. Then I met 
 you. You are to me the most glorious woman I have ever 
 known; you had the same ideals I once had, and you were on 
 the way to attain them. How could I help crying out in my 
 heart: God help her to succeed. Do not let her be wasted as 
 
 I have been! 
 
 “You were so sweet to me; you came to see me in my den, 
 and you told me about yourself. You listened to me, you 
 understood, and your beautiful eyes were so full of sympathy, 
 so soft and loving. Dearest, are you crying? ” He seized 
 both her hands and pressed them passionately to his lips: 
 
 “ Don’t cry, dear; you must not. Why do you cry? You 
 are shivering — tell me why you are crying like this? ” 
 
 “It is all so sad,” she sobbed. 
 
 “ Sit down here.” He was on his knees before her — for a 
 second he rested his forehead against her knee. 
 
 “ Do not cry because of me. Do you think for a moment I 
 wish that I had never met you? If you have loved, and you 
 
JENNY 
 
 189 
 
 wish it had never been, you have not really loved. Believe me, 
 it is so. No, Jenny, not for anything in the world would I 
 miss what I feel for you! 
 
 “ And you must not cry about yourself. You will be happy. 
 I know it. Of all the men who will love you, one will lie at 
 your feet some day, as I do now, and say that to him it is life 
 itself to be there, and you will think so too. You will under- 
 stand that to sit thus with him is the only happiness to you, 
 even if it were a brief moment of rest after a day full of toil 
 and hardships, and in the poorest of cottages — a far greater 
 happiness than if you became the greatest artist that ever ex- 
 isted and enjoyed the highest measure of fame and praise. Is 
 not that what you believe yourself? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” she whispered, exhausted with weeping. 
 
 “ You must not despair of winning that happiness some day. 
 All the time you are striving to become a true artist and a good 
 and able woman, you are longing to meet some one who thinks 
 that all you have done to attain your aim is right and that he 
 loves you for it — is it not so, Jenny?” 
 
 She nodded, and Gram kissed her hands reverently. 
 
 “ You have already reached the goal. You are everything 
 that is good and refined, proud and lovely. I say it, and one 
 day a younger, better, and stronger man will say the same — 
 and you will be happy to listen. Are you not a little pleased 
 to hear me say that you are the best and sweetest and most 
 wonderful little girl in the world? — look at me, Jenny. Can 
 I not give you a little pleasure by saying that I believe you will 
 have all possible happiness because you deserve it? ” 
 
 She looked down into his face, trying to smile; then, bending 
 her head, she passed her hands over his hair: 
 
 “ Oh, Gert, I could not help it — could I ? I did not want to 
 do you any harm.” 
 
 “ Do not grieve about it, little one! I love you because you 
 are what you want to be — what I once hoped to be. You must 
 
JENNY 
 
 190 
 
 not be sad for my sake, even if you think you have caused me 
 pain; there are sorrows that are good, full of blessing, I assure 
 you.” 
 
 She went on crying softly. 
 
 Presently he whispered: 
 
 “May I come and see you now and again? Will you not 
 send for me when you are sad? I should so like to try and be 
 of some help to my dear little girl.” 
 
 “ I dare not, Gert.” 
 
 “ Dear child, I am an old man; remember, I might be your 
 father.” 
 
 “For — for your sake, I mean. It is not right.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, Jenny. Do you believe that I think less about 
 you when I don’t see you ? I ask only to see you, talk to you, 
 to try and do something for you. Won’t you let me? Do let 
 me come.” 
 
 “ I don’t know — I don’t know what to say, but please go 
 now. I cannot bear any more today — it is all so terrible. 
 Won’t you go, dear? ” 
 
 He rose slowly: 
 
 “ I will. Good-bye! Jenny, dear child, you are quite be- 
 side yourself.” 
 
 “ Yes ” — in a whisper. 
 
 “ I will go now, but I want to see you before you go aw r ay. 
 I shall come back when you are yourself again and not fright- 
 ened of me; there is no reason for that, dear.” 
 
 She was quiet for a little, then suddenly drew him close to 
 her for a second, brushing his cheek with her lips. 
 
 “ Go now, Gert.” 
 
 “ Thank you. God bless you, Jenny.” 
 
 When he was gone she paced up and down the floor, shivering 
 without knowing why. In her heart she felt a certain pleasure 
 in remembering his words when he was on his knees before her. 
 
JENNY 
 
 191 
 
 She had always looked upon Gert as a weak man, as one who 
 had suffered himself to be dragged down and been trodden 
 upon as those who are down always will be. And now he had 
 suddenly revealed himself to her as possessing a great fortitude 
 of soul, and a being rich enough and willing to help, while 
 she was bewildered, distracted, and sick with longing in her 
 inmost heart behind the shield of opinions and thoughts which 
 she had made for herself. 
 
 She had asked him to go. Why? Because she was so mis- 
 erably poor herself and had complained of her need to him 
 who, she thought, was just as poor as she herself, and he had 
 showed her that he was rich, offering gladly to help her out of 
 his abundance. It was no doubt because she felt humiliated 
 that she asked him to go. 
 
 To accept anything from an affection to which she could not 
 respond had always seemed mean to her, but then she never im- 
 agined that she would be in need of such help. 
 
 He had not been allowed to continue the work to which he 
 was devoted; the love he had borne in his heart was never to 
 live. Yet he did not despair. That was probably the ad- 
 vantage of having faith — it did not matter so much what one 
 believed, provided there was somebody beside oneself one could 
 trust, for it is impossible to live with only oneself to love and 
 trust. 
 
 She was quite familiar with the thought of voluntary death. 
 If she died now there were a few she cared for and who would 
 be sorry, but none who could not do without her, nor any one to 
 whom she was so necessary that she would feel it her duty to 
 prolong her life for their sake. Provided they did not know 
 she had done it herself, her mother and sisters would mourn 
 her for a year and then remember her with gentle melancholy. 
 Cesca and Gunnar would be more sorry than anybody else, 
 because they would understand that she had been unhappy, but 
 she was outside their life. The one who loved her most would 
 
JENNY 
 
 192 
 
 miss her most, but as she had nothing to give him he might 
 love her just as well dead. To love her was his happiness; he 
 had the capacity in him to be happy, but if she had not, it was 
 no good living. Work could not till her life to such an extent 
 that she would not long for anything else besides. Why then 
 go on living because they said she had talent? Nobody had 
 more pleasure of her art than she had in exercising it, and the 
 pleasure was not great enough to satisfy her. 
 
 Gunnar was not right in what he had once said, rather 
 brutally, that she was a martyr to her own virtue. That could 
 easily be remedied, but she dared not, because she was always 
 afraid of meeting later what she had been longing for. And 
 the least satisfactory of all would be to live close to another 
 human being and yet in one’s inmost soul be just as lonely as 
 before. Oh no — no. She would not belong to a man and 
 submit to all the physical and mental intimacies as the con- 
 sequence of it, and then discover one day that she did not know 
 him, and that he had never known her — that the one had never 
 understood the language of the other. 
 
 She lived because she was waiting; she did not -want a 
 lover, because she was expecting a master, and she did not wish 
 to die — not now while she was waiting. 
 
 No, she was not going to throw away her life either this way 
 or that; she could not die so poor that she had not a single 
 beloved thing to bid farewell to. She dared not, because she 
 wanted to believe that some day things would be different. 
 
 There was nothing else to do but to take up painting again, 
 although it would probably not be much good now, love-sick as 
 she was. She laughed. That was just what she was — love- 
 sick. The object did not exist at present, but the love was 
 there. 
 
 Jenny went to the window and looked out. In the gathering 
 darkness the sky looked almost violet, and the tiled roofs, the 
 chimney-pots, and the telephone wires all melted together into 
 
JENNY 
 
 193 
 
 one grey tint in the twilight. A reddish light rose from the 
 streets, colouring the frosty haze. The rolling of carriages and 
 the screech of a tram on the rails sounded clearly on the frozen 
 ground. 
 
 She did not feel inclined to go home to dinner, but, having 
 promised her mother to come, she put the stove out and left. 
 
 The cold was raw and damp; the fog smelt of soot and gas 
 and frozen dust. What a dull street it was where her studio lay. 
 It led down from the centrum, with its noise and traffic, its 
 shops with brilliant show windows and people streaming in and 
 out, and its course ended by the lifeless grey walls of the fort. 
 The houses on either side looked grey and deserted: the new 
 buildings of stone and glass, where business fluttered in and 
 out on paper, prepared by busy young people in the strong 
 white light behind big windows, and people talked to each 
 other by telephone — and the old ones remaining from the time 
 the town was small were low and brown, with shiny fronts and 
 linen blinds in the office windows. Here and there behind a 
 small pane with curtains and flower-pots was a humble home 
 — strangely solitary dwellings in this thoroughfare, where the 
 houses mostly were deserted at night. The shops were not of 
 the kind that people rush in and out of. Some of them had 
 wallpaper, plaster ornaments for ceilings, and stoves for sale; 
 others were furniture stores, with the windows full of empty 
 mahogany beds and varnished oak chairs that looked as if 
 nobody would ever sit on them. 
 
 In a gateway a child was standing — a little boy, blue in the 
 face from cold with a big basket on his arm. He was looking 
 at two dogs fighting in the centre of the street and making the 
 frozen dust fly about. He started when the dogs came tumbling 
 near the place where he was standing. 
 
 “Are you afraid?” asked Jenny. As the boy did not an- 
 swer, she continued: “Would you like me to see you past 
 
 them? ” He came to her side immediately, but did not speak. 
 
JENNY 
 
 194 
 
 “ Which way are you going? Where do you live? ” 
 
 “ In Voldgata.” 
 
 “ Did you come on an errand all the way here, such a little 
 boy ? — it was very brave of you.” 
 
 “We deal with Aases in this street because father knows 
 him,” was the boy’s answer. “ This basket is so heavy.” 
 Jenny looked about her; the street was nearly empty: 
 
 “ Give it to me. I will carry it for you a bit of the way.” 
 The boy gave her the basket reluctantly. 
 
 “ Take my hand till we have got past those dogs. How cold 
 your hands are! Have you no gloves? ” 
 
 The boy shook his head. 
 
 “ Put your other hand in my muff. You won’t? You think 
 it a silly thing for a boy to carry a muff — is that it? ” 
 
 She remembered Nils when he was small; she had often 
 longed for him. He was big now and had many friends; he 
 was at an age when it was no fun to walk about with an elder 
 sister. He came seldom to her studio now. The year she had 
 been abroad and the months she had spent with Helge had 
 changed their relations; perhaps when he got older they would 
 be friends again as before. They probably would, for they 
 were fond of each other, but just now he was happy without 
 her. She wished he were a small boy now, so that she could 
 take him on her lap and tell him stories full of adventures while 
 she washed and undressed him and kissed him — or a little 
 bigger, as in the time when they went out together for excursions 
 in Nordmarken, and the road to the butcher’s was long and 
 full of remarkable happenings. 
 
 “ What is you name, little boy? ” 
 
 “ Ausjen Torstein Mo.” 
 
 “ How old are you? ” 
 
 “ Six.” 
 
 “ I suppose you don’t go to school yet? ” 
 
 “No, but I shall in April.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 195 
 
 “ Do you think it will be nice? ” 
 
 “ No — the teacher is so strict. Oscar goes to school, but 
 we shan’t be together, for he is being moved into the second 
 form.” 
 
 “ Is Oscar your friend? ” asked Jenny. 
 
 “Yes; we live in the same house.” 
 
 After a short pause Jenny spoke again: “Aren’t you sorry 
 
 there is no snow? You have got the hill by the bay where you 
 can toboggan. Have you got a sled? ” 
 
 “ No, but I have snowshoes and ski.” 
 
 They had turned into another street. Jenny let go the boy’s 
 hand and looked at the basket. It was so heavy, and Ausjen 
 was so small — so she kept it, although she did not like to be 
 seen with a poor little urchin in a good street. She would have 
 like to take him to the confectioner’s, but thought it would be 
 rather awkward if she met any one she knew there. 
 
 In the dark Voldgata she took his hand again and carried the 
 basket to the house where he lived, giving him a coin as a part- 
 ing gift. 
 
 On her way through the town she bought chocolates and a 
 pair of red woollen gloves to send to Ausjen. It was nice to be 
 able to give somebody an unexpected pleasure. She might try 
 to get him for a model, but he was very small to sit so long. 
 Poor little hand; it had got warm in hers, and it seemed as if it 
 had been good for her to hold it. Yes, she wanted to try and 
 paint him; he had a queer little face. She would give him milk 
 with a little coffee in it and a nice roll and butter, and she 
 would work and talk to Ausjen. . . . 
 
PART THREE 
 
I 
 
 T OWARDS evening of a clear and calm afternoon in 
 May there was a haze over the black sites of the 
 city; the naked walls looked reddish yellow and the 
 factory chimneys a livery brown in the sunlight. Large and 
 small houses, high and low roofs, stood outlined against the 
 greyish-purple air, heavy with dust and smoke and vapours. 
 A little tree by a red wall showed tiny greenish-yellow leaves, 
 transparent in the sunlight. 
 
 The mould on the board walls of the workshops was bright 
 green and the soot flakes on the factory walls jet black in some 
 places and in others covered, as it were, with a thin, glistening 
 silvery film. 
 
 Jenny had been walking about all the morning in the out- 
 skirts of the town, where the sky rose dark blue and hot over 
 the olive-golden fir-tops and the amber-coloured buds of the 
 leaf trees, but here in the city over the high houses and the 
 net of telephone wires it was growing pale behind a thin veil of 
 opal-white haze. This was really the prettier sight of the two. 
 though Gert could not see it. To him the city was always ugly, 
 grey, and dirty; it was the city they had cursed, all those young 
 men of the eighties who had been obliged to settle down there 
 to work. He was probably standing at his window this mo- 
 ment, looking out in the sun, and to him the play of light in 
 line and colour was not worth noticing; it was merely a sunray 
 outside his prison window. 
 
 She stopped a few steps from his door, looking up and down 
 the street, as usual. There was nobody she knew, only busi- 
 ness people on their way home. It was past six o’clock. 
 
 199 
 
2C0 
 
 JENNY 
 
 She ran up the stairs — those dreadful iron steps that echoed 
 their movements when they stole down from his rooms late in 
 the winter nights. The naked walls seemed ever to retain the 
 cold, raw air. 
 
 She hurried along the corridor and gave the usual three knocks 
 at his door. Gram opened it. He put his arm round her, 
 and locked the door with his other hand as they kissed. Over 
 his shoulder she could see the flowers on the little table, with 
 wine and foreign fruits in a crystal bowl. There was a slight 
 mist of cigarette smoke in the room, and she knew that he had 
 been sitting there since four o’clock waiting for her. 
 
 “ I could not come before,” she whispered. “ I w 7 as so sorry 
 to let you wait.” When he released her she went to the table, 
 bending over the flowers. “ I will take two and make myself 
 nice, may I? I am getting so spoilt since I have come to you, 
 Gert.” She stretched out her hands to him. 
 
 “ When must you go? ” he asked, kissing her arms tenderly. 
 
 Jenny bent her head: 
 
 “ I promised to be back for supper. Mother always w r aits 
 up for me, and she is so tired now; she needs me to help her 
 in the evening with one thing or another,” she said quickly. 
 “ It is not so easy to get away from home, you see,” she 
 whispered in excuse. 
 
 He listened to her many words with bowed head. When 
 she came towards him he took her in his arms so that her face 
 was hidden against his shoulder. 
 
 She could not lie, poor little thing, not so well, anyhow, that 
 he would believe it for a single merciful second. In the winter 
 — the very short time of their love — and in the early spring 
 she could always be away from home. 
 
 “ It is tiresome, Gert, but now I am living at home it is much 
 more difficult to manage; you know I have to be there because 
 mother needs the money as well as the help. You agreed with 
 me, did you not, that I had better move home? ” 
 
JENNY 
 
 201 
 
 Gert nodded assent. They were sitting on the sofa close 
 together, Jenny’s head resting on his shoulder, so that she could 
 not see his face. 
 
 “ I was in the country this morning, walking where we used 
 to go together. Let us go there again soon — the day after to- 
 morrow if it is fine — will you? You are sorry because I have 
 to go home so early today, are you not? ” 
 
 “ My dear, have I not said that thousands of times already? ” 
 She could hear from his voice that he was saying this with his 
 melancholy smile again. “ I am grateful for every second of 
 your life that you give me.” 
 
 “ Don’t speak like that, Gert,” she said, pained. 
 
 “Why should I not say it when it is true? Dearest little 
 girl, do you think I will ever forget that all you have given me 
 is as a princely grace, and I can never understand how you came 
 to give it to me at all? ” 
 
 “ When I realized last winter that you were fond of me — 
 how much you really loved me — I said to myself it must stop. 
 But then I understood that I could not be without you, and so 
 I gave myself to you. Was that a grace? When I could not 
 let you go? ” 
 
 “ I call it an inconceivable grace that you ever came to love 
 me.” 
 
 She nestled in his arms without speaking. 
 
 “ My own darling ... so young and sweet you are. . . .” 
 
 “I am not young, Gert. When you met me I was already 
 beginning to get old without ever having been young. You 
 seemed young to me, much younger at heart than I, because you 
 still believed in what I called childish dreams and used to laugh 
 at them. You have made me believe in love and tenderness and 
 all such things.” 
 
 Gert Gram smiled, and whispered : “ Perhaps my heart was 
 
 not older than yours — for it seemed to me that I had never yet 
 had any youth, and deep down in my soul I still entertained the 
 
202 
 
 JENNY 
 
 hope that some day youth would touch me, if only for once, with 
 his wand. But my hair has turned white meanwhile.” 
 
 Jenny raised her head and laid her hand caressingly on his 
 head. 
 
 “Are you tired, little one? Shall I take off your shoes? 
 Will you not lie down and rest? ” 
 
 “ No, let me stay as I am; it is nicer so.” 
 
 She drew her feet up under her and nestled closer in his 
 lap. He laid one arm about her, and with the other hand he 
 poured out some wine, holding the glass to her lips. She 
 drank readily. He dropped cherries into her mouth and took 
 the stones from her lips, putting them on the plate. 
 
 “More wine?” 
 
 “ Thanks. I think I will stay with you. I can send a message 
 home to say I have met Heggen — I believe he is in town — 
 but I must go home before the trams stop.” 
 
 “ I’ll go and see about it now.” He let her down gently on 
 the sofa. “ Lie still there and rest, little one.” 
 
 When he was gone she took off her shoes, drank some more 
 wine, and lay down on the sofa with her head deep in the 
 cushions, pulling a rug over herself. 
 
 After all, she loved him, and was glad to be with him. Sit- 
 ting as she had been a moment ago, resting in his arms, she was 
 happy. He was the only one in the world who had taken her 
 on his knee, warming her and hiding her and calling her his 
 little girl. He was the only being who had stood by her really 
 — so why should she not be close to him ? 
 
 When he held her close to him and hid her so that she saw 
 nothing, but only felt that he had his arms round her and 
 warmed her, she was contented. She could not do without him, 
 so why not give him the little she had to give, when he gave her 
 what she needed most of all? 
 
 He could kiss her, do with her what he liked, provided he 
 
JENNY 
 
 203 
 
 did not speak, for then they drew so far apart. He spoke of 
 love, but her love was not what he believed it to be, and she 
 could not explain it in words. It was no grace or princely gift 
 — she clung to him with a poor, begging love ; she did not 
 want him to thank her for it, only to be fond of her and say 
 nothing. 
 
 When he came back she was lying with her eyes wide open, 
 but she closed them under his discreet caresses, smiling a little; 
 then she put her arms round his neck and pressed close to him. 
 The faint scent of violet that he used was mild and agreeable. 
 She nodded slightly when he lifted her up with questioning eyes. 
 He wanted to say something, but she put her hand across his 
 mouth and then kissed him so that he could not speak. 
 
 He saw her to the car. She remained an instant stand- 
 ing on the platform, looking after him as he walked down the 
 street in the blue light of a May night. Then she went in 
 and sat down. 
 
 Gram had left his wife that Christmas, and lived alone in the 
 office building, where he had taken another room. Jenny un- 
 derstood that he was going to get a separation later on when 
 Rebecca Gram had seen that he was not coming back to her. 
 It was his way of doing it; he had not the strength to break 
 with her at once. 
 
 Jenny dared not think of what his plans for the future might 
 be. Did he think they would marry? 
 
 She could not deny to herself that she had never for a second 
 thought of binding herself to him for good, and that was why 
 she felt the bitter, hopeless humiliation and shame at the 
 thought of him when she was not with him and could hide in 
 his love. She had deceived him — all the time she had deceived 
 him. 
 
 “ That you have learnt to love me, Jenny, that is what I call 
 
204 JENNY 
 
 an inconceivable grace ” — was it her fault that he looked upon 
 it in that way? 
 
 He could not have made her his mistress unless she had 
 wanted it herself or made him feel that she wanted it. She 
 understood that he was longing for her; it worried her every 
 time they were together to know herself desired and to see his 
 efforts to conceal it — he was too proud to let her see it, too 
 proud to beg where he had once offered to give — and too proud 
 to risk refusal. Knowing that she did not want to reject his 
 love and to lose the only being who loved her, what else could 
 she do, if she wished to be honest, but offer him what she had 
 to give when she accepted from him something she could not do 
 without? 
 
 But she had been faced with the necessity of saying words 
 stronger and more passionate than her feelings, and he had 
 believed them. And it happened again and again. When she 
 came to him depressed, worried, tired of thinking what the 
 end of it all would be, and saw that he understood, she used 
 again the tender words, feigning more feeling than she had, 
 and he was deceived at once. 
 
 He knew no other love than the love which was happiness 
 in itself. Unhappiness in love came from outside, from some 
 relentless fate, or from stern justice as a vengeance for old 
 wrongs. She knew what his fear was — he dreaded that her 
 love would die one day when she saw that he was too old to be 
 her lover, but he never had a suspicion that her love was bom 
 a weakling and had in it the germ that would lead to death. 
 It was no good trying to explain this to Gert; he would not 
 understand. She could not tell him that she had sought shelter 
 in his amis because he was the only one who had offered to 
 shelter her when she was weary to death. When he offered her 
 love and warmth she had not the strength to reject, although she 
 knew she ought not to accept it — she was not worthy of it. 
 
 No, he was not old. It was the passion of a youth of twenty, 
 
JENNY 
 
 205 
 
 a childish faith, a reverent worship, and the kindness and 
 tenderness of a grown man — all the love that filled a man’s 
 life — that flared up on the border of old age. And it should 
 have been given to a woman who could love him in return, who 
 could live with him for those few years the life he had dreamt 
 of, longed and hoped for, would last — ■ live with him so that 
 she would be bound to him by a thousand happy memories 
 when old age came, having been in true love the wife of his 
 youth and manhood, and ageing with him. 
 
 But she — what could she give him if she remained? She had 
 never been able to give him anything, only taken what he gave. 
 If she tried to stay, she would not be able to make him believe 
 that all her longing for life was quenched for ever in the love 
 of their youth. He would himself tell her to go. She had 
 loved and given; she did not love any more, and would be free. 
 That is how he would look upon it; he would never understand 
 that she mourned because there was nothing — nothing she had 
 been able to give. 
 
 She could not bear to hear him speak about her gifts to him. 
 It is true that she had brought him her pure soul when she gave 
 herself to him. He could never forget it, and he measured, as 
 it were, the depth and strength of her love by this fact, for she 
 had given him the purity of her youth — of twenty years. 
 
 She had kept it as a white bridal dress, unused, unstained, 
 and in her longing and anxiety lest she should never come to 
 wear it, in despair over her cold solitude and her inability to 
 love, she had clung to it, crumpled it, and soiled it with her 
 thoughts. Was not any one who had lived the life of love 
 purer than she, who had been brooding and spying and longing 
 until all her faculties were paralysed by that longing? 
 
 She had given herself — and yet what a slight impression it 
 had made on her. She was not altogether cold; sometimes she 
 was carried away by his passion, but she feigned passion while 
 she was cool, and when she was away from him she scarcely 
 
206 
 
 JENNY 
 
 remembered it at all. Yet, to please him, she wrote of a long- 
 ing which did not exist — yes, she had been feigning, feigning 
 all the time before his honest passion. 
 
 There was a time when she had not been a hypocrite, or 
 if she had lied to Gert she had also lied to herself. She had 
 felt a storm in herself; it was perhaps pity for him and his 
 fate and rebellion against her own — why should they both be 
 harried by a longing for something impossible? — and in the 
 growing anxiety for where it all would lead, she had rejoiced 
 that she loved him, for she was forced to fall into the arms 
 of this man, however mad she knew it to be. 
 
 She would sit in the tram when she left him of an evening, 
 looking at all the sleepy, placid faces of the people, and re- 
 joicing that she came from her lover — that he and she were 
 whirled by the tempest of their fate. They had been driven 
 into it and did not know where they were going, and she was 
 proud of her fate because unhappiness and darkness threat- 
 ened. 
 
 And now she was sitting here only wishing for it to end, 
 planning a journey abroad to escape from it all. She had ac- 
 cepted a invitation to stay at Tegneby with Cesca to prepare the 
 break. It was better for Gert that he was alone — if she could 
 manage to end the life between them now, she could have done 
 him some good. 
 
 Two young women were sitting opposite her. They were 
 probably not older than she, but stupefied by a few years of 
 marriage. Three or four years ago they had no doubt been a 
 couple of neat office girls, who dressed attractively and sported 
 with their admirers in Nordmarken. She knew the face of one 
 of them, now she thought of it; she had seen her at Hakloa one 
 Easter. Jenny had noticed her then because she was such a 
 good ski-runner and looked so brisk and smart in her sport- 
 suit. In a way she was not badly dressed now either; her 
 
JENNY 
 
 207 
 
 walking habit was fashionable enough, but did not fit. The 
 figure had no firmness; she was well covered, and at the same 
 time the shoulders and hips were angular. The face under a 
 big hat with ostrich feathers was old, with bad teeth, and fur- 
 rows round the mouth. She was talking, and her friend listened 
 interestedly, sitting there heavily and painfully enceinte, with 
 knees apart and her hands in a colossal muff. The face was 
 originally pretty, but fat and red, and with a treble chin. 
 
 “ I have to lock up the cheese in the sideboard; if it goes 
 into the kitchen only the rind is left the next day — a big piece 
 of Gruyére costing nearly three kroner.” 
 
 “ I quite believe it.” 
 
 “ And then there’s another thing. She is very fond of eggs. 
 The other day I went into her bedroom — she is such a pig and 
 her room is very smelly; the bed had not been made for I don’t 
 know how long. ‘ Really, Solveig,’ I said, lifting the blankets, 
 and what do you think I found? Three eggs and a paper of 
 sugar in the bed. She said she had bought it herself — and 
 perhaps she had.” 
 
 “ I don’t think so,” said the other. 
 
 “ The sugar was in a paper bag, so she may have bought it, 
 but the eggs she had certainly taken, and I gave her a scolding. 
 Last Saturday we were to have rice pudding. When I went 
 into the kitchen I found the rice boiling on the gas and quite 
 burnt, while she was sitting in her room doing needlework. I 
 called her while I was stirring the rice, and what do you think 
 I found in the spoon? An egg, if you please. She boils eggs 
 for herself with the rice! I had to laugh, but did you ever 
 hear anything so dirty? I gave her a piece of my mind. 
 Don’t you think she deserved it? ” 
 
 “ Certainly. Servants are a bother. What do you think 
 mine did the other day? . . .” 
 
 They had also been longing for love when they were young 
 girls — their ideal of love was a smart, straight lad with a 
 
208 
 
 JENNY 
 
 secure position, who could take them away from the monotonous 
 work in office or shop and settle them in a little home, where 
 the three rooms would hold all their belongings, and they could 
 spread out all the pieces of needlework with embroidered roses 
 and bluebells which they had made while dreaming their girl- 
 ish day-dreams about love. They smiled at those dreams now 
 with a superior air, and to those who still dreamed they had the 
 satisfaction of stating that the reality was quite different. They 
 were pleased to be among the initiated who knew what it reallv 
 meant — and they were perhaps content. 
 
 But there was happiness all the same in not being content, 
 in refusing to put up with things and be thankful when life 
 offered things of little worth; far better to say: I believe in 
 
 my dreams; I will call nothing happiness but that which I 
 claim, and I believe it exists. If it is not to be mine, it is 
 my own fault; it is because I have been one of the foolish 
 virgins who did not watch and wait for the bridgegroom, but 
 the wise will see him and will enter in with rejoicing. 
 
 When Jenny came home she saw there was a light in her 
 mother’s room, so she went in to tell her about the party at 
 Ahlstrom’s studio, and how Heggen was. Ingeborg and Bodil 
 slept farther down in the room, with their black plaits across 
 the pillows. Jenny felt no compunction at standing there 
 telling falsehoods to her mother. She had always done it from 
 the time she was a schoolgirl and used to tell merry tales about 
 the children’s parties, where she had in reality been sitting 
 alone, watching the others dance — an unhappy and lonely lit- 
 tle girl who could not dance or talk of anything that the boys 
 cared for. 
 
 When Ingeborg and Bodil came home from a dance their 
 mother sat up in bed listening and smiling and asking ques- 
 tions, young and rosy in the lamplight, and they could always 
 tell the truth, because it was full of merriment and laughter. 
 
JENNY 
 
 209 
 
 There may have been a thing or two so nice that they wanted to 
 keep it to themselves, but it did not matter, for their smiles 
 were true. 
 
 Jenny kissed her mother good-night. Passing through the 
 sitting-room, she happened to pull down a photograph; she 
 picked it up, knowing in the dark that it was a brother of her 
 own father, with his wife and little girls. He had lived in 
 America, and she had never seen him; he was dead, and his 
 picture stood in its place without anybody ever thinking of it. 
 She herself dusted it every day, yet never looked at it. 
 
 She went into her own room and began to take down her 
 hair. 
 
 She had always lied to her mother — could she ever have 
 been truthful to her without making her suffer, and to what 
 purpose? Mother would never have understood. She had had 
 happiness and sorrow since she was quite young; she had been 
 happy with Jenny’s father and had bemoaned his death, but 
 she had her child to live for, and learnt to be content. Then 
 she met Nils Berner, who filled her life with fresh happiness and 
 fresh sorrow — and again the children consoled her, inasmuch 
 as they filled the emptiness of her life. The joy of motherhood 
 is bought with too much suffering; it is too actual, when held 
 living in one’s arms, for one ever to doubt its existence. To 
 love one’s child is so natural that there is no cause for reflec- 
 tion. A mother never doubts that she loves her child, or that 
 she wants it to be happy — that she does her best for it, or 
 that it returns her love. The grace of nature is so great to 
 mothers that children instinctively shrink from confiding their 
 sorrows and disappointments to her; illness and money troubles 
 are almost the only sorrows she ever gets to know. Never the 
 irreparable, the shame, the failures in life, and were she told 
 of them ever so emphatically by her own children, she would 
 never believe they were irreparable. 
 
 Her mother was not to know anything about her sorrow — 
 
210 JENNY 
 
 nature itself had raised a wall between them. Rebecca Gram 
 would never know a tenth part of the sufferings her children 
 had endured for her sake. And a friend of her mother’s was 
 still mourning her handsome boy, who had been killed by an 
 accident, and dreaming of the future that would have been his; 
 she was the only person who did not know that he had shot 
 himself as the only way of escape from insanity. 
 
 Love of one’s children did not exclude any other love; one 
 or tw T o mothers among her acquaintances had lovers, and be- 
 lieved that the children did not know. Some were divorced, 
 and found happiness in new ties; only if the new love brought 
 disappointment did they ever complain or regret. Her own 
 mother had idolized her — yet there was room for Berner in 
 her heart too, and she had been happy with him. Gert had 
 been fond of his children — and a father’s affection is more 
 understanding, more a matter of reflection and less instinctive 
 than a mother’s — yet he had scarcely thought of Helge all last 
 winter. 
 
 II 
 
 J ENNY had been to fetch their mail bag at the station; and 
 gave Francesca the papers and the letters, and opened 
 the one addressed to herself. Standing on the gravel of 
 the station platform in the blazing sun, she looked through 
 Gert’s long effusion, reading the expressions of love at the be- 
 ginning and the end and skipping the rest, which was only a 
 mass of observations on love in general. She put it back in 
 the envelope and placed it in her hand-bag. Ugh ! those letters 
 from Gert — she could not be bothered to read them. Even' 
 word proved to her that they did not understand one another; 
 she felt it when they talked together, but in writing it w'as 
 more painfully distinct still. Yet there was a mental relation- 
 
JENNY 
 
 211 
 
 ship between them — how was it that they did not harmonize? 
 Was he stronger or weaker than she? He had lost repeatedly, 
 had resigned, stooped, and submitted in every way, and yet 
 he went on hoping, living, and believing. Was it weakness or 
 vitality? She could not make out. 
 
 Was it the difference in their ages after all? He was not 
 old, but his youthfulness belonged to another period, when 
 youth was more unsophisticated and had a healthier creed. 
 Perhaps she was naive too — with her aims and opinions — 
 but it was in a quite different way. Words change their mean- 
 ings after twenty years — was that the reason? 
 
 The gravel glittered red and purple, and the paint on the 
 station building was blistered by the scorching sun. As she 
 looked up everything went dark before her eyes for a moment; 
 it was a peculiar sensation, but probably the effect of the heat, 
 which she seemed to feel more than usual this summer. 
 
 The haze hung trembling over fields and meadows, reaching 
 right out to where the forest lay, a dark green line under the 
 deep blue summer sky. The foliage of the birches had already 
 changed its colour to a darker green. 
 
 Cesca was reading a letter from her husband. Her linen 
 dress was strikingly white against the dark gravel of the plat- 
 form. 
 
 Gunnar Heggen’s luggage had been put on the pony cart, 
 and he stood stroking the horse’s head and talking to it while 
 he waited for the ladies. Cesca put her letter in her pocket, 
 shaking her head as if trying to drive away a thought. 
 
 “ Sorry to keep you so long, boy — now let us start.” Jenny 
 and Cesca took the front seat; she was taking the reins herself. 
 “ I am so pleased, Gunnar, that you could come. Won’t it be 
 nice to be together again for a few days, we three? Lennart 
 sends his love to both of you.” 
 
 “ Thanks — is he all right? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes — first-rate, thanks. Brilliant idea of father, 
 
212 
 
 JENNY 
 
 wasn’t it, to go away with Borghild and leave the house to me 
 and Jenny? Old Gina looks after us, and is ready to stand on 
 her head for us. I call it perfectly lovely.” 
 
 “ It is delightful to see you again, you two.” 
 
 He laughed and chatted with them, but Jenny imagined she 
 noticed a touch of sadness behind his merry talk. She knew 
 that she looked worn and tired herself, and Cesca in her cheap, 
 ready-made costume looked like a tomboy beginning to get 
 old without having been properly grown up. Cesca seemed to 
 have shrunk very much in the one year they had been sepa- 
 rated, but she chatted on as before, telling them w T hat they were 
 going to have for dinner, that they would have coffee in the 
 garden, and that she had bought liqueurs and whisky and soda 
 to celebrate the occasion of their visit. 
 
 That night, when Jenny came into her bedroom, she sat 
 down on the window-seat to cool her face in the fresh breeze 
 made by the fluttering curtain. She was not sober; it was an 
 extraordinary thing, but it was a fact. She could not under- 
 stand how it had happened ; all she had had was one glass and 
 a half of toddy and a couple of small liqueurs after supper. 
 True, she had not eaten much, but she had no appetite lately. 
 She had had strong coffee, so perhaps it was that and the cig- 
 arettes which affected her, although she smoked much less now 
 than she used to. 
 
 Her heart beat irregularly, and hot waves were rushing over 
 her till she felt moist all over. The landscape she was looking 
 at from the window, the greyish fields, the soft coloured flower- 
 beds in the garden, and the dark trees against the pale summer 
 sky turned and twisted before her eyes, and the room seemed 
 turning round. A taste of whisky and liqueur rose to her 
 throat. How horrid ! 
 
 She spilt the water when she poured some in the basin, and 
 she felt unsteady on her feet. Jenny mia, this is scandalous. 
 You will soon be done for, my girl, if you cannot stand that 
 
JENNY 
 
 213 
 
 much. In the olden days you could have taken twice as much. 
 
 She bathed her face and her hands for a while, keeping her 
 wrists under water; then she pulled off her clothes and squeezed 
 the full sponge over her body. She was wondering if Cesca 
 and Gunnar had noticed it; she had not realized it herself till 
 she got to her room; a good thing the Colonel and Borghild had 
 not been there. 
 
 She felt better after her wash, got into her nightdress, and 
 went to sit by the window again. Her thoughts were wander- 
 ing about confusedly, calling up fragments of conversation be- 
 tween Cesca and Gunnar, but all of a sudden she felt wide 
 awake, realizing with vivid surprise that she had been drunk. 
 Never before had she had such an experience; she used scarcely 
 to feel it at all, even if she took quite a lot of wine. 
 
 Anyhow, it had passed off now, and, feeling limp and cold 
 and sleepy, she went to lie down in the big bed. Fancy if she 
 were to wake up tomorrow with a “head” — that would be a 
 new experience. 
 
 She had scarcely settled down in the bed and closed her eyes 
 when the disagreeable heat again stole over her, plunging her 
 whole body in a bath of perspiration. The bed seemed to rock 
 under her like a ship in a storm, and she felt sea-sick. Lying 
 perfectly still, she tried to overcome the nausea, telling herself: 
 I will not, I will not, but it was no good. Her mouth filled 
 with water, and she had scarcely time to get up before she was 
 overcome with sickness. 
 
 Heavens! Was she really as drunk as that? It became 
 most embarrassing, but it ought to be over now. She tidied 
 up, drank some water, and went to bed again, hoping to sleep 
 it away, but after a brief moment of rest, with her eyes shut, 
 the rocking began again and with it the heat and the nausea. 
 It was astonishing, for her head was now quite clear — yet she 
 had to get up once more. 
 
 Stepping back into bed, a thought suddenly struck her. 
 
JENNY 
 
 214 
 
 Nonsense! She lay down again, pressing her neck deep into 
 the pillows. It was impossible. She did not want to think 
 of it, but, unable to dismiss the thought from her mind, she 
 began a review of recent events. She had not felt quite well 
 lately, had been tired and worn out, worried and nervous gen- 
 erally; that was probably why the little she had taken last night 
 had been too much for her. She could quite understand now 
 that people become abstemious after a few nights of the kind 
 she had just experienced. The other matter she would not con- 
 sider; if things had gone wrong she would know it in due time 
 - — ■ it was no good worrying unnecessarily. She was going to 
 sleep ; she was so tired — but she could not keep her thoughts 
 away from that awful subject — ugh! 
 
 At the beginning of their relations the possibility of con- 
 sequences had quite naturally presented itself to her mind, and 
 once or twice she had been in the throes of anxiety, but she had 
 been able to master it and had forced herself to look reasonably 
 at the matter. What if it were true? The dread of having 
 a child is really a senseless superstition; it happens every day. 
 Why should it be worse for her than for any poor working 
 girl, who was able to provide for herself and her child? The 
 anxiety was a remnant from the times when an unmarried 
 woman in similar circumstances had to go to the father or her 
 relations and confess that she had had a good time, and that 
 they had to pay the expenses — with the sad prospect of never 
 afterwards having her provided for by somebody else — a quite 
 sufficient reason for their anger. 
 
 Nobody had any right to be angry with her. Her mother 
 would, of course, be sorry, but when a grown-up person tried to 
 live according to his conscience the parents had nothing to say. 
 She had tried to help her mother as much as possible, she had 
 never worried her with her own troubles, her reputation had 
 never been spoilt by any tales of levity, flirtation, or revelling, 
 but where her own opinions about right and wrong differed 
 
JENNY 
 
 215 
 
 from that of other people, she meant to follow them, even if it 
 would be painful to her mother to hear disagreeable things said 
 about her. 
 
 If her relations with Gert were a sin, it did not mean that 
 she had given too much, but too little, and whatever the con- 
 sequences would be, she had to bear them without complaint. 
 
 She could provide for a child just as well as many a girl 
 who had not a tenth part of her knowledge. There was still 
 some money left of her inheritance — enough for her to go 
 abroad. If the profession she had chosen was a poor one, she 
 knew that several of her fellow-artists were able to keep wife 
 and children with it, and she had been used to helping others 
 from the time she was almost a child. She would, of course, 
 prefer not to have to do it; so far everything had been all right 
 — she would not think of it. 
 
 Gert would be in despair. 
 
 If it was true, how dreadful that it should happen now. If 
 it had happened when she loved him, or thought she did, and 
 she could have gone away in good faith, but now, when every- 
 thing that had been between them had crumbled to pieces, torn 
 asunder by her own thinking and pondering. . . . 
 
 During these weeks at Tegneby she had made up her mind 
 not to go on any longer. She was longing to go away to new 
 conditions, new work. Yes, the longing for work had come 
 back; she had had enough of this sickly desire of clinging to 
 somebody, to be cuddled and petted and called little girl. 
 
 At the thought of breaking with him her heart winced with 
 pain. She shrank from causing him sorrow, but she had kept 
 it up as long as possible. Gert had been happy while it lasted, 
 and he was free from the degrading slavery with his wife. 
 
 She was perfectly resigned to the thought that her life hence- 
 forth would be work and solitude only. She knew she could 
 not obiterate the past months from her life; she would always 
 remember them and the bitter lessons they had taught her. 
 
2l6 
 
 JENNY 
 
 The love that others found enough was not enough for her — it 
 was better for her to dispense with it altogether than to be con- 
 tented. 
 
 Yes, she would remember, but as years went by the memory 
 of the short happiness mixed with so much pain and bitter 
 repentance would perhaps be less poignant, and she would be 
 able partly to wipe out the memory of the man to whom she 
 had done a deadly wrong — and whose child perhaps she 
 bore. 
 
 No; it was impossible. Why lie here brooding over it? 
 
 But if it were true. . . . 
 
 When Jenny at last sank into a heavy and dreamless sleep 
 it was almost daylight, but when she awoke again with a shock, 
 it was not much lighter. The sky was a little more yellow 
 above the garden trees, and the birds were chirping sleepily. 
 She was instantly wide awake, and the same thoughts returned; 
 she would hardly get any more sleep that night, and sjie re- 
 signed herself to thinking them over and over again. 
 
 Ill 
 
 H EGGEN had left; the Colonel and Borghild had re- 
 turned and gone again to pay a visit to a married 
 sister of Francesca’s. Jenny and Cesca were alone, 
 and they went about by themselves, deep in their own thoughts. 
 
 Jenny was convinced now of her condition, but she had not 
 been able to realize what it all meant; if she tried to think of 
 the future, her imagination stood still. She was, on the whole, 
 in a better frame of mind now than in the first desperate weeks 
 when she was waiting anxiously for her suspicions to be dis- 
 proved. 
 
JENNY 
 
 217 
 
 She told herself that there would be a way out of it for her 
 as for so many other women. Fortunately she had spoken of 
 going abroad since last autumn. She had not made up her 
 mind about telling Gert or not, but she thought she would 
 not do it. 
 
 When she was not thinking of herself she thought of Cesca. 
 There was something the matter — something that was not as 
 it ought to be. She was sure Cesca was fond of Ahlin. Did 
 he not care for her any longer? 
 
 Cesca had had a bad time of it this first year of her married 
 life; there had been serious money troubles. Cesca looked so 
 small and dejected. Hour after hour of an evening she would 
 sit on Jenny’s bed telling her about all her household worries. 
 Everything was so expensive in Stockholm, and cheap food was 
 bad, especially when one had not learnt to cook. Housework 
 was all so difficult when one was brought up in such an idiotic 
 way as she had been, and the worst of it was that it had to be 
 done over and over again. She had scarcely finished cleaning 
 the house before it was in an awful state again, and the mo- 
 ment she had finished a meal there was the washing up — and 
 so it went on indefinitely, cooking things, soiling plates, and 
 washing up again. Lennart tried to help her, but he was just 
 as clumsy and unpractical as she was. Then, too, she worried 
 about him. The commission for the monument had been given 
 to some one else after all; he was never appreciated, and yet he 
 was so gifted, but far too proud, both individually and as an 
 artist. It could not be helped — and she would not have had 
 him different. In the spring he had had a long illness, being 
 confined to bed for two months with scarlet fever, pneumonia, 
 and subsequent complications — it had been a very trying time 
 for Cesca. 
 
 But there was something else — Jenny felt it distinctly — 
 that Cesca did not tell her, and she knew she could not be to 
 
2l8 
 
 JENNY 
 
 Cesca now what she had been in the old days. She had no 
 longer the tranquil heart and open mind, ready to receive the 
 sorrows of others and able to give comfort; and it hurt her to 
 feel that she could no longer help. 
 
 Cesca had gone to Moss one day to do some shopping. Jenny 
 preferred to stay at home, and was spending the day in the 
 garden reading, so as not to think. Then, when she found 
 that she could not pay attention to her book, she started knit- 
 ting, but soon lost count of her stitches, pulled them out, and 
 went on again, trying to be more attentive. Cesca did not 
 come back to dinner as she had promised, and Jenny dined 
 alone, killing the afternoon by smoking cigarettes which she 
 did not enjoy, and knitting, though her work constantly dropped 
 on to her lap. 
 
 At last, about ten o’clock Cesca came driving up the avenue; 
 Jenny had gone to meet her, and the moment she sat down be- 
 side her in the cart she saw that something had happened, but 
 neither of them said a word. 
 
 Later, when Francesca had had something to eat and they 
 were having a cup of tea, she said quietly without looking at 
 Jenny: 
 
 “ Can you guess whom I met in town today? ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Hans Hermann. He is on a visit at the island and living 
 with a rich woman who seems to have taken him up.” 
 
 “ Is his wife with him? ” asked Jenny. 
 
 “ No; they are divorced. I saw in the papers that they had 
 lost their little boy in the spring. I am sorry for her ” — and 
 Cesca began to talk of other things. 
 
 When Jenny was in bed Cesca came quietly into her room, 
 sitting down at the foot end of the bed and pulling her night- 
 
JENNY 219 
 
 dress well over her feet. She sat with her arms folded round 
 her knees, her little dark head making a black shadow on the 
 curtain. 
 
 “ Jenny, I am going home tomorrow. I will send a wire to 
 Lennart early in the morning and leave in the afternoon. You 
 must stay here as long as you like, and don’t think me very 
 inconsiderate, but I dare not stay. I must go at once.” She 
 was breathing heavily. “ I cannot understand it, Jenny. I 
 have seen him. He kissed me, and I did not strike him. I 
 listened to all he had to say, and I did not strike him in the 
 face as I ought to have done. I don’t care for him — I know 
 that now — and yet he has power over me. I am afraid. I 
 dare not stay, because I don’t know what he might make me 
 do. When I think of him now I hate him, but when he speaks 
 to me I seem to get petrified; and I could not believe that any- 
 body could be so cynical, so brutal, so shameless. 
 
 “ It seems as if he does not understand there is such a thing 
 as honour or shame; they do not exist for him, and he does not 
 believe that anybody else cares for them either. His point of 
 view is that our talking of right and wrong is only speculation, 
 and when I hear him speak I seem to get hypnotized. I have 
 been with him all the afternoon, listening to his talk. He said 
 that as I was married now I need not be so careful about my 
 virtue any longer, or something to that effect, and he alluded 
 to his being free again, so as to give me some hope, I suppose. 
 He kissed me in the park and I wanted to scream, but could 
 not make a sound. Oh, I was so afraid. He said he would 
 come here the day after tomorrow — they were going to have 
 a party tomorrow — and all the time he smiled at me with 
 that same smile I was always so afraid of in the old days. 
 
 “ Don’t you think I ought to go home when I feel like this? ” 
 
 “Yes; I think so.” 
 
 “ I am a goose, I know. I cannot rely upon myself, as you 
 
220 
 
 JENNY 
 
 see, but you can be certain of one thing: if I had been false to 
 Lennart, I would go straight to him and tell him, and kill my- 
 self the same instant before his eyes.” 
 
 “ Do you love your husband? ” asked Jenny. 
 
 Francesca was silent a moment. 
 
 “ I don’t know. If I loved him really as one ought to love, 
 I suppose I should not be afraid of Hans Hermann. Do you 
 think I should have let Hans behave like he did and kiss 
 me? 
 
 “ But I know, anyhow, that if I did wrong to Lennart I 
 could not go on living. You understand, don’t you? While 
 I was Francesca Jahrman I was not very careful about my 
 good name, but now I am Francesca Ahlin, and if I let fall 
 the very faintest shadow of a suspicion on that name — his 
 name — I should deserve to be shot down like a mad dog. 
 Lennart would not do it, but I would do it myself.” 
 
 She dropped her arms suddenly and crept into the bed, nestl- 
 ing close to Jenny. 
 
 “ You believe in me, don’t you? Do you think I could live 
 if I had done anything dishonourable? ” 
 
 “ No, Cesca.” Jenny put her arms round her and kissed 
 her. “ I don’t think you could.” 
 
 “ I don’t know what Lennart thinks; he does not under- 
 stand me. When I get home I will tell him everything just as 
 it is, and leave it to him.” 
 
 “ Cesca,” said Jenny, but checked herself. She would not 
 ask, after all, if she was happy. But Cesca began to tell by 
 herself : 
 
 “ I have had many difficulties since I married, I must tell 
 you, and I have not been very happy, but then I was so foolish 
 and ignorant in many ways. 
 
 “ I married Lennart because Hans began to write to me 
 when he was divorced, saying that he was determined to have 
 
JENNY 
 
 221 
 
 me, and I was afraid of him and did not want to have anything 
 to do with him. I told Lennart everything; he was so kind 
 and sympathetic and understood me, and I thought he was the 
 most wonderful man in the world — and so he is, I know. 
 
 “ But I did something awful. Lennart cannot understand 
 it, and I know that he has not forgiven me. Perhaps I am 
 wrong in telling you, but I must ask somebody if it is really 
 so that a man can never forgive it, and you must answer me 
 frankly — tell me if you think that it is impossible ever to get 
 over it. 
 
 “ We went to Rocca di Papa in the afternoon when we were 
 married. You know how dreadfully afraid I have always been 
 of marriage, and when Lennart took me into our room in the 
 evening, I began to cry. Lennart was such a dear to me. 
 
 “ This was on a Saturday. We did not have a particularly 
 pleasant time — I mean Lennart did not, for I would have been 
 delighted to be married like that, and every morning when I 
 awoke I was so grateful to him, but I was scarcely allowed to 
 kiss my husband. 
 
 “ On the Wednesday we had gone to the top of Monte Cavo, 
 and it was marvellously beautiful up there. It was in the end 
 of May and the day was glorious. The chestnut wood was 
 light green, the leaves had just come out, the broom was blos- 
 soming madly in the crevices, and along the road grew heaps 
 of white flowers and lilies. There was a haze in the air, for it 
 had rained earlier in the day, and the Nemi and Albano lakes 
 were lying silvery white below, with all the little white villages 
 round. The whole Campagna and Rome were wrapped in a 
 thin veil of mist, and farther out the Mediterranean shone like 
 a golden line on the horizon. 
 
 “ Oh, it was such a day! And life seemed wonderfully beau- 
 tiful to me — but Lennart was sad. To me he was the most 
 perfect man in the world, and I was immensely fond of him. 
 
222 
 
 JENNY 
 
 All of a sudden it seemed so silly of me to make a fuss, and I 
 put my arms round his neck and said: ‘ I want to be yours, 
 
 for I love you.’ ” 
 
 Cesca was silent a second, taking a deep breath. 
 
 “ Oh, Jenny — how happy he was, poor boy! ” She swal- 
 lowed her tears. “He was so pleased. ‘Now?’ said he — 
 ‘here?’ and took me in his arms, but I resisted. I don’t 
 know really why I did it. It would have been beautiful in 
 the deep forest and the sunshine. 
 
 “ He rushed out and stayed away all night. I lay awake. I 
 was anxious, wondering what he had done, where he had gone. 
 Next day we went back to Rome and stayed at an hotel. Len- 
 nart had taken two rooms. I went to him in his room — but 
 there was no beauty in it. We have never been quite happy 
 since. I know that I have offended him frightfully, but tell 
 me, Jenny, if you think it a thing a man never can forget or 
 forgive? ” 
 
 “ He ought to have realized afterwards that you did not un- 
 derstand what it was you were doing — how it wnuld hurt 
 him.” 
 
 “ No.” Cesca was shivering. “ But I do now. I see that 
 it was something pure and beautiful that I soiled, but I did not 
 understand it then. Jenny, do you think a man’s love could 
 ever get over that? ” 
 
 “ It ought to. You have proved since that you want to be a 
 good and faithful wife to him. Last winter you worked so 
 hard and suffered without complaining, and in the spring when 
 he was ill you nursed him week after week, watching night after 
 night by his bedside.” 
 
 “ That is nothing to speak of,” said Cesca eagerly. “ He 
 was so good and patient, and he helped me in the house as 
 much as he could. When he was ill some of our friends came 
 sometimes to help me to sit up with him in the night. That 
 
JENNY 
 
 223 
 
 week when he was near death we had a nurse, but I sat up 
 just the same because I wanted to — although I was not really 
 needed.” 
 
 Jenny kissed Cesca’s forehead. 
 
 “ There is one thing I have not told you, Jenny. You warned 
 me, you remember, to be more careful with men, and said I had 
 no instincts. Gunnar used to scold me, and Miss Linde said 
 once, don’t you remember, that if you make a man excited that 
 way he goes to somebody else.” 
 
 Jenny felt quite cold with fright for what was coming next. 
 
 “ Well, I asked him something about that on this first morn- 
 ing.” 
 
 Jenny could not say a word. “ I understand that he cannot 
 forget it and perhaps not forgive, but I wish he would find an 
 excuse for me, remember how very stupidly I looked at it all.” 
 She hesitated, searching for words. “ Our life has been so 
 horrid ever since. He does not really wish to kiss me — if he 
 ever does, it is almost against his will, and he is angry after- 
 wards with himself and with me. I have tried to explain, but 
 it is no good. To be quite honest, I don’t know what to make 
 of it all, but I do not mind anything any longer if I could only 
 make him happy. Anything that makes Lennert happy is 
 good and beautiful to me. He thinks that I sacrifice myself, 
 but it is no sacrifice — quite the contrary. Oh, I have cried 
 for nights and days in my room because I saw that he was 
 longing for my love, and I have tried to kiss him, but he pushes 
 me away. 
 
 “ I am very fond of him, Jenny. Tell me, can’t one love a 
 man in that way too? — can I not say that I love Lennart? ” 
 
 “Yes, Cesca.” 
 
 “ You cannot think how desperate I have been. But I can- 
 not help being as I am. When we are out of an evening with 
 other artists I see that he is in a bad humour; he does not say 
 
224 
 
 JENNY 
 
 anything, but I see he thinks I flirt with them. It is true, 
 perhaps, for I get into good spirits when I can have a meal 
 out and need not cook and wash up once for a change, and not 
 be afraid of spoiling the food when Lennart has to eat it all the 
 same because we cannot afford to throw it away. Sometimes I 
 was glad, too, of not having to be alone with Lennart, though 
 I am fond of him and he is of me — I know he is. If I ask 
 him about it he says, ‘ You know it quite well,’ and smiles in a 
 queer way, but he does not trust me because I cannot love with 
 my senses and yet like to flirt. Once he said I had not a notion 
 of what love really meant and that it was his fault for not 
 being able to awaken it in me, but there would probably be 
 another man some day who could. O God, how I cried! 
 
 “You know we are ever so poor. Well, in the spring Gunnar 
 managed to get my still-life picture sold — the one I had at the 
 exhibition three years ago. We got three hundred kroner for 
 it and we lived on it for several months, but Lennart did not 
 like spending the money I had earned. I cannot see what 
 difference it makes when we are fond of each other, but he 
 talked about having brought me into misery and so on. We 
 have got debts too, of course, so I wanted to write to father 
 asking him for a few hundreds, but he would not let me. I 
 thought it so ridiculous. Borghild and Helga have lived at 
 home or abroad all these years and had everything given to 
 them, whereas I have saved and pinched with the little I had 
 from mother since I came of age, because I did not want to take 
 anything from papa after what he said to me when I broke 
 my engagement with Kaasen and there was all the talk about 
 Hans and me. Father has since admitted that I was right. 
 It was mean of Kaasen and of them at home to try and force 
 me to marry him because he had beguiled me into an engage- 
 ment when I was only seventeen, and did not know that mar- 
 
JENNY 
 
 225 
 
 riage meant anything else but what you read in silly girl stories. 
 When I began to understand, I knew I would rather kill my- 
 self than marry him. If they had succeeded in forcing me to 
 it, I would have led them a life, taking all the lovers I could 
 get just out of spite and to pay them out. Papa sees it now, 
 and he says I can have money whenever I want it. 
 
 “ Lennart was very weak after his illness, and the doctor said 
 he must go into the country — and I myself was tired and over- 
 worked, so I said I ought to go away for a change and a rest 
 as I was going to have a baby. I got his permission to write 
 to papa for money. We got it and went to Wårmland, having 
 a lovely time. Lennart was getting well and strong, and I took 
 up my painting again. When he understood I was not expect- 
 ing a child really, he asked if I had not made a mistake, and 
 I told him I had tricked him, not wanting to lie to him. But 
 he is angry with me for it, and I can see that he does not quite 
 believe me. If he understood my nature, don’t you think he 
 would believe in me? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Cesca dear.’” 
 
 “ You see, I had told him the same thing once before — about 
 the baby, I mean — in the autumn, when he was so sad and we 
 were not happy. I wanted him to be pleased and to be kind to 
 me, and he was. It was a lovely time. I had really lied, but 
 I began to believe it myself at last, for I thought God would 
 make it true, so that I need not disappoint him. But God did 
 not do it. 
 
 “ I am so unhappy because I can’t have one. Do you think 
 it is true — some people say it is so,” she whispered emotionally 
 — “ that a woman cannot have a child if she cannot feel — 
 passionate ? ” 
 
 “ No,” said Jenny sharply. “ I am sure it is only nonsense.” 
 
 “ I am sure everything would come all right then, for Len- 
 nart wishes it so very much. And I — oh, I think I should be 
 
226 
 
 JENNY 
 
 so good — an angel for joy at having a dear little child of my 
 own. Can you imagine anything more wonderful? ” 
 
 “ No,” whispered Jenny, confused, “ when you love each 
 other. It would help you to get over many difficulties.” 
 
 “ Yes, it would. If it were not so awkward I would go and 
 see a doctor. Don’t you think I ought to? I think I will 
 some day, but I am so stupid about it — I feel so shy. I 
 suppose it really is my duty as I am married. I might go to 
 a lady doctor — one who is married and has children of her 
 own. 
 
 “Think of it! A tiny little creature all your own; Lennart 
 would be so happy! ” 
 
 Jenny set her teeth in the dark. 
 
 “ Don’t you think I ought to go home tomorrow? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ I will tell Lennart everything. I don’t know if he will 
 understand me — I don’t myself, but I am going to tell him the 
 truth always. Should I not, Jenny? ” 
 
 “ When you think it is right you should do so. One must 
 always do what one thinks right, and never do anything one is 
 not absolutely sure about.” 
 
 “ Good-night, Jenny dear.” She embraced her friend with 
 sudden earnestness. “ Thank you ! It is so lovely to have you 
 to talk to; you are so good, and you know how to take me. 
 You and Gunnar always get me on to the right way. I don’t 
 know what I should do if it weren’t for you.” 
 
 Then, standing by the bed, she said: “Won’t you come 
 
 through Stockholm when you go abroad this autumn? Please, 
 do! You could stay with us. I am getting a thousand kroner 
 from father because he is going to give Borghild the same for 
 her trip to Paris.” 
 
 “ Thanks, I should like to, but I don’t know yet what I am 
 going to do.” 
 
JENNY 
 
 227 
 
 “ Do come if you can! Are you sleepy? Do you want me 
 to go now? ” 
 
 “ I am a little tired,” and, pulling Cesca’s head down, she 
 kissed her. “ God bless you, darling.” 
 
 “ Thank you.” Cesca went across the floor on her bare feet; 
 at the door she turned, saying in a sad, childish voice: “ I 
 
 do wish Lennart and I could be happy! ” 
 
 IV 
 
 G ERT and Jenny were walking side by side down the 
 windy path under ragged pines. He stopped to pick 
 some little wild strawberries, ran after her, and put 
 them in her mouth. She thanked him with a smile, and he 
 took her hand as they walked towards the sea that showed 
 glittering blue between the trees. 
 
 He looked bright and young in a light summer suit, the 
 panama hiding his hair completely. Jenny sat down near the 
 edge of the wood, Gert lying on the grass beside her in the 
 shade of big drooping birches. 
 
 It was scorching hot and still; the grassy slope by the water 
 was dried yellow. Over the point hung a blue metallic bar 
 of haze with white and smoke-yellow clouds in front. The 
 fjord was light blue, streaked with the currents, the sailing 
 boats lay still and white, and the smoke from the steamers hung 
 long in the air in grey strips. There was a slight swirl of 
 water round the pebbles, and the twigs of the birches moved 
 gently above their heads, dropping one or two leaves dried by 
 the heat. 
 
 One of them fell on her fair curly hair — she had taken off 
 her hat — and Gert removed it. Looking at it, he said : 
 
 “ Queer how the rain keeps off this summer. You women are 
 much better off than we are, wearing such thin dresses. It 
 
228 
 
 JENNY 
 
 would look as if you were in half-mourning but for those pink 
 beads. It is very becoming, though.” 
 
 The dress was a dead white, with small black blossoms, 
 gathered all over and held at the waist by a black silk belt. 
 The straw hat in her lap was black, trimmed with black velvet 
 roses, and the pale pink crystal beads shone against the delicate 
 skin of her neck. 
 
 He bent forward to kiss her foot above the rounding of the 
 shoe, and, following with his fingers the delicate bend of her 
 instep in the thin stocking, grasped her ankle. She loosened 
 his hand gently and he seized hers, holding it, smiling, in a 
 firm grip. She smiled back at him and turned away her head. 
 
 “ You are so quiet, Jenny. Is it the heat? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, and then was silent again. 
 
 At a short distance from them, where the garden of a villa 
 reached down to the sea, some children were playing on a 
 landing-stage; a gramophone was singing sleepily inside the 
 house. Now and again the breeze brought the sound of music 
 from the band at the bathing establishment. 
 
 “ Gert ” — Jenny took hold of his hand suddenly — “when 
 I have been a short time with mamma and come back to town 
 again, I shall go.” 
 
 “Where?” He raised himself on his elbow. “Where do 
 you think of going? ” 
 
 “To Berlin.” She felt her voice tremble as she spoke. 
 
 Gert looked into her face; neither of them spoke. At last 
 he said: 
 
 “ When did you make up your mind to go? ” 
 
 “ You know it has been my intention all along to go abroad 
 again.” 
 
 “ I know. But I mean how long have you been determined 
 — when did you decide to go so soon? ” 
 
 “ At Tegneby.” 
 
JENNY 229 
 
 “ I wish you had told me before,” said Gram, and his voice, 
 low and calm as it was, cut her to the heart. 
 
 She was silent for a moment. 
 
 “ I did not want to write it, Gert. I would rather tell you. 
 When I wrote you yesterday to come and see me I meant to tell 
 you, but I could not.” 
 
 His face turned livid. 
 
 “ I see. My God, how you must have suffered, child! ” he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 “ Yes, mostly for your sake, Gert. I will not ask you to 
 forgive me.” 
 
 “ I forgive you? Great heavens! Can you forgive me? I 
 knew this day would come.” 
 
 “ I suppose we both did.” 
 
 He threw himself suddenly face downwards on the ground. 
 She bent and laid her hand on his neck. 
 
 “ Oh, my dear Jenny — my little one — what have I done to 
 you?” 
 
 “ Dearest. . . .” 
 
 “ Little white bird, have I touched you with my ugly unclean 
 hands — spotted your white wings?” 
 
 “ Gert ” — she took both his hands, speaking impetuously — 
 “ listen to me. You have done nothing but what was good and 
 kind; it is I who have done wrong. I was tired and you gave 
 me rest; I was cold and you warmed me. I needed rest and I 
 needed warmth; I needed to feel that somebody loved me. I 
 did not wish to deceive you, Gert, but you did not understand — 
 I could not make you see that I loved you in a different way 
 — with a very poor love. Can you not understand ? ” 
 
 “ No, Jenny, I don’t believe that a young innocent girl gives 
 herself to a man if she does not believe her love will last.” 
 
 “ That is just what I ask you to forgive — I knew you did 
 not understand, and yet I accepted all you gave me. It became 
 
JENNY 
 
 230 
 
 more and more unendurable, and I realized that I could not go 
 on. I am fond of you, Gert, but I cannot go on only taking 
 when I can give you nothing that is real.” 
 
 “ Is this what you wanted to tell me yesterday? ” asked Gert 
 after a pause. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 “ And instead. . . .” 
 
 Jenny turned scarlet. 
 
 “ I had not the courage. You were so happy to come, and 
 I saw that you had been longing and waiting.” 
 
 He raised his head quickly: “ You should not have done it. 
 
 No, you should not have given me — alms.” 
 
 Her face was turned away; she remembered the painful hours 
 of yesterday in her hot, stuffy studio, hurriedly dusting and 
 tidying to receive him, her heart aching with sorrow; but she 
 did not care to tell him: 
 
 “ I did not quite know myself — when you came. I thought 
 for an instant — I wanted to make sure.” 
 
 “ Alms.” He moved his head as if in pain. “ It was alms 
 all the time, then — what you gave me.” 
 
 “ But, Gert, don’t you understand that it is just what I have 
 accepted from you — alms — always?” 
 
 “ No,” he said abruptly, lying face downwards again. After 
 a little he lifted his head: 
 
 “ Jenny, is there any one else? ” 
 
 “ No,” she replied, vexed at the thought. 
 
 “ Don’t think I would reproach you if there had been another 
 — a young man — your equal; I could understand that easier.” 
 “You don’t seem able to realize — I don’t ‘think there need 
 be another.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not. It seemed to me more likely, and, remember- 
 ing what you wrote about Heggen being at Tegneby and going 
 to Berlin. . . .” 
 
 Jenny blushed deeply: 
 
JENNY 
 
 231 
 
 “How can you think that I would have — yesterday? ” 
 
 Gert was silent. Then he said wearily: 
 
 “ I cannot quite make you out.” 
 
 She was suddenly seized by a wish to hurt him. 
 
 “ In a way it would not be wrong to say that there was an- 
 other — a third person.” 
 
 He looked at her searchingly, then clutched her arm all of a 
 sudden : 
 
 “ Jenny — good God! — what do you mean? ” 
 
 But she regretted her words already, and said hurriedly: 
 “Yes, my work — my art.” 
 
 Gert Gram had risen to his knees before her: 
 
 “ Jenny — is there anything- — particular — tell me the truth 
 — don’t lie to me — is there anything the matter with you? ” 
 She tried for a second to look him straight in the eyes, then 
 bent her head. Gert Gram fell forward with his face in her 
 lap. 
 
 “ O God! — O God! . . .” 
 
 “ Gert, dear, compose yourself. You irritated me with your 
 talk about another. I ought not to have told you. I did not 
 mean to let you know until afterwards.” 
 
 “ I would never have forgiven you for not telling me,” said 
 Gram. “ You must have known this some time. Do you know 
 how . . . ? ” 
 
 “ Three months,” she answered shortly. 
 
 “ Jenny ” — he seized her hands in awe — “ you cannot break 
 with me now — not in this way. We cannot part now.” 
 
 “ Oh yes.” She stroked his face caressingly. “ If this had 
 not happened I daresay we could still have been together some 
 time, but now I must arrange my life accordingly, and make 
 the best of it.” 
 
 He was silent a moment. 
 
 “ Listen to me, little one. You know I was divorced last 
 
JENNY 
 
 232 
 
 month. In two years’ time I shall be free, and then I will 
 come to you to give you — and it — my name. I ask nothing 
 from you, you understand — nothing — but I claim the right 
 to give you the redress I owe you. God knows I shall suffer 
 because it cannot be done before. Nothing else will I claim; 
 you shall not be tied in the least to me — an old man.” 
 
 “ Gert, I am glad that you are separated from her, but I 
 will tell you once and for all that I am not going to marry you 
 when I cannot be your wife in truth. It is not because of the 
 difference in age. If I did not feel that I have never wholly 
 been yours, as I should have been, I would stay with you — - 
 your wife as long as you were young, your friend when old 
 age came — even your nurse — willingly and happily. But I 
 know I cannot be what a wife ought to be, and I cannot promise 
 a thing I could not keep just because of what other people might 
 say — church or civil contract, it makes no difference.” 
 
 “ It is madness, Jenny, to talk like that.” 
 
 “ You cannot make me change on that point,” she replied 
 quietly. 
 
 “What are you going to do, child? I cannot let you go 
 now. What will happen to you? — you must let me help you.” 
 “ Hush. You see I take it calmly. I suppose once you are 
 in for it, it is not so bad as you imagine. Fortunately I have 
 still some money left.” 
 
 “ But, Jenny, think of the people who will be unkind to you 
 — look down on you.” 
 
 “ Nobody can do that. There is only one thing I am ashamed 
 of, and it is that I allowed you to waste your love on me.” 
 
 “ Such foolish talk! You don’t know how heartless people 
 can be; they will treat you unkindly, insult and hurt you.” 
 
 “ I don’t mind that very much, Gert.” She smiled vaguely. 
 “ Fortunately I am an artist; people expect a little scandal 
 now and then from us.” 
 
 He shook his head. In a sudden desperate regret at having 
 
JENNY 
 
 233 
 
 told him and given him so much pain she took him in her 
 arms: 
 
 “ My dear friend, you must not be so distressed — you see 
 that I am not. On the contrary, I am sometimes quite happy 
 about it. When I think that I am going to have a child — a 
 sweet little child, my very own — I can scarcely believe it. 
 I think it will be so great a happiness that I can hardly grasp 
 it now. A little living being, to belong to me only, to love, to 
 live and work for. I sometimes think that then only will my 
 life and my work be of some purpose. Don’t you think I could 
 make a name for myself good enough for the child too? It is 
 only because I don’t know yet how to arrange it all that I am 
 a little depressed sometimes, and also because you are so sad. 
 
 “ Perhaps I am poor and dull and an egoist, but I am a 
 woman, and as such I cannot but be happy at the prospect of 
 being a mother.” 
 
 He kissed her hands: 
 
 “My poor, brave girl! It makes it almost worse for me to 
 see you take it that way.” 
 
 Jenny smiled faintly: 
 
 “ Would it not be worse still if I took it in another way? ” 
 
 V 
 
 T EN days later Jenny left for Copenhagen. Her 
 mother and Bodil Berner saw her off at the station 
 in the early morning. 
 
 “ You are a lucky one, Jenny! ” said Bodil, smiling all over 
 her little soft brown face. And she yawned till the tears came 
 into her eyes. 
 
 “ Yes, some must be the lucky ones, I suppose. But I don’t 
 think you have anything to complain of either,” said Jenny, 
 smiling too; but she was several times on the point of bursting 
 into tears when she kissed her mother farewell. Standing at 
 
JENNY 
 
 234 
 
 the compartment window looking at her, it seemed as if she had 
 not really seen her mother for ever so long. She took in with 
 her eyes the slightly stooping, slender figure, the fair hair that 
 scarcely seemed grey at all, and the strangely unaffected girlish 
 expression of her face, despite its wrinkles. Only the years, 
 not life, had made the furrows, in spite of all she had gone 
 through. 
 
 How would she take it if she knew? No, she would never 
 have the courage to tell her and see her under the blow — she 
 who knew nothing about it all and would not have understood. 
 If it had been impossible to go away Jenny thought she would 
 rather have taken her life. It was not love — it was cowardice. 
 She would have to tell her sometime, of course, but it would be 
 easier to do that later, from abroad. 
 
 As the train began to glide out from the station she saw Gert 
 walking slowly down the platform behind her mother and sis- 
 ter, who were waving their handkerchiefs. He took off his hat, 
 looking very pale. 
 
 It was the first of September. Jenny sat by the window look- 
 ing out. It was a beautiful day, the air clear and cool, the 
 sky dark blue, and the clouds pure white. The morning dew 
 lay heavy on the rich green meadows where late daisies were in 
 bloom. The birches at the edge of the forest were already turn- 
 ing yellow from the summer heat, and the bilberry shrub was 
 copper coloured. The clusters of the rowan were deep red; 
 where the trees stood on richer soil the leaves were still dark 
 green. The colouring was splendid. 
 
 On the slopes stood old silver-grey farmhouses or neu r shining 
 white or yellow ones with red-painted outhouses and crooked 
 old apple trees with yellow or glassy green fruit showing among 
 the foliage. 
 
 Time after time tears veiled her eyes; when she came back — 
 if she ever did. . . . 
 
 The fjord became visible near Moss, a town built along the 
 
JENNY 
 
 235 
 
 canal, with factory walls and the small wooden houses in gay 
 colours surrounded by gardens. Often when passing it in the 
 train she had thought of going there some day to paint. 
 
 The train passed the junction where a branch line turns off 
 to Tegneby. Jenny looked out of the window at the familiar 
 places; there was the drive leading to the house, which lay 
 behind the little fir grove, and there was the church. Dear 
 little Cesca liked to go to church; she felt herself safe and pro- 
 tected there, borne away by a sentiment of supernatural strength. 
 Cesca believed in something — she did not quite know what, 
 but had created some kind of a God for herself. 
 
 Jenny was pleased to think that Cesca and her husband 
 seemed to be getting on better. She had written that he had 
 not quite understood her, but had, nevertheless, been so kind 
 and dear and convinced that she would never do anything 
 wrong — on purpose. Strange little Cesca ! Everything must 
 come right with her in the end. She was honest and good. 
 But she herself was neither, not to any considerable degree. If 
 only she need not see her mother’s tears; she could bear to hurt 
 her — it only meant that she was afraid of scenes. 
 
 And Gert? Her heart shrank at the thought of him. A 
 feeling of physical sickness rose in her, a despair and loathing 
 so profound that she felt herself played out — on the point of 
 becoming indifferent to everything. 
 
 Those awful last days in Christiania with him. She had 
 given in at last. 
 
 He was coming to Copenhagen, and she had to promise to 
 stay somewhere in the country so that he could come and see 
 her. Would she ever be able to get quite free of him? 
 
 In the end she would perhaps have to leave the child with him 
 and run away from it all — for it was a lie, all she had told 
 him about being happy about it and the rest. Sometimes at 
 Tegneby she had really felt so, because she only remembered 
 it was her child — not his at all. But if it were to be a link 
 
JENNY 
 
 236 
 
 between him and her humiliation she would have nothing to do 
 with it. She would hate it — she hated it already at the mem- 
 ory of the last days before her departure. The morbid desire 
 to cry and sob to her heart’s content was gone; she felt dry and 
 hard as if she could never cry again. 
 
 A week later Gert Gram arrived. She was so worn out and 
 apathetic that she could pretend to be almost in good spirits, 
 and if he had proposed that she should move into the hotel 
 where he was staying, she would have done so. She made him 
 take her to the theatre, to supper at restaurants, and one day, 
 when the weather was fine, for an excursion to Fredensborg, 
 because she saw that it pleased him if she seemed w r ell and 
 happy. She gave up thinking — it was no sacrifice, for as a 
 matter of fact her brain was tired out. 
 
 Jenny had taken rooms with a teacher’s widow in a country 
 village. Gram accompanied her there and went back the same 
 evening to Copenhagen. At last she was alone. 
 
 She had engaged the rooms without seeing them beforehand. 
 When she had been studying in Copenhagen some years ago she 
 had gone with her fellow-students into the country one day, 
 lunching at an inn and bathing among the rocks, and she 
 remembered it was pretty out there, so when a certain Mrs. 
 Rasmussen, in answer to her advertisement, had offered to 
 house the young lady who was expecting a child, she decided 
 to go there. 
 
 The widow lived in a tiny yellow, sadly ugly brick cottage 
 outside the village by the main road, which ran dusty and 
 endless between open tilled fields, but Jenny was pleased on 
 the whole. She liked her bedroom with the blue wall-paper, the 
 etchings on the wall, and the white crochet-work d’oyleys all 
 over the place, on the bed, on the back of the American rocking- 
 chair, and on the chest, where Mrs. Rasmussen had placed a 
 bunch of roses the day she arrived. 
 
JENNY 237 
 
 From her two little windows she could see the main road 
 winding past the house and the small front garden, where 
 roses, geraniums, and fuchsias grew, heedless of the dust. On 
 the other side of the road was a bare hill at the back of the 
 field. Stone fences, along which the vividly coloured autumn 
 flowers grew between bramble bushes, divided the slope into 
 squares of stubble, greeny-brown meadow, and blue-green turnip 
 field; spriggy wind-blown willow bushes grew along the bound- 
 aries. When the evening sun had left Jenny’s window the sky 
 was flaming red and golden above the ridge and the meagre 
 twigs of the willows. 
 
 At the back of her room was a neat doll’s-house kitchen with 
 red brick floor, opening into the back yard, where the widow’s 
 chickens were cackling and the pigeons cooing. A small pas- 
 sage ran through the house; on the farther side Mrs. Rasmussen 
 had her parlour, with flower-pots in the window and crochet 
 work everywhere, daguerreotypes and photographs on the walls, 
 and a book-case with religious books in black paper covers, 
 bound volumes of periodicals, and a few novels. At the back 
 was a small room where she slept, and where the air was al- 
 ways heavy with an indefinable odour, though everything in 
 the room was spotlessly clean. She could not hear in there if 
 her boarder on the other side of the passage spent a night now 
 and again in tears. 
 
 Mrs. Rasmussen was not so bad, on the whole. Tall and 
 lanky, she pattered about in some kind of felt slippers, always 
 with a worried look on her long yellow face, which was rather 
 like that of a horse and had straggling grey hair combed back 
 from it, forming quaint little wings over the ears. She scarcely 
 ever spoke, save for an anxious question as to whether the lady 
 was pleased with the room or the food, and when Jenny went 
 to sit in the parlour with her needlework they were both per- 
 fectly quiet. Jenny was specially grateful to the woman for 
 
JENNY 
 
 238 
 
 not mentioning her condition; only once when she went out 
 with her painting paraphernalia did Mrs. Rasmussen ask her 
 anxiously if she did not think it unwise. She had worked hard 
 at first, standing behind a stone fence with her field easel, which 
 threatened to be upset every instant by the wind. 
 
 Below the stone fence the stubby rye field sloped towards a 
 swamp where the bog bean round the bluish water pools was 
 whitening, and velvety black peat stacks stood piled on the 
 grass. Beyond the swamp were the chalk-white peasants’ huts 
 set in rich dark green groves and surrounded by meadows, 
 stubbed rye fields, and turnip land as far as the wafer’s edge. 
 The beach was cut into tiny bays and points, the sand and the 
 short dried grass making it look a whitish yellow. To the 
 north a heather-brown hill with a windmill on top sloped down 
 towards the bay. Light and shadow flitted alternately over 
 the landscape as the clouds travelled across the wide, ever rest- 
 less sky. 
 
 When Jenny got tired she lay down by the fence, looking up 
 at the sky and out over the bay; she could not stand for long 
 at a time, but it made her only more eager. Two small pictures 
 painted from the fence were finished, and she was pleased with 
 them; a third one she painted in the village, where the low 
 whitewashed houses with thatched roofs almost covering the 
 windows, and climbing roses and dahlias in the gardens, stood 
 along a velvety green ditch, and a red brick church stretched 
 its gabled tower above the foliage of the vicarage garden. But 
 it made her nervous when people came to look at her, and 
 flaxen-haired youngsters clustered round her when she was 
 painting. When the picture was finished she moved with her 
 easel again to the stone fence. 
 
 In October the rain came, pouring down for a week or two. 
 Now and again the skies cleared a little, letting out a sickly 
 yellow ray of light between the clouds over the hill with the 
 pitiable willows, and the puddles in the road lay shining a 
 
JENNY 
 
 239 
 
 little while before the rain troubled their surface again. 
 
 Jenny borrowed Mrs. Rasmussen’s books and learnt to knit 
 the kind of lace that bordered her curtains, but neither reading 
 nor knitting came to much. She sat in the rocking-chair by the 
 window all day long, not even caring to dress properly, only 
 wearing her old faded kimono. As her condition became more 
 and more apparent she suffered agonies. 
 
 Gert Gram had written to say he was coming to see her, 
 and two days later he arrived, driving up in the early morning 
 in pouring rain. He stayed a week, putting up at the railway 
 hotel two miles from the village, but spending all his time with 
 her. When he left he promised to come again soon — possibly 
 in six weeks. 
 
 Jenny lay awake all night with her lamp burning. She 
 knew she could not bear it again; it had been too awful. Every- 
 thing was unbearable from the moment he arrived — his first 
 worried, compassionate glance when he saw her — dressed in 
 a new navy blue straight frock made by the village dressmaker. 
 “ How lovely you are,” he said, and declared she was like a 
 madonna. Madonna, indeed! His arm placed cautiously 
 round her waist, his long, guarded kiss on her forehead, made 
 her feel as if she could die of shame. And how he had worried 
 her with his concern about her health and his advice about 
 taking enough exercise. One day when the rain stopped he 
 dragged her for a long walk, insisting that she should hang on 
 his arm for support. One evening he had looked at her needle- 
 work — stealthily — expecting probably that she would be hem- 
 ming baby linen. He meant it all so kindly, and there was no 
 hope of a change for the better when he would come again — 
 more likely the reverse; she simply could not endure it. 
 
 One day she had a letter from him in which, among other 
 things, he said she ought to see a doctor, and the same night 
 she wrote to Gunnar Heggen telling him that she was expecting 
 a child in February, and would he let her have the address of 
 
240 JENNY 
 
 a quiet place where she could stay until it was over. Heggen 
 answered by return: 
 
 “ Dear Jenny,- — I have advertised in a couple of papers 
 and will send you the answers when they come, so you can see 
 for yourself. If you would like me to go and look at some of 
 the places before you decide, I will do so with pleasure — you 
 know that. I am at your disposal in every way. Let me know 
 when you leave, what way you are coming, and if you want me 
 to meet you, or if I can help you in any other way. I am 
 sorry about it, of course, but I know you are comparatively well 
 equipped to face trouble. Please write and say if there is any- 
 thing else I can do for you; you know I am only too pleased 
 to be of any service. I hear you have a good picture at the 
 State exhibition — congratulations. 
 
 “ Kind regards from your sincere friend, G. H.” 
 
 A few days later came a whole bundle of letters. Jenny 
 waded through some of the writing, printed in an awful gothic 
 scrawl, and then wrote to a Mrs. Schlessinger in the vicinity of 
 Warnemunde, renting a room from the fifteenth of November. 
 She gave Mrs. Rasmussen notice, and told Gunnar by letter of 
 her decision. 
 
 On the eve of her departure she wrote to Gram: 
 
 “ Dear Friend, — I have formed a decision which I am 
 afraid will hurt you, but you must not be angry with me. I 
 am tired and unnerved ; I know I was tiresome and disagreeable 
 to you when you were here, and I don’t want it to happen again, 
 so have decided not to see you until all is over and I am normal 
 again. I am leaving here tomorrow early, going abroad. I 
 am not giving you my address at present, but you can send 
 your letters via Mrs. Ahlin, Varberg, Sweden, and I will write 
 you through her. Do not be anxious about me. I am quite 
 
JENNY 
 
 241 
 
 well and everything is all right, but I beg of you, dear, not to 
 try to get into communication with me in any other way than 
 the one I have suggested. Do not be vexed with me, for I 
 believe this arrangement to be the best for both of us, and please 
 try not to worry about me more than you can help. — Yours 
 affectionately, Jenny Winge.” 
 
 So she moved from one widow to another, and into another 
 small cottage — this time a red one with white-washed window- 
 sills and standing in a little garden with flagged paths and 
 shells around the flower-beds, where the dahlias and chysanthe- 
 mums stood black and rotting. Twenty to thirty similar houses 
 stood along a small street leading from the railway station to 
 the fishing harbour, where the waves foamed against the long 
 stone piers. On the beach, a little away from the village, stood 
 a small hotel with the shutters up. Endless roads, with bare, 
 straggling poplars bending in the wind, led out over intermina- 
 ble plains and swamps past small brick farms with a strip 
 of garden front and a couple of haystacks at the back. 
 
 Jenny walked along the road as far as she could manage, 
 returning home to sit in her little room, which this time was 
 overloaded with precious knick-knacks, coloured plaster casts 
 of castles, and merry scenes at country inns in brass frames. 
 She had not the strength to change her wet shoes even, but Mrs. 
 Schlessinger took off the boots and stockings, talking all the 
 time, exhorting her to keep up her courage, telling her about all 
 the other young ladies she had had in the house — how So- 
 and-so had married and was well off and happy now. 
 
 When she had been there a month Mrs. Schlessinger came 
 into her room one day, excited and beaming — a gentleman 
 had come to see the young lady. Jenny was paralysed with 
 fright, but managed at last to ask what he looked like. “ Quite 
 young,” said Mrs. Schlessinger, with a lurking smile — “ and 
 
JENNY 
 
 242 
 
 very nice looking.” It dawned upon her that it might be Gun- 
 nar, and she got up, but, suddenly changing her mind, wrapped 
 herself up in a rug and sat down in the deepest of her arm- 
 chairs. 
 
 Mrs. Schlessinger departed, pleased to announce a visitor. 
 Showing Gunnar into the room, she remained an instant smiling 
 by the door before closing it. 
 
 He squeezed her hand, almost hurting her, and greeted her 
 with a beaming smile: 
 
 “ I thought I had better come up here to see what kind of 
 a place you had settled on. It is rather a dull part of the world 
 you have chosen, but it is healthy anyway.” He shook the 
 water from his hat as he spoke. 
 
 “ You must have some tea and something to eat,” said Jenny, 
 making a movement as if meaning to rise, but remained sitting, 
 saying with a blush: “ Do you mind ringing the bell? ” 
 
 Heggen ate with excellent appetite, talking all the while. 
 He was delighted with Berlin; he had lived in a -workmen’s 
 quarter — the Moabit — and spoke with equal enthusiasm about 
 the social democrats and the military, for “ there is something 
 grand and manly about it, and the one stimulates the other.” 
 He had been over some great factories and had studied night 
 life, having met a Norwegian engineer who was on his honey- 
 moon and a Norwegian couple with two lovely daughters, who 
 were dying to see a little vice at close quarters. They had 
 been to National, Riche, and to Amorsaale, and the ladies had 
 enjoyed it all immensely. 
 
 “ But I offended them, I’m afraid — asked Miss Paulsen to 
 come home with me late one evening.” 
 
 “ Gunnar, how could you! ” 
 
 “ Well, I was not quite sober, you understand; it was only a 
 joke, you know. If by any chance she had consented, I should 
 have been in an awful fix. Might have had to marry a little 
 girl who amuses herself sniffing at such things — no, thank 
 
JENNY 
 
 243 
 
 you. It was great fun to see her so virtuously offended. There 
 was no danger really — little girls of that sort don’t give away 
 their treasure without making sure of a fair return.” 
 
 He blushed suddenly. It struck him that Jenny might think 
 it tactless of him to speak like that before her — now. But she 
 only laughed: 
 
 “ What mad things you do! ” 
 
 As Heggen went on talking, the unnatural, painful shyness 
 gradually left her. Once or twice, when she did not notice 
 it, his eyes anxiously scanned her face — heavens ! how thin 
 and hollow-eyed she was, and furrowed about the mouth. The 
 sinews of her neck were prominent, and there were a couple 
 of ugly lines across the throat. 
 
 The rain had stopped, and she consented to go for a walk 
 with him. They walked in the sea-mist along the deserted road 
 with the scraggy poplars. 
 
 “ Take my arm,” said Gunnar casually, and Jenny took it, 
 feeling heavy and tired. 
 
 “ It must be awfully dull for you here, Jenny — don’t you 
 think it would be much better if you went to Berlin? ” 
 
 Jenny shook her head. 
 
 “ You would have the museums there to go to and other 
 things besides — and somebody to be with at times. You don’t 
 care to go to National anyway. Won’t you come, just for a 
 bit of a change? You must be deadly dull here.” 
 
 “ Oh no, Gunnar — I could not go now, you understand.” 
 
 “ You look quite nice in that ulster,” said Gunnar cautiously, 
 after a short pause. 
 
 Jenny bent her head. 
 
 “ Oh, I am a fool,” said he suddenly. “ Forgive me. You 
 must tell me, Jenny, if I bother you.” 
 
 “ Oh no, you don’t bother me. I am glad you came.” 
 
 “ I realize that it must be awful for you, Jenny.” His voice 
 had changed completely. “ I quite realize it, but I am sure 
 
JENNY 
 
 2 44 
 
 you are making it still worse by going about here all alone. 
 I do think you ought to go somewhere else — somewhere a little 
 less hopeless than this.” He was looking at the dark plain and 
 the rows of poplars losing themselves in the distance. 
 
 “ Mrs. Schlessinger is so very kind,” said Jenny evasively. 
 
 “ Oh yes, good soul; I am sure she is.” He smiled. “ I 
 think she suspects me of being the culprit.” 
 
 “ Probably,” said Jenny, smiling too. 
 
 They walked on in silence. After a while Gunnar asked: 
 
 “How are you going to arrange matters? Have you made 
 any plans as to the future? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know yet. I suppose you mean about the child? 
 I may leave it with Mrs. Schlessinger for a time; she would 
 look after it all right, I dare say. Or I may get some one to 
 adopt it; you know, such children are adopted sometimes. I 
 might call myself Mrs. Winge and never mind what people 
 think.” 
 
 “ You are quite decided, then, to break completely with — 
 er — the man concerned? You wrote me to that effect.” 
 
 “ I am,” she said firmly. “ It is not the man I was engaged 
 to,” she added, after a pause. 
 
 “Thank God! ” he burst out, so relieved that Jenny could 
 not help smiling a little. 
 
 “Well, you know, Jenny, he was not worth reproducing — 
 not by you anyway. I saw in the papers recently that he has 
 got his doctor’s degree. Well, it might have been worse — I 
 was afraid . . .” 
 
 “ It is his father,” she said abruptly. 
 
 Heggen came to a dead stop. She fell to crying desperately, 
 and he put his arm round her and laid his hand to her cheek 
 while she went on sobbing with her head on his shoulder. 
 
 Standing so, she began to tell him all about it. Once she 
 looked up at his face; it was pale and haggard; and she started 
 
JENNY 245 
 
 crying again. When she stopped, he lifted her head, looking 
 at her: 
 
 “My God, Jenny — what you must have suffered! I can- 
 not realize it.” 
 
 They walked back to the village in silence. 
 
 “ Come with me to Berlin,” he said suddenly. “ I cannot 
 bear to think of you here alone and brooding over this.” 
 
 “ I have almost given up thinking,” she said, tired. 
 
 “ Oh, it’s too awful! ” he burst out, with such violence that 
 she came to a sudden stop. “ Always the best of you that get 
 let in for this kind of thing, and we have no idea of what you 
 have to go through. It is dreadful ! ” 
 
 Heggen stayed three days. Jenny could not explain why, 
 but she felt much better after his visit. The unbearable feel- 
 ing of humiliation was gone; she was able to face her confine- 
 ment with more composure and confidence. 
 
 Mrs. Schlessinger went about smiling slyly in spite of Jenny’s 
 declaration that the gentleman was her cousin. 
 
 He had offered to send her some of his books, and at Christ- 
 mas a whole case arrived, besides flowers and chocolates. Every 
 week he wrote her a long letter about all manner of trifles, en- 
 closing cuttings from Norwegian papers. In January he came 
 up for her birthday and stayed two days, leaving behind some 
 of the latest Norwegian books. Shortly after his last visit she 
 fell ill. She was poorly, worried, and sleepless during the 
 remaining weeks. She had never busied her thoughts with 
 the actual confinement or been anxious about it before, but, 
 feeling always wretched now, she was seized by a sudden dread 
 of what she had to go through, and when the time came she was 
 quite worn out with insomnia and anxiety. 
 
 It was a nasty case. Jenny was more dead than alive when 
 
JENNY 
 
 246 
 
 the doctor, who had been sent for from Wamemunde, at last 
 held her son in his hands. 
 
 VI 
 
 J ENNY’S son lived six weeks — exactly fourty-four days 
 and a half, she said bitterly to herself, thinking again 
 and again of the short time she had felt really happy. 
 She did not cry for the first days after his death, but she 
 could not leave the dead child, and sat moaning deep down in 
 her throat and taking it in her arms to caress it: 
 
 “ Darling little boy — mother’s pretty little boy, you must 
 not go — I cannot let you go. Can’t you see I want you so? ” 
 The child was tiny and feeble at birth, but Jenny and Mrs. 
 Schlessinger had both thought he was thriving and making 
 good progress. Then one morning he fell ill, and by midday it 
 was all over. 
 
 After the funeral she started to cry, and could not stop; for 
 weeks afterwards she sobbed unceasingly night and day. She 
 fell ill herself too; inflammation of the breasts developed, and 
 Mrs. Schlessinger had to send for the doctor, who performed 
 an operation. The despair of her soul, together with the pains 
 of her body, gave her many a dreadful, delirious night. 
 
 Mrs. Schlessinger slept in the adjoining room, and on hearing 
 her cries of agony, rushed in and sat down by tire bed, com- 
 forting her, stroking her thin, clammy hands with her own fat, 
 warm ones, and coaxing and lecturing her a little. It was 
 God’s will, and was probably much better for the boy and for 
 her too — still so young as she was. Mrs. Schlessinger had 
 lost two children herself — little > Bertha when she was two 
 years old, and Wilhelm at fourteen, such a dear boy too — yet 
 they were bom in wedlock and should have been the support 
 and comfort of her old age. But this little one would only have 
 been a chain round the feet of the Fraulein who was so young 
 
JENNY 247 
 
 and pretty. He had been very dear and sweet, the little angel, 
 and it was very hard. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Schlessinger had lost her husband too, and many of 
 the young ladies who had stayed in her house had seen their 
 little ones die; some of them had been pleased, others had put 
 their babies out to nurse at once so as to get rid of them. It 
 was not nice, of course, but what could one do? Some had 
 cried and wailed as Jenny did, but they got over it in time, and 
 married and settled down happily afterwards. But a despair 
 like Fraulein’s she had never yet witnessed. 
 
 Mrs. Schlessinger suspected in her heart that her patient’s 
 despair was caused to a great extent by the departure of the 
 cousin first to Dresden and then to Italy just about the time 
 the boy died. But that is exactly what they always did — the 
 men. 
 
 The memory of those maddening, agonizing nights was ever 
 afterwards associated with the picture of Mrs. Schlessinger 
 sitting on the stool by her bed while the light rays from the 
 lamp were refracted in the tears dropping from her small, kind 
 eyes on to her round red cheeks. And her mouth, which did 
 not stop talking for a second, her little grey plait of hair, the 
 white night-jacket trimmed with pointed lace, and her petticoat 
 of grey and pink stripped flannel scalloped at the bottom. 
 And the small room with plaster medallions in brass frames. 
 
 She had written to Heggen about her great joy, and he had 
 replied saying he would have loved to come and have a look 
 at the boy, but the journey was long and expensive and he was 
 on the point of starting for Italy. He sent his best wishes to 
 her and the little prince, hoping to welcome them both in Italy 
 soon. At the time of the child’s death Heggen was in Dresden 
 and sent her a long and sympathetic letter. 
 
 As soon as she was well enough to write she sent a few lines 
 to Gert, giving him her address, but asking him not to come and 
 see them until the spring, when baby would be big and pretty. 
 
JENNY 
 
 248 
 
 Only his mother could see now that he was lovely. She wrote 
 him a longer letter when she was up and about again. 
 
 On the day the child was buried she wrote telling Gram in a 
 few words of her loss, informing him of her intention to go 
 south the same evening, and asking him not to expect to hear 
 from her until she was more like herself again. “ Do not 
 worry about me,” she wrote. “ I am fairly composed now, 
 but hopelessly miserable, of course.” 
 
 Her letter crossed one from Gert, who wrote: 
 
 “ My Dearest Jenny, — Thank you for your last letter. I 
 see that you reproach yourself because of your relations to me; 
 my dear little girl, I have nothing to reproach you for, so you 
 must not do it yourself. You have never been anything but 
 kind and sweet and loving to your friend, and I shall never 
 forget your tenderness and affection during the short time you 
 loved me — your charming youth, your gentle devotion in the 
 days of our short happiness. 
 
 “ We ought to have known, both of us, that it would be short. 
 I certainly ought to have understood, and if you had reflected 
 you might have known too, but do two people, who are at- 
 tracted by one another, ever reflect? Do you think I reproach 
 you because one day you ceased to love me and caused me the 
 greatest suffering in my far from happy life — a twofold suf- 
 fering when I learnt simultaneously that our relations would 
 have consequences which you would have to bear all through 
 life? 
 
 “ From your letter I see too that those consequences, which 
 have probably been a much greater source of despair to me 
 than to you, in spite of all you may have experienced of worry 
 and bodily suffering, have brought a deeper joy and happiness 
 than anything else in all your life — that the joy of being a 
 mother gives you peace, satisfaction, and courage to live, and 
 that with your child in your arms you think you will have 
 
JENNY 
 
 249 
 
 strength to meet all difficulties, economic as well as social, 
 which the future may place in the way of a young woman in 
 your position. It gives me more pleasure than you think to 
 read it. It is to me a fresh proof that the eternal justice, which 
 I have never doubted, exists. To you, who made a mistake 
 because your heart was warm and tender and thirsting for love, 
 this very mistake, which has caused you so many agonizing 
 hours, will in the end bring you all you have sought, in a 
 better, finer, and purer degree than ever you dreamt of, now 
 that your heart is filled with love for your child. And it will 
 increase as he grows and begins to know his mother, to cling 
 to her, and to return her love with a stronger, more profound 
 and conscious affection as the years go by. 
 
 “ And to me, who received your love, although I should have 
 known that love between us was impossible and unnatural, to 
 me these months have brought indescribable suffering and sor- 
 row and — emptiness. You have no idea, Jenny, how I miss 
 you, your youth, your beauty, the bliss of your love; and every 
 memory of it all is embittered by repentance, an insistent ques- 
 tioning : How could I let her do it ? How could I accept it — 
 
 how believe in the possibility of happiness for myself with 
 her? I did believe it, Jenny, however mad it may sound, be- 
 cause I felt young when I was with you. Remember that I 
 forfeited my own youth when I was much younger than you; 
 the happiness of work and the happiness of love in youth have 
 never been mine, and it was all my own fault. And this was 
 retribution! My dead youth came back to life when I met 
 you; in my heart I did not feel older than you. Nothing is 
 more terrible in life than for a man to be old while his heart 
 is still young. 
 
 “ You write that you wish me to come some day when the 
 boy has grown a little, to see you and our child. What a pre- 
 posterous thought — our child ! Do you know what constantly 
 comes into my mind? The old Joseph on the Italian altar 
 
JENNY 
 
 250 
 
 paintings. You will remember that he is always standing in 
 the background, or on one side, sadly and tenderly contemplat- 
 ing the Divine Child and its young and beautiful mother, who 
 are absorbed in each other and do not notice his presence. 
 Don’t misunderstand me, dear Jenny; I know that the little 
 child lying in your lap is also flesh and blood of mine, but, 
 when I think of you as a mother, I cannot help feeling myself 
 out in the cold like poor old Joseph. 
 
 “You must not hesitate to accept my name as my wife and 
 the protection it would give you and the child any more than 
 Mary hesitated to submit herself to the care of Joseph. And 
 I do not consider it quite right towards the child to rob it of 
 its father’s name, to which it has a right, however much con- 
 fidence you may have in yourself. It goes without saying that 
 in such a marriage you would remain as free and independent 
 as before, and that it could be legally dissolved whenever you 
 wished. I beg of you to think it over. We might go through 
 the ceremony abroad, and a few months afterwards steps might 
 be taken to obtain a divorce, if that is your wish; you need 
 not come back to Norway, nor even live under the same roof 
 with me at all. 
 
 “ There is not much to tell about myself. I have two small 
 rooms in this part of the country, not far from the place where 
 I was born and lived till I was ten years old. From my win- 
 dow I can see the tops of the two big chestnut trees standing at 
 the entrance to the home of my childhood. They look very 
 much the same as they did then. Up here the evenings are be- 
 ginning to be long and light and spring like, and their naked 
 brown branches stand outlined against the pale green sky, 
 where a few solitary stars glitter in the sharp, clear air. 
 Evening after evening I sit by my window staring in the same 
 direction, dreaming and recalling to memory my whole life. 
 How could I ever forget, Jenny dear, that between you and me 
 there was a whole life almost twice as long as yours, and more 
 
JENNY 251 
 
 than half of it spent in incessant humiliation, defeat, and 
 sorrow ? 
 
 “ That you think of me without anger and bitterness is more 
 than I dared to hope and expect, and to read your joy between 
 every line of your letter has given me the greatest satisfaction. 
 May God bless and help you and the child, and grant you all 
 the happiness I wish for both of you. 
 
 “ My fondest love is yours, dear Jenny — you who were once 
 mine. — Your devoted, Gert Gram.” 
 
 VII 
 
 J ENNY remained with Mrs. Schlessinger; it was cheap, 
 and she did not know what to do with herself. Spring 
 was in the air. She walked on the pier in the evenings. 
 Heavy clouds, bordered by the sun, with red and burning gold, 
 chased across the immense open dome of the sky, and were 
 reflected in the restless sea. The dark and desolate plain 
 turned light green and the poplars reddish brown with young 
 shoots. Along the railway line violets and small white and 
 yellow flowers were coming up in hundreds, and at last the 
 whole plain was luxuriously green, and a world of colour sprang 
 forth along the ditches; sulphur-tinted irises and big white 
 lilies were reflected in the pools of the marsh. Then one day 
 the air was permeated by a sweet scent of hay, mixing with 
 the smell of tar from the shore. 
 
 The hotel opened, and the small houses by the pier were 
 filled with summer visitors; children swarmed on the white 
 beach, rolling in the sand and paddling in the water. Mothers 
 and nurses in national costumes of the Spreewald sat on the 
 grass with their sewing, looking after them. The bathing- 
 huts had been transported into the sea, and young girls were 
 shouting and laughing in the water. Sailing yachts anchored 
 by the pier, tourists came from the town, in the evenings there 
 
JENNY 
 
 252 
 
 was dancing in the hotel, and couples walked about in the 
 small plantation where Jenny used to lie in the grass early in 
 the spring listening to the wash of the waves and the rustling 
 of the wind in the scraggy tree-tops. 
 
 One or two of the ladies looked at her with interest and com- 
 passion when she walked on the beach in her black and white 
 dress. The summer visitors staying in the village had got to 
 know that a young Norwegian girl had had a child and was 
 disconsolately mourning its death, and some of them found it 
 more touching than scandalous. 
 
 She much preferred walking out into the country, where the 
 summer boarders never went. Once in a while she went as far 
 as the cemetery, where her boy was buried. She sat staring at 
 the grave, which she had not wished to have tended in any 
 way, sometimes laying on it some wild flowers which she had 
 picked on the way, but her mind refused to associate the little 
 mound of grey earth with her beloved little boy. 
 
 In her room in the evenings she sat staring at the lamp — 
 with needlework which she never touched. And her thoughts 
 were always the same: she remembered the days when she had 
 the boy — first the faint, peaceful joy while she was in bed, 
 getting well, then when she was sitting up and Mrs. Schles- 
 singer showed her how to bath and dress and handle him, 
 and when they went to Warnemiinde together to buy fine ma- 
 terial, lace, and ribbon, and how on their return home she cut 
 and sewed, designed and embroidered. Her boy was to have 
 nice things, instead of the common, ready-made outfit she had 
 ordered from Berlin. She had also bought a ridiculous garden 
 syringe of green-painted tin, with pictures of a lion and a 
 tiger, standing by a blue sea amid palms and looking with awe 
 at the German dreadnoughts steaming away towards the African 
 possessions of the Empire. She had found it so amusing that 
 she bought it for baby-boy to play with when he should be big 
 enough — after a very long time. He must first learn to find 
 
JENNY 
 
 253 
 
 mother’s breast, which at present he only blindly sought for, 
 and to discover his own little fingers, which he could not sepa- 
 rate when he had clutched them together. By and by he would 
 be able to recognize his mother, to look at the lamp and at 
 mother’s watch when she was dangling it before his eyes. 
 There were so many things baby-boy would have to learn. 
 
 All his things were in a drawer she never opened. She knew 
 what every little piece looked like; she could feel them in the 
 palms of her hands, the soft linen and the fluffy woollen things 
 and the unfinished jacket of green flannel on which she had 
 embroidered yellow buttercups — the jacket he was to wear 
 when she took him out. 
 
 She had begun a picture of the beach with red and blue chil- 
 dren on the white sands. Some of the compassionate ladies 
 came to look at it, trying to make acquaintance with her: 
 “How nice! ” But she was not pleased with the sketch, and 
 cared neither to finish it nor to make a new one. 
 
 Then one day the hotel closed up again, the sea was stormy, 
 and summer had gone. 
 
 Gunnar wrote from Italy, advising her to go there. Cesca 
 wanted her to go to Sweden, and her mother, who knew noth- 
 ing, wrote she could not understand why she stayed so long in 
 Germany. Jenny was thinking of going away, but she could 
 not make up her mind, although a faint longing began to stir 
 in her. 
 
 She became restless at going about like that without being 
 able to do anything. She had to take a decision — even if 
 it came only to throwing herself into the sea one night from 
 the pier. 
 
 One evening she took out Heggen’s books from their case. 
 Among them was one with poetry — Fxori della Poesia Italiana 
 — in an edition for tourists, bound in leather. She turned the 
 leaves to see if she had forgotten all her Italian. 
 
JENNY 
 
 254 
 
 The book fell open by itself at Lorenzo di Medici’s carnival 
 song, where a folded piece of paper lay in Gunnar’s hand- 
 writing : 
 
 “ Dear Mother, — I may tell you now that I have arrived 
 safely in Italy and am quite comfortable, and that ” — the rest 
 of the sheet was covered with words to learn. Beside the 
 verbs he had written down the conjugations, and the margin all 
 along the melodramatic poetry was tightly covered with notes: 
 Quant’s bella giovenezza, che se fugge tuttavia. 
 
 Even the commonest words were written down. Gunnar had 
 probably tried to read the book directly he came to Italy, be- 
 fore he knew the language at all. On the first page was 
 written “ G. Heggen, Firenze, 1903 ” — that was before she 
 knew him. 
 
 She began to read here and there. It was Leopardi’s “ Ode 
 to Italy,” which Gunnar was so enthusiastic about. She read 
 it. The margin was full of notes and ink-spots. 
 
 It was as if he had sent her a message more intimate than 
 any of his letters. Young, sound, firm, and active, he was 
 calling her, asking her to come back to life — and work. Oh, 
 if she could gather courage and begin work again! She 
 wanted to try — to make her choice whether for life or death; 
 she wanted to go out there where once she had felt herself free 
 and strong — alone save for her work. She longed for her 
 friends, the trusty comrades who never came too near to hurt 
 one another, but lived side by side, each minding their own 
 business and all sharing what they possessed in common: the 
 belief in their ability and the joy of their work. She wanted 
 to see again the country of mountains, with proud, severe lines 
 and sunburnished colours. 
 
 A few days later she left for Berlin, where she stayed some 
 time visiting the galleries, but, feeling tired and forlorn, she 
 went on the Munich. 
 
 In the Alte Pinakothek she stopped before Rembrandt’s 
 
JENNY 
 
 255 
 
 “ Holy Family.” She did not look at it from a painter’s point 
 of view; she only looked at the young peasant woman who, with 
 her garment still drawn aside from her full bosom, sat looking 
 at her child sleeping on her lap, and holding his foot cares- 
 singly in her hand. It was an ugly little peasant boy, but in 
 splendid condition; he was sound asleep and such a darling all 
 the same. Joseph was looking at him across the mother’s 
 shoulder, but it was not an old Joseph, and Mary was no 
 immaterial, heavenly bride; they were a strong, middle-aged 
 working man and his young wife, and the child was the joy 
 and pride of the two. 
 
 In the evening she wrote to Gert Gram a long, sad and tender 
 letter bidding him farewell for ever. 
 
 On the following day she took a through ticket to Florence; 
 after a sleepless night in the train she found herself sitting at 
 the window at daybreak. Wild torrents spurted down the 
 forest-clad mountain-sides. It grew lighter and lighter, and 
 the towns became more and more Italian in character: rust- 
 brown or golden-yellow tiles, loggias to the houses, green shut- 
 ters against reddish stone walls, church fronts in baroque, stone 
 bridges across the rivers, vineyards outside the towns, and grey 
 castle ruins on the hilltops. At the stations all the signs were 
 written in German and Italian. 
 
 She stood in the customs office looking at the first- and sec- 
 ond-class passengers startled out of their sleep, and she felt 
 quite happy without being able to account for it. She was 
 back again in Italy. The customs officer smiled at her because 
 .she was so fair, and she smiled back; evidently he took her for 
 the maid of one or other of the lady passengers. 
 
 The misty grey mountains ridges on either side had a bluish 
 shade in the crevices, the ground looked rusty red, and the sun 
 flamed white and hot. 
 
 But in Florence it was bitterly cold in the early days of 
 November. Tired and frozen, she stayed in the city a fort- 
 
JENNY 
 
 256 
 
 night — her heart cold to all the beauty around her, and mel- 
 ancholy and discouraged because it did not warm her as before. 
 
 One morning she went to Rome. The ground was white 
 with frost all the way down through Toscana; in the middle of 
 the day the frosty mist lifted and the sun shone — and she saw 
 again a spot she had never forgotten: the lake of Trasimene 
 lying pale blue, surrounded by the mountains. A point of land 
 projected into the water, with towers and pinnacles of a small 
 stone-grey town, with a cypress avenue leading from the station. 
 
 She arrived at Rome in pouring rain. Gunnar was on the 
 platform to meet her, and he squeezed her hands as he wished 
 her welcome. He went on talking and laughing all the time as 
 they drove from the station' to the quarters he had engaged for 
 her, the rain splashing against the cab from the grey sky and 
 from the street paving. 
 
 VIII 
 
 H EGGEN was sitting at the outer side of the marble 
 table, taking no part in the conversation; now and 
 then he cast a glance at Jenny, who sat pressed into 
 the corner, with a whisky and soda before her. She was 
 chatting very merrily with a young Swedish lady across the 
 table, without taking the slightest notice of her neighbours, Dr. 
 Broager and the little Danish artist Loulou Schulin, who both 
 tried to draw her attention. Heggen saw that she had had too 
 much to drink again. A company of Scandinavians and a 
 couple of Germans had met in a wine shop, and were finishing 
 the night in the inmost corner of a somewhat dingy café. They 
 were all of them more or less affected by what they had drunk, 
 and very much opposed to the request of the landlord that they 
 should leave, as it was past time for locking up and he would 
 be fined two hundred lire. 
 
JENNY 
 
 2 57 
 
 Gunnar Heggen was the only one who would have liked the 
 symposium to come to an end; he was the only sober one, and 
 in a bad temper. 
 
 Dr. Broager was constantly applying his black moustache to 
 Jenny’s hand; when she pulled it away he tried to kiss her 
 bare arm. He had succeeded in placing his arm behind her 
 and they were squeezed so tight in the corner that it was 
 useless to try and get away from him. Her resistance was, 
 to tell the truth, somewhat lame, and she laughed without of- 
 fence at his boldness. 
 
 “ Ugh! ” said Loulou, shrugging her shoulders. “ Plow can 
 you stand it? Don’t you think he is disgusting, Jenny? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I do, but don’t you see that he is exactly like a blue- 
 bottle? — it is useless trying to drive him away. Ugh! stop it, 
 doctor! ” 
 
 “ Ugh ! ” said Loulou again. “ How can you stand that 
 man? ” 
 
 “ Never mind. I can wash myself with soap when I get 
 home.” 
 
 Loulou Schulin leaned against Jenny, stroking her arms. 
 “ Now I will take care of these poor, beautiful hands. Look ! ” 
 She lifted one of them to be admired by the company round the 
 table. “ Isn’t it lovely? ” and, loosening the green motor veil 
 from her hat, she wrapped it round Jenny’s arms and hands. 
 “ In a mosquito net, you see,” she said, thrusting out a small 
 tongue swiftly at Broager. 
 
 Jenny sat an instant with her arms and hands enveloped in 
 the green veil before undoing it and putting on her coat and 
 gloves. 
 
 Broager leaned back with eyes half closed, and Miss Schulin 
 raised her glass: “Your health, Mr. Heggen.” 
 
 He pretended not to hear, but when she repeated her words 
 he seized his glass: “Pardon — I did not see” — and, after 
 
 taking a sip, looked away again. 
 
JENNY 
 
 258 
 
 One or two people in the company smiled. Heggen and 
 Miss Winge lived next door to each other on the top floor of a 
 house somewhere between Babuino and Corso; intimate rela- 
 tions between them seemed therefore to be a matter of course. 
 As to Miss Schulin, she had been married to a Norwegian 
 author, but after a year or so of married bliss had left him and 
 the child, gone out into the world under her maiden name as 
 “ Miss,” and calling herself an artist. 
 
 The landlord came up once more to the company, urgently 
 soliciting their departure; the two waiters put out the gas at 
 the farther end of the room and stood waiting by the table, 
 so there was nothing else to be done but pay and leave the 
 place. 
 
 Heggen was one of the last as they came out into the square. 
 By the light of the moon he saw Miss Schulin taking Jenny’s 
 arm, both running towards a cab, which some of the others were 
 storming. He ran in the same direction and heard Jenny calling 
 out: “You know, the one in Via Paneperna,” just as she 
 
 jumped into the already filled cab and fell into somebody’s 
 lap. 
 
 But some ladies wanted to get out and others to get in — 
 people kept on jumping out from one door and in at another, 
 while the driver sat motionless on his seat waiting, and the 
 horse slept with its head drooping against the stone bridge. 
 
 Jenny was in the street again now, but Miss Schulin reached 
 out her hand — there was plenty of room. 
 
 “ I’m sorry for the horse,” said Heggen curtly, and Jenny 
 started to walk at his side behind the cab, the last among those 
 who had not got room in the vehicle, which rolled on ahead. 
 
 “ You don’t mean to say you want to be with these people 
 any longer — to walk as far as Paneperna for that?” said 
 Heggen. 
 
 “ We might meet an empty cab on the way.” 
 
JENNY 259 
 
 “ How can you be bothered with them? — they are all drunk,” 
 he added. 
 
 Jenny laughed in a languid way. 
 
 “ So am I, I suppose.” 
 
 Heggen did not answer. They had reached the Piazza di 
 Spagna when she stopped: 
 
 “ You are not coming with us, then, Gunnar? ” 
 
 “ Yes, if you absolutely insist on going on — otherwise not.” 
 “ You need not come for my sake. I can get home all right, 
 you know.” 
 
 “If you go, I go — I am not going to let you walk about 
 alone with those people in that state.” 
 
 She laughed — the same limp, indifferent laugh. 
 
 “ You will be too tired to sit to me tomorrow.” 
 
 “ Oh, I shall be able to sit all right.” 
 
 “ You won’t; and anyhow, I shan’t be able to work properly 
 if I have to walk about all night.” 
 
 Jenny shrugged her shoulders, but started to walk in the 
 direction of Babuino — the opposite way to the rest of the 
 party. 
 
 T wo policemen passed them ; otherwise there was not a living 
 soul to be seen. The fountain was playing in front of the 
 Strada di Spagna, lying white with moonlight and bordered by 
 black and silver glittering evergreen shrubs. 
 
 Suddenly Jenny spoke in a hard and scornful voice: 
 
 “ I know you mean it kindly, Gunnar. It is good of you to 
 try and take care of me, but it is not worth while.” 
 
 He walked on in silence. 
 
 “ No, not if you have no will of your own,” he said after a 
 while. 
 
 “ Will ” — imitating him. 
 
 “ Yes; I said will.” 
 
 Her breath came quick and sharp, as if she wanted to answer, 
 
26 o 
 
 JENNY 
 
 but she checked herself. She was suddenly filled with disgust 
 — she knew that she was half drunk, but she would not ac- 
 centuate it by beginning to shout, moan, and explain — perhaps 
 cry, before Gunnar. She set her teeth. 
 
 They reached their own entrance. Heggen opened the door 
 and struck a match to light her up the endless flight of dark 
 stone steps. Their two small rooms were on the half-landing 
 at the end of the stairs; a small passage outside their doors 
 ended in a marble staircase leading to the flat roof of the 
 house. 
 
 At her door she shook hands with him, saying in a low 
 voice: 
 
 “Good-night, Gunnar — thanks for tonight.” 
 
 “ Thank you. Sleep well.” 
 
 “ Same to you.” 
 
 Gunnar opened the window in his room. The moon shone 
 on an ochre-yellow wall opposite, with closed shutters and 
 black iron balconies. Behind it rose Pincio, with sharply out- 
 lined dark masses of foliage against the blue moonlit sky. 
 Below him were old moss-covered roofs, and where the dark 
 shadow of the house ended some washing was hung out to dry 
 on a terrace farther down. He was leaning on the window- 
 sill, disgusted and sad. He was not very particular in general, 
 but to see Jenny in such a state. Ugh! And it was more or 
 less his own fault; she had been so melancholy the first months 
 of her return — like a wounded bird — and to cheer her up a 
 little he had persuaded her to join the party, thinking of course 
 that he and she would amuse themselves by watching the others 
 only, never for a moment suspecting that it would have such an 
 effect on her. He heard her come out from her room and go 
 on to the roof. He hesitated a moment, then followed her. 
 
 She was sitting in the only chair, behind the little corrugated- 
 iron summer-house. The pigeons cooed sleepily in the dovecot 
 above. 
 
JENNY 
 
 261 
 
 “Why have you not gone to bed? You will be cold up 
 here.” He fetched her shawl from the summer-house and 
 handed it to her, sitting down between the flower-pots on the 
 top of the wall. They sat quietly staring at the city and the 
 church domes that seemed floating in the moonlit mist. The 
 outlines of distant hills were completely obliterated. 
 
 Jenny was smoking. Gunnar lit a cigarette. 
 
 “ I can hardly stand anything now, it seems — in the way 
 of drink, I mean. It affects me at once,” she said apologeti- 
 cally. 
 
 He understood that she was quite herself again. 
 
 “ I think you might leave it off altogether for a time, and 
 not smoke — at least not so much. You know you have com- 
 plained of your heart.” 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 “ I know that you agree with me about those people, and I 
 cannot think how you could condescend to associate with them 
 — in the way you did.” 
 
 “ One is sometimes in need of — well, of a narcotic,” she 
 said quietly. “ And as to condescending . . .” He looked 
 into her white face; her fair fluffy hair shone in the moonlight. 
 “ Sometimes I think it does not matter, though now — at this 
 moment — I feel ashamed, but then I am extraordinarily sober 
 just now, you see,” she said, smiling. “ I am not always, al- 
 though I have not taken anything, and in those moments I feel 
 ready for any kind of revels.” 
 
 “ It is dangerous, Jenny,” he said, and again after a pause: 
 “ I think it was disgusting tonight — I cannot call it anything 
 else. I have seen something of life; I know what it leads to. 
 I would not like to see you come down and end as something 
 like Loulou.” 
 
 “ You can be quite easy in your mind about me, Gunnar. I 
 am not going to end that way. I don’t really like it, and I 
 know where to stop.” 
 
262 
 
 JENNY 
 
 He sat looking at her. 
 
 “ I know what you mean,” he said at last. “ Other women 
 have thought as you, but when one has been gliding downward 
 for a time one ceases to care about where to stop, as you call 
 it.” Stepping down from the wall, he went towards her and 
 took her hand: 
 
 “ Jenny, you will stop now, will you not? ” 
 
 She rose, smiling: 
 
 “For the present, anyway. I think I am cured for a long 
 time of that sort of thing.” She shook his hand firmly: 
 “ Good-night; I’ll sit for you in the morning,” she said, going 
 down the stairs. 
 
 “ All right, thanks.” 
 
 He remained on the roof for some time smoking, shivering 
 a little, and thinking, before going down to his room. 
 
 IX 
 
 N EXT day she sat to him after lunch until it grew 
 dark; in the rests, they exchanged some insignificant 
 words while he went on painting the background or 
 washed his brushes. 
 
 “ There,” he said, putting down the palette and tidying up 
 his paint-box. “ That will do for today.” 
 
 She came to look at the picture. 
 
 “ The black is good, don’t you think ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” she said. “ I think it is very effective.” 
 
 He looked at his watch: 
 
 “ It is almost time to go out and get something to eat — shall 
 we dine together? ” 
 
 “ All right. Will you wait for me while I put on my 
 things? ” 
 
 A moment later when he knocked at her door she was ready, 
 standing before the glass to fasten her hat. 
 
JENNY 
 
 263 
 
 How good looking she was, he thought, when she turned 
 round. Slim and fair in her tight-fitting steel-grey dress, she 
 looked very ladylike — discreet, cold, and stylish. What he 
 had thought of her yesterday seemed quite impossible today. 
 
 “ Did you not promise to go to Miss Schulin this afternoon 
 to see her paintings ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, but I am not going.” She blushed. “ Honestly I 
 don’t care to encourage an acquaintance with her, and I suppose 
 there is not much in her paintings either.” 
 
 “ I should not think so. I cannot understand your putting 
 up with her advances last night. Personally, I would rather 
 do anything — eat a plateful of live worms.” 
 
 Jenny smiled, and said seriously: 
 
 “ Poor thing, I daresay she is not happy at all.” 
 
 “Pooh! not happy. I met her in Paris in 1905. I don’t 
 think she is perverse by nature — only stupid and full of 
 vanity. It was all put on. If it were the fashion now to be 
 virtuous she would sit up darning children’s stockings, and 
 would have been the best of housewives. Possibly painting 
 roses with dewdrops on as a recreation. But once she got away 
 from her moorings she wanted to see life — free as an artist, she 
 thought she ought to get herself a lover for the sake of her self- 
 respect. But unfortunately she got hold of a duffer who was 
 old-fashioned enough to want her to marry him in the old non- 
 modern way when things had gone wrong, and expected her to 
 look after the child and the house.” 
 
 “ It may be Paulsen’s fault that she ran away — you never 
 know.” 
 
 “ Of course it was his fault. He was of the old school, want- 
 ing happiness in his home, and he gave her probably too little 
 love and still less cudgelling.” 
 
 Jenny smiled sadly: 
 
 “ I know, Gunnar, that you believe life’s difficulties are easily 
 solved.” 
 
264 JENNY 
 
 Heggen sat down astride on a chair with his arms on the 
 back. 
 
 “ There is so much of life that we don’t know anything about, 
 that what we know is easy enough to manage. Have to make 
 your aims and dreams accordingly, and tackle the unexpected 
 as best you can.” 
 
 Jenny sat down in the sofa, resting her head in her hands: 
 
 “ I can no longer feel that there is anything in life I am so 
 sure about that I could make it a foundation for my judgment 
 or the aim of my exertions,” she said placidly. 
 
 “ I don’t think you mean it.” 
 
 She only smiled. 
 
 “ Not always,” said Gunnar. 
 
 “ I suppose there is nobody who means the same thing al- 
 ways.” 
 
 “ Yes, always when one is sober. You were right last night 
 in saying that sometimes one isn’t sober even if one hasn’t 
 been drinking.” 
 
 “ At present — when I am sober once in a while, I ” 
 
 She broke off and remained silent. 
 
 “ You know what I think about life, and I know you have 
 always thought the same. What happens to you is, on the 
 whole, the result of your own will. As a rule, you are the 
 maker of your own fate. Now and then there are circumstances 
 which you cannot master, but it is a colossal exaggeration to say 
 it happens often.” 
 
 “ God knows I did not will my fate, Gunnar. Yet I have 
 willed for many years and lived accordingly, too.” 
 
 Both were quiet a moment. 
 
 “ One day,” she said slowly, “ I changed my course an in- 
 stant. I found it so severe and hard to live the life I consid- 
 ered the most worthy — so lonely, you see. I left the road for 
 a bit, wanting to be young and to play, and thus came into a 
 current that carried me away, ending in something I 
 
JENNY 
 
 265 
 
 never for a second had thought could possibly happen to me.’” 
 After a moment’s silence Heggen said: 
 
 “ Rossetti says — and you know he is a much better poet than 
 painter : 
 
 “‘Was that the landmark? What — the foolish well 
 Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to drink 
 But sat and flung the pebbles from its brink 
 In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell. 
 
 ( And mine own image, had I noted well ! ) — 
 
 Was that my point of turning? — I had thought 
 The stations of my course should raise unsought, 
 
 As altarstone or ensigned citadel. 
 
 But lo! The path is missed, I must go back, 
 
 And thirst to drink when next I reach the spring 
 Which once I stained, which since may have grown black. 
 
 Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing 
 As here I turn, I’ll thank God, hastening. 
 
 That the same goal is still on the same track.’ ” 
 
 Jenny said nothing — and Gunnar repeated: “That the 
 
 same goal is still on the same track.” 
 
 “ Do you think it is easy to find the track to the goal again? ” 
 asked Jenny. 
 
 “ No, but ought one not to try? ” he said, almost in a childish 
 way. 
 
 “ But what goal did I have at all? ” she said, with sudden 
 vehemence. “ I wanted to live in such a way that I need never 
 be ashamed of myself either as a woman or as an artist. Never 
 to do a thing I did not think right myself. I wanted to be 
 upright, firm, and good, and never to have any one else’s sorrow 
 on my conscience. And what was the origin of the wrong — 
 the cause of it all? It was that I yearned for love without 
 there being any particular man whose love I wanted. Was 
 there anything strange in it, or that I wanted to believe that 
 Helge, when he came, was the one I had been longing for — 
 
266 
 
 JENNY 
 
 wanting it so much that at last I really believed it? That was 
 the beginning of what led to the rest. Gunnar, I did believe 
 that I could make them happy — and yet I did only harm.” 
 
 She had risen and was pacing up and down the floor. 
 
 “ Do you believe that the well you speak of will ever be pure 
 and clear again to one who knows she has muddied it herself? 
 Do you think it is easier for me to resign now? I longed for 
 the same that all girls long for, and I long for it now, but I 
 know that I have now a past which makes it impossible for me 
 to accept the only happiness I care for. Pure, unspoilt, and 
 sound it should be — but none of these conditions can I ever 
 fulfil — not now. My experiences of these two last years are 
 what I must be satisfied to call my life — and for the rest of 
 it I shall just have to go on longing for the impossible.” 
 
 “ Jenny,” said Gunnar, “ I am sure I am right in saying 
 again that it depends on yourself if these memories are going 
 to spoil your life, or if you will consider them a lesson, however 
 hard it may be, and still believe that the aim you once set for 
 yourself is the only right one for you.” 
 
 “ But can you not see it is impossible? It has sunk too deep; 
 it has eaten into me like a corrosive acid, and I feel that what 
 was once my inmost self is crumbling to pieces. Yet I don’t 
 want it — I don’t want it. Sometimes I am inclined to — I 
 don’t know really what — to stop all the thoughts at once. 
 Either to die — or to live a mad, awful life — drown in a 
 misery still greater than the present one. To go dov r n in the 
 mud so deep and so thoroughly that nothing but the end will 
 come of it. Or ” — she spoke low, with a wild, stifled voice — 
 “ to throw myself under a train — to know in the last second 
 that now — just now — my whole body, nerves, heart, and 
 brain will be made into one single shivering bloodstained heap.” 
 “ Jenny,” he cried, white in the face, “ I cannot bear to hear 
 you speak like this! ” 
 
 “ I am hysterical,” she said soothingly, but she went to the 
 
JENNY 267 
 
 corner where her canvases stood and almost flung them against 
 the wall, with the painting turned out: 
 
 “ Is it worth living to go about making things like those? 
 Smearing oil paint on canvas? You can see for yourself that 
 it is nothing now but a mess of paint. Yet you saw how I 
 worked the first months — like a slave. Good God ! I cannot 
 even paint any more.” 
 
 Heggen looked at the pictures. He felt he had a firm ground 
 to stand upon again. 
 
 “ I should really like to have your frank opinion on — that 
 piggish stuff,” she said provokingly. 
 
 “ I must admit that they are not particularly good.” He 
 stood with his hands in his trouser pockets looking at them. 
 “ But that happens to every one of us — I mean that there are 
 certain times when you cannot produce anything, and you ought 
 to know that it is only for a time. I don’t think one can lose 
 one’s talent even if one has been ever so unhappy. You have 
 left off painting for such a long time, besides; you will have 
 to work it up again — to master the means of action, so to say. 
 Take life study, for instance — I am sure it is three years since 
 you drew a live model. One cannot neglect those things without 
 being punished for it. I know from my own experience.” 
 
 He went to a shelf and searched among Jenny’s sketch- 
 books : 
 
 “ You ought to remember how much you improved in Paris 
 — let me show you.” 
 
 “ No, no, not that one,” said Jenny, reaching her hand for it. 
 
 Heggen stood with the book in his hand, looking amazed at 
 her. She turned her face away: 
 
 “ I don’t mind if you look at it — I tried to draw the boy 
 one day.” 
 
 Heggen turned the leaves slowly. Jenny was sitting in the 
 sofa again. He looked at the pencil sketches of the sleeping 
 infant for a moment, then put the book carefully away. 
 
268 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ It was a great pity that you lost your little boy,” he said 
 gently. 
 
 “ Yes. If he had lived, all the rest would not have mattered. 
 You speak about will, but when one’s will cannot keep one’s 
 child alive, what is the good of it ? I don’t care to try to make 
 anything of my life now, because it seemed to me the only 
 thing I was good for and cared about was to be a mother to 
 my little boy. Oh, I could have loved him! I suppose I am 
 an egoist at heart, for whenever I tried to love the others, my own 
 self rose like a wall between us. But the boy w r as mine alone. 
 I could have worked if he had been spared to me. I could 
 have worked hard. 
 
 “ I had made so many plans. On the w 7 ay down here they 
 all came back to my mind. I had decided to live in Bavaria 
 with him in the summer, because I was afraid the sea air w ? ould 
 be too strong for him. He was going to lie in his pram under 
 the apple trees while I painted. There is not a place in the 
 world I could go to where I have not been in my dreams with 
 the boy. There is nothing good or beautiful in all the world 
 that I did not think, while I had him, he should learn and 
 see. I have not a thing that was not his too. I used to w r rap 
 him up in the red rug I have. The black dress you are paint- 
 ing me in was made in Warnemunde when I was out of bed 
 again, and I had it cut so that it w 7 ould be easy to nurse him. 
 
 “ I cannot work because I am so full of him — the longing 
 for him paralyses me. In the night I cuddle the pillow in my 
 arms and sob for my baby-boy. I call him and talk to him 
 when I am alone. I should have painted him, to have a picture 
 of him at every age. He would have been a year old now, 
 would have had teeth and been able to take hold of things, to 
 stand up, and perhaps to walk a little. Every month, ever } 7 
 day I think of him — how he would have grown and what he 
 would be like. When I see a woman with a bambino on her 
 
JENNY 269 
 
 arm, or the children in the street, I always think of him and 
 how he would look at their age.” 
 
 She stopped talking for a moment. 
 
 “ I did not think you felt it like that, Jenny,” said Heggen 
 gently. “It was sad for you, of course — I quite understood 
 that — but I thought, on the whole, it was better he was taken. 
 If I had known you were so distressed about it, I should have 
 come to see you.” 
 
 She did not answer, but went on in the same strain : “ And 
 
 he died — such a tiny, tiny little thing. It is only selfishness 
 on my part to grudge him death before he had begun to feel 
 and to understand. He could only look at the light and cry 
 when he was hungry or wanted to be changed ; he did not know 
 me even — not really, anyhow. Some vague glimpses of reason 
 had possibly begun to awaken in his little head, but, think of 
 it, he never knew that I was his mother. 
 
 “ Never a name had he, poor darling, only mother’s baby- 
 boy, and I have nothing to remember him by, except just ma- 
 terial things.” 
 
 She lifted her hands as if holding the child to her heart, 
 then let them fall empty and lifeless on the table. 
 
 “ I remember so distinctly my impression when I first touched 
 him, felt his skin against mine. It was so soft, a little damp — 
 the air had scarcely touched it yet, you see. People think a 
 newborn child is not nice to feel, and perhaps it is so when it 
 is not your own flesh and blood. And his eyes — they were 
 no special colour, only dark, but I think they would have been 
 grey-blue. A baby’s eyes are so strange — almost mysterious. 
 And his tiny head was so pretty, when he was feeding and 
 pressing his little nose against me. I could see the pulse beat- 
 ing and the thin, downy hair; he had quite a lot of it — and 
 dark — when he was born. 
 
 “ Oh, that little body of his! I can never think of anything 
 
JENNY 
 
 270 
 
 else — I can feel it lying in my hands. He was so round and 
 fat, and every bit of him was so pretty — my own sweet little 
 boy! 
 
 “ But he died! I was looking forward so much to all that 
 was going to happen that it seems to me now I did not pay 
 enough attention to things when I had him, or kissed him or 
 looked at him enough, though I did nothing else in those weeks. 
 
 “ When he was gone there was nothing left but the yearning 
 for him. You cannot understand what I felt. My whole body 
 ached with it. I fell ill, and the fever and the pain seemed to 
 be my longing materialized. I missed him from my arms, be- 
 tween my hands, and at my cheek. Once or twice in the last 
 week of his life he clutched my finger when I put it in his hand. 
 Once he had somehow got hold of a little of my hair — oh, the 
 sweet, sweet little hands. . . .” 
 
 She lay prostrate over the table, sobbing violently, her whole 
 form shivering. 
 
 Gunnar had got up and stood hesitating, emotion rising in 
 his throat. Then he went to her and, bending down over her 
 head, he touched her hair lightly with a shy, gentle kiss. 
 
 She continued crying, in the same position, for a little while. 
 At last she got up and went to the washstand to bathe her 
 face. 
 
 “ Oh, how I miss him,” she repeated, and he could not find 
 anything to say but “ Jenny, if I had known that you felt it so 
 much.” 
 
 She came back to where he was and, putting her hands on his 
 shoulders, said: 
 
 “ Gunnar, you must not pay any attention to what I said a 
 while ago. Sometimes I am not quite myself, but you will 
 understand that, for the sake of the boy, if for no other reason, 
 I am not going to throw myself entirely into a life of dissipa- 
 tion. At heart I really want to make the best I can of my life 
 
JENNY 
 
 271 
 
 — you know that. I mean to try and work again, even if the 
 result is poor in the beginning. I have always the comfort of 
 knowing that one need not live longer than one cares to.” 
 
 She put on her hat again, finding a veil for her tear-stained 
 face: 
 
 “ Let us go and have something to eat — you must be starving 
 by this time — it is very late.” 
 
 Gunnar Heggen blushed all over his face. Now she men- 
 tioned it, he felt awfully hungry, and was ashamed of himself 
 for admitting it at such a moment as this. He dried the tears 
 from his wet, hot cheeks and took his hat from the table. 
 
 X 
 
 B Y tacit agreement they passed the restaurant where they 
 usually had their meals and where there were always a 
 number of their countrymen, and, continuing their way 
 in the twilight towards the Tiber, they crossed the bridge into 
 the old Borgo quarters. In a corner by the Piazza San Pietro 
 there was a small trattoria where they had dined after going to 
 the Vatican, and they went there. 
 
 They ate in silence. When she had finished Jenny lit a 
 cigarette, and sat sipping her claret and rubbing her fingers 
 with the fragrant tangerine peel. Heggen smoked, staring in 
 front of him. They were almost alone in the place. 
 
 “ Would you like to read a letter I got from Cesca the other 
 day? ” asked Jenny suddenly. 
 
 “ Yes. I saw there was a letter for you from her — from 
 Stockholm, is it not? ” 
 
 “Yes; they are back there and going to stay the winter.” 
 Jenny took the letter out of her bag and handed it to him. 
 
 “Dear, Sweet Jenny Mine, — You must not be angry 
 
JENNY 
 
 272 
 
 with me for not answering your last letter before. Every day 
 I meant to write, but it never came off. I am so pleased that 
 you are back in Rome and are working, and have Gunnar to be 
 with. 
 
 “ We are back in Stockholm living in the old place. It was 
 quite impossible to stay in the cottage when it got cold; it was 
 so draughty that we could only get warm in the kitchen. We 
 would buy it if we could afford it, but it would cost too much; 
 it wants so much done to it. The garret would have to be 
 made into a studio for Lennart, stoves would be wanted, and 
 lots of other things — but we have rented it for next summer, 
 and I am so happy about it, for there is no place in the world 
 I love more. You cannot imagine anything more beautiful 
 than the west coast ; it is so bleak and poor and weather-worn — 
 the grey cliffs with scraggy copse in the crevices, the woodbine, 
 the poor little cottages, the sea, and the wonderful sky. I have 
 made some pictures out there and people say they are good, and 
 Lennart and I have enjoyed it so much. We are always friends 
 now, and when he thinks I am good, he kisses me and calls me 
 a little mermaid and all kinds of nice names, and I suppose I 
 shall grow very fond of him in time. We are back in town 
 again and our journey to Paris will not come off this time, but 
 I don’t mind a bit. It seems almost heartless of me to write 
 about it to you, for you are so much better than I, and it was 
 so dreadfully sad that you should lose your little boy — and 
 I don’t think I really deserve to be so happy and get what I 
 have wished for more than anything — but I am going to have 
 a baby. I have only five months to wait. I could scarcely 
 believe it at first, but now it is certain enough. I tried to hide 
 it from Lennart as long as possible — you see, I was so ashamed 
 of myself for having deceived him twice, and I was afraid of 
 being mistaken. When he began to suspect it I denied it first, 
 but I had to confess to it later. I cannot realize that I am to 
 have a little boy — Lennart says he would rather have another 
 
JENNY 
 
 ^73 
 
 little Cesca, but I think he says it only to console me before- 
 hand in case it is, for I am sure in his heart he wants a boy. 
 However, if it is a girl, we shall be just as fond of her — and 
 once we have got one child we might get some more. 
 
 “ I am so happy that I don’t mind where we are, and I don’t 
 long for Paris. Fancy Mrs. L. asking me if I was not angry 
 because the baby spoilt my journey abroad — can you under- 
 stand it from a mother of two of the handsomest boys in the 
 world? But they are not taken the slightest notice of, except 
 when they are with us, and Lennart says she would willingly 
 make us a present of them. If I could afford it I would take 
 them, so that baby would have two darling big brothers to play 
 with when he comes. It will be such fun to show them their 
 little cousin — they call me auntie, you see. I think it is nice. 
 But I must close now. Do you know I am very pleased also, 
 because Lennart cannot be jealous now — can he? and I don’t 
 think he ever will be any more, for he knows quite well that I 
 have never been really fond of anybody but him. 
 
 “ Do you think it unkind of me to write so much about this 
 to you and that I am so happy? I know you don’t grudge me 
 my luck. 
 
 “ Remember me kindly to all my friends — to Gunnar first 
 and foremost. You may tell him what I have written if you 
 like. Every good wish to yourself and welcome to us next 
 summer. — Much love from your sincere and devoted little 
 friend, Cesca. 
 
 “ P.S. — I must add something : If it is a girl she is going 
 
 to be called Jenny. I don’t mind what Lennart says. He 
 sends his regards to you, by the way.” 
 
 Gunnar handed the letter back to Jenny, who put it in her 
 pocket. 
 
 “ I am so pleased,” she said gently. “ I am glad there are 
 
JENNY 
 
 274 
 
 some people who are happy. That feeling is something still 
 left of my old self — even if there is nothing else.” 
 
 Instead of going back to the city, they crossed the Piazza, 
 walking in the direction of the church. 
 
 The shadows fell coal black on to the square in the moon- 
 light. White light and night-black darkness played about 
 ghostlike in one of the arcades. The other lay in complete 
 obscurity but for the row of statues on top. The front of the 
 church was in shadow, but here and there the dome glittered 
 like water. The two fountains sent their white jets sparkling 
 and foaming towards the moon-blue sky. The water rose 
 whirling in the air, splashing down again to the porphyry 
 shelves to drop and trickle back into the basin. 
 
 Gunnar and Jenny walked slowly in the shade of the arcade 
 towards the church. 
 
 “ Jenny,” he said all of a sudden, in a perfectly cool and 
 everyday voice, “will you marry me?” 
 
 “ No,” she answered after a pause, in a similar tone. 
 
 “ I mean it.” 
 
 “ Yes, but surely you understand that I don’t want to.” 
 
 “ I don’t see why not. If I understood you rightly, you don’t 
 value your life very highly at present, and you entertain thoughts 
 of suicide occasionally. As you feel so inconsolable in any 
 case, why should you not marry me? I think you might try.” 
 Jenny shook her head: “ Thank you, Gunnar — but I think 
 
 it would be taxing your friendship too heavily.” She spoke 
 in earnest. “ In the first place, you ought to understand that 
 I cannot accept it, and in the second that, if you could make 
 me accept you as a last resource, it would not be worth your 
 troubling to reach out one of your little fingers to save me.” 
 “ It is not friendship.” He hesitated a little. “ The truth 
 is that I have got fond of you. It is not to save you — although 
 I would do anything to help you, of course — but because I 
 
JENNY 
 
 275 
 
 realize now that if anything happened to you I don’t know what 
 I should do. I dare not think of it. There is nothing in the 
 world I would not gladly do for you, because you are very dear 
 to me.” 
 
 “ Oh, Gunnar, don’t! ” She stopped and looked at him al- 
 most in fear. 
 
 “ I know quite well that you are not in love with me, but 
 that need not prevent your marrying me. You say you are 
 tired of everything, and have nothing to live for, so why not 
 try it? ” His voice grew more earnest, and he exclaimed: 
 “For I know that one day you too will be fond of me! You 
 could not help it, seeing how fond I am of you.” 
 
 “ You know that I have always been fond of you,” she said 
 seriously, “ but it is not a feeling you would be satisfied with 
 in the long run. A strong and entire devotion is more than I 
 can give.” 
 
 “ Not at all. We can all give that. Was I not convinced 
 that I should never experience anything but — little love af- 
 fairs? In fact, I did not believe anything else existed.” His 
 voice sank. “ You are the first woman I love.” 
 
 She stood still and silent. 
 
 “ I have never uttered that word to any woman before — I 
 had a kind of reverence for it, but then I have never loved a 
 woman before. I was always in love with something particular 
 about them — the corners of Cesca’s mouth, for instance, when 
 she smiled; her unconscious coquetry. There was always one 
 thing or other that took my fancy and inspired me to invent 
 adventures about them — adventures I wanted to experience. 
 I fell in love with one woman because the first time I saw her 
 she wore a beautiful red silk dress, almost black in the folds, 
 like the darkest of roses. I thought of her always in that dress. 
 And with you that time in Viterbo — you were so sweet, so 
 gentle and reserved, and there was a glint in your eyes when the 
 
JENNY 
 
 276 
 
 rest of us laughed as if you would have liked to be merry with 
 us, but dared not. That time I was in love with the idea of 
 seeing you gay and smiling. 
 
 “ But I have never loved another human being till now.” 
 
 He turned his face from her, staring at the jet of water rising 
 in the moonlight, and the new sensation in him rose too, in- 
 spiring him with new words, which burst in ecstasy from his 
 lips: 
 
 “ I love you so much, Jenny, that everything else is of no 
 account. I am not sorry you don’t love me in return, for I 
 know you will some day; I feel that my love is strong enough 
 to make you return it. I have time to wait; my happiness will 
 be in loving you. 
 
 “ When you spoke about being trampled upon and throwing 
 yourself under the train, something happened to me. I could 
 not explain what it was. I knew only that I could not listen 
 to you saying such things. I knew I would never allow it to 
 happen — not for my life. And when you spoke of the child, 
 I felt infinitely sad to think that you had suffered so intensely 
 and that I could not do anything for you. And I was sad too 
 because I wanted you to love me. Everything you said was 
 echoed in my soul — the boundless love and the bitter longing 
 
 — and I understood that my love for you was just that. While 
 we were in the trattoria and walking out here it has grown more 
 and more clear to me how much you are to me, how I love you 
 
 — and it seems to me that it has always been so. All I know T 
 and remember of you is part of it. I understand now why I 
 have been so depressed since you came here. It was because 
 I saw how you suffered. You were so quiet and sad the first 
 weeks, and then came those fits of dissipation — and I remem- 
 ber that day on the road to Warnemiinde, when you were crying 
 against my shoulder — everything that concerns you is part of 
 my love for you. 
 
 “ I know how it all happened with the other men you have 
 
JENNY 
 
 277 
 
 known — the boy’s father too. You have talked and talked 
 with them about all you have been thinking, and there was no 
 response to your words even when you tried to make them realize 
 what you felt, because they could not understand your mind. 
 But I know it — all you have been telling me today and what 
 you said to me that day in Warnemimde you could not have 
 told to anybody else. Only to me, because I understand — is 
 it not so? ” 
 
 She bent her head in surprised assent. It was true. 
 
 “ I know that I alone understand you thoroughly. I know 
 exactly what you are, and I love you as you are. If your mind 
 were full of stains and bleeding wounds, I would love and kiss 
 them until you were clean and well again. My love has no 
 other purpose but to see you become what you always wanted 
 to be and must be to feel happy. If you did ever so foolish a 
 thing, I would only think you were ill or that some strange in- 
 fluence had poisoned your mind. If you deceived me or if I 
 found you lying drunk in the road, you would be my own 
 darling Jenny just the same. 
 
 “Will you not be mine — give yourself to me? Will you 
 not come into my arms and let me hold you and make you happy 
 and whole? I don’t know now quite how to set about it, but 
 my love will teach me, and every morning you will wake up 
 less sad — every day will seem a little brighter and warmer 
 than the day before, and your sorrow less great. Let us go to 
 Viterbo or anywhere you like. Give yourself to me, and I will 
 nurse you as if you were a sick child. When you are well again 
 you will have learnt to love me and to know that we two cannot 
 live without each other. 
 
 “You are ill; you cannot look after yourself. Close your 
 eyes and give me your hands; I will love you and make you 
 well — I know I can do it.” 
 
 Jenny was leaning against a pillar. She turned her white 
 face to him, smiling sadly: 
 
278 
 
 JENNY 
 
 “ How can you imagine I would do such a great wrong, and 
 sin against God ? ” 
 
 “You mean because you don’t love me? But I tell you it 
 does not matter, because I know my love is such that you will 
 end by returning it, when you have lived wrapped in it for a 
 time.” 
 
 He seized her in his arms, covering her face with kisses. She 
 made no resistance, but whispered: 
 
 “ Don’t, Gunnar, please.” 
 
 He released her reluctantly: 
 
 “ Why may I not? ” 
 
 “ Because it is you. I don’t know if I should have minded 
 if it had been anybody else for whom I did not care at all.” 
 Gunnar held her hand and they walked up and down in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 “ I understand. When you had the little boy you thought 
 your life had some aim and purpose again after all these aimless 
 years, because you loved him and you needed him. When he 
 died you became indifferent to everything and considered your- 
 self superfluous in the world.” 
 
 Jenny nodded: 
 
 “ There are a few people I care for enough to be sorry if I 
 knew them in distress and glad if all was well with them. But 
 I myself cannot add either to their sorrow or their joy — it has 
 always been so, and one of the reasons why I was unhappy and 
 filled with longing was just that my life was spent without 
 making anybody happy. My sole wish and yearning was to 
 make another being happy. I have always believed in that as 
 the greatest blessing in life. You spoke of the joy of work — 
 to me it never seemed enough, and it is very selfish, besides, 
 because the greatest joy and satisfaction of it is yours alone; 
 you cannot share it with anybody else. Unless you can share 
 your happiness with others, you lose the greatest possible joy. 
 When you are quite young and feel strongly you are selfish per- 
 
JENNY 
 
 279 
 
 haps sometimes — I have felt it myself when I have reached a 
 step nearer my goal, but as a rule it is only the abnormal beings 
 who amass riches for any other purpose than spending. A 
 woman’s life is useless to my mind if she is not the joy of 
 somebody else — and I have never been that — I have only 
 caused sorrow. The little happiness I have been able to give 
 was only what any one else could have given just as well; 
 they have loved me only for what they imagined me to be, not 
 for my real self. 
 
 “ After my baby’s death I began to realize how fortunate it 
 was that there was nobody in the world whom I could cause a 
 really inconsolable grief — nobody to whom I was indispens- 
 able. 
 
 “ And now you tell me all this. You have always been the 
 one person I least of all wanted to drag into my confused life; 
 I have always been more fond of you, in a way, than of any 
 one else I know. I enjoyed our friendship so much, because I 
 thought that love and all it brings in its train could never come 
 between us. You were too good for it, I thought. Oh, how I 
 wish it had never changed! ” 
 
 “To me it seems now that it has never been different,” he 
 said gently. “ I love you and you need me. I know I can 
 make you happy again, and when I have done that you will 
 have made me happy.” 
 
 Jenny shook her head: 
 
 “ If I had the least bit of faith in myself left, it would be 
 different. I might have listened to you if I had not felt so 
 keenly that I have done with life. You say you love me, but I 
 know that what you think you love in me is destroyed — dead. 
 It is the same old story: you are in love with some quality you 
 dream that I possess — that I have before or might have ac- 
 quired. But one day you would see me as I really am, and I 
 should only have made you unhappy too.” 
 
 “ I should never look upon it as unhappiness whatever my 
 
28 o 
 
 JENNY 
 
 fate might be. You may not be aware of it yourself, but I 
 know that in the state you are now it only needs a touch for 
 you to fall — into something that would be madness. But I 
 love you, and I can see all the way that has led you to it, 
 and if you feel I would follow you to try and carry you back in 
 my arms, because I love you in spite of all.” 
 
 As they stood by their doors in the dark passage he took 
 her hands: “ Jenny, rather than be alone, would you not 
 
 like me to remain with you tonight? ” 
 
 She looked at him with a curious smile. 
 
 “ Oh, Jenny! ” He shook his head. “ I may come to you, 
 all the same. Would you be angry — or sorry? ” 
 
 “I think I should be sorry — for your sake. No, do not 
 come, Gunnar. I will not take your love when I know I could 
 just as well give mine to anybody else.” 
 
 He laughed a little, half angrily, half sadly. 
 
 “ Then I ought to do it. If once you were mine you would 
 never belong to anybody else — I know you too well for that — 
 but as you ask me not to, I will wait:” he added, with the 
 same curious little laugh. 
 
 XI 
 
 A LL day long the weather had been bad, with cold, pale 
 clouds high up in the sky; towards evening some thin 
 brass-yellow stripes appeared on the western horizon. 
 Jenny had been up to Monte Celio to sketch in the afternoon, 
 but it did not come to much — she had been sitting listlessly 
 on the big stairs outside of San Gregorio, looking down into the 
 
JENNY 
 
 281 
 
 grove where the big trees were beginning to bud and daisies 
 shone all over the grass. She came back through the avenue 
 below the south side of the Palatine. The ruins showed dull 
 grey against the palms of the convent on the mountain-top; 
 the evergreen shrubs hung on the slope, powdered with chalky 
 dust. 
 
 Some shivering postcard-sellers loitered about outside the 
 Constantin arch on the Piazza, where the ruins of the Coles- 
 seum, the Palatine, and the Forum lay. Very few tourists were 
 about; a couple of skinny old ladies bargained in vile Italian 
 with a mosaic pedlar. 
 
 A small boy of barely three hung on to Jenny’s cloak, offering 
 her a small wisp of pansies. He was exquisitely black eyed 
 and long haired, and dressed in national costume, with pointed 
 hat, velvet jacket, and sandals over white woollen socks. He 
 could not speak distinctly yet, but he could manage to ask for 
 a soldo. 
 
 Jenny gave him the coin, and instantly the mother came up 
 to his side, thanking her and taking the money herself. She, 
 too, had tried to give her dress a national touch by lacing a 
 red velvet bodice on top of her dirty checked blouse, and pin- 
 ning on top of her hair a serviette folded into a square. She 
 carried an infant in her arms. It was three weeks old, she 
 said, in answer to Jenny’s question. Yes, the poor dear was ill. 
 
 The infant was no bigger than Jenny’s own boy had been at 
 birth. Its skin was red and sore and peeling, it was panting 
 as if its throat were choked by mucus, and the eyes looked 
 wearily from under inflamed, half-closed lids. 
 
 Oh yes, she took it every day to the hospital for treatment, 
 said the mother, but they said there that it was going to die. 
 Best thing for it, too — the woman was looking so tired and 
 sad, besides being ugly and toothless. 
 
 Jenny felt the tears mounting to her eyes. Poor little crea- 
 
282 
 
 JENNY 
 
 ture, it certainly was much better for it to die. She passed 
 her hand caressingly over the little ugly face. She had given 
 the woman some money, and was on the point of going when a 
 man suddenly passed her. He took off his hat and stopped 
 for a moment, but walked on as Jenny did not acknowledge 
 his salute. It was Helge Gram. 
 
 She was too much taken aback to think of answering. She 
 bent down to the little boy with the pansies, taking his hands 
 and pulling him closer to her, and talked to him, trying to 
 master the unreasonable shivering of her whole body. 
 
 She turned her head once in the direction he had gone and 
 saw him standing on the stairs that led to the street from the 
 Piazza round the Colosseum, and looking in her direction. 
 
 She remained in the same position, talking to the child and 
 the woman. When she looked up again he was gone, but she 
 waited long after she had seen his grey coat and hat disappear 
 round a comer. 
 
 Then she went home, almost running through side streets and 
 passages, afraid of meeting him every time she turned a corner. 
 
 She got as far as the other side of Pincio, and went to have 
 some food in a trattoria where she had never been before. Then 
 after a rest and some wine, she began to feel better. 
 
 If she met Helge and he spoke to her it would be very 
 painful; she would much prefer to escape it, but if it happened, 
 it was nothing to be so senselessly afraid of. Everything be- 
 tween them was finished; what had occurred after their separa- 
 tion was no concern of his, and he had no right to take her to 
 task for anything. Whatever he knew about it, and whatever 
 he had to say, she had said it all to herself, for nobody knew 
 better than she what she had done. She had to answer only 
 to herself; nothing else could compare with that ordeal. 
 
 Need she fear anybody? Nobody could do her a great 
 wrong than she had done to herself. 
 
JENNY 283 
 
 It had been a bad day — one of those days when she did not 
 feel sober. However, she felt better now. 
 
 Scarcely was she out in the street before the same stupid, 
 desperate fright came over her again, and, without realizing it, 
 she rushed on as if lashed by it, with clenched hands and mut- 
 tering to herself. 
 
 Once she pulled off her gloves, because she was burning hot, 
 and she recollected suddenly having noticed a wet spot on one 
 of them after she had caressed the child. She flung them away 
 in disgust. 
 
 When she reached home she stood a moment hesitating in 
 the passage, then knocked at Gunnar’s door, but he was not 
 in. She went to look on the roof; there was no one there. 
 
 She entered her room, lit the lamp, and sat staring at the 
 flame, her arms folded. After a while she rose and began walk- 
 ing restlessly up and down the floor — only to sit down again 
 as before. She listened breathlessly to every sound on the 
 stairs. Oh, if only Gunnar would come! And not the other 
 one. But how could he? He did not know where she lived 
 — he might have met somebody who knew and asked. Oh, 
 Gunnar, Gunnar, come! 
 
 She would go straight to him, throw herself in his arms. 
 
 The moment she had seen Helge Gram’s light brown eyes 
 again, her whole past, that had begun under their glance, con- 
 fronted her. It all came back — the disgust, the doubt of her 
 own ability to feel, to will and to choose, and the suspicion that 
 in reality she wanted what she said she did not. While she was 
 pretending to herself that she wanted to be strong, pure, and 
 whole in her feelings, and while she said she wanted to be 
 honest, courageous, disciplined — to work and to sacrifice her- 
 self for others — she allowed herself to be tossed between moods 
 and desires she did not care to fight, although she knew she 
 should have done so. She had pretended to love so as to sneak 
 
284 JENNY 
 
 into a place in life which she could never have attained if she 
 had been honest. 
 
 She had wanted to change her nature to fall in with the 
 others who lived, although she knew she would always be a 
 stranger among them because she was of a different kind. She 
 had not been able to stand alone, a prisoner, so to say, of her 
 own nature. And her relations to those who were strange to 
 her innermost being — the son and the father — had been un- 
 natural and repulsive. In consequence of it her own inner 
 self was ruined; every fixed point in herself, to which she had 
 held on, gave way — crumbled to nothing. She felt as if she 
 were dissolving from within. 
 
 If Helge came, if she met him, she knew that the despair 
 and disgust of her own life would overwhelm her. She did not 
 know what would happen, but one thing was certain — she 
 could not face a repetition of the old scenes. 
 
 And Gunnar. All these weeks, while he had been begging 
 of her to be his, she had not made up her mind if she loved him 
 or not. He wanted her such as she was, and he vowed that he 
 could help her — build up again all that had been destroyed in 
 her. 
 
 Sometimes she wished that he would take her by force, so 
 that she need not choose. It did not matter what he said; she 
 knew that if she became his, the little pride she had left told 
 her that the responsibility was her own. She had to become 
 what she had once been — what he believed she had been and 
 could be again. Whether she cared or not, she had to clean 
 herself from all that soiled her now, bury in a new life every- 
 -thing that had happened since she gave Helge Gram the kiss by 
 which she betrayed her faith and her whole life up to that 
 spring day on the Campagna. 
 
 Did she want to be his? Did she love him because he was 
 all that she had wished to be, because his whole being awoke 
 
JENNY 285 
 
 in her all that which she had once chosen to worship and to 
 nurse — every faculty she had thought worth developing ? 
 
 The love she had looked for on byways, driven by her morbid 
 longing and feverish restlessness — would she find it here by 
 surrendering to him, by shutting her eyes and giving herself to 
 the one man she really trusted — the one who all her instincts 
 told her was her conscience and her just judge? 
 
 She had not been able to do it — not in all these weeks. It 
 seemed to her that she ought to try and get out by her own will 
 from the mire into which she had descended; she wanted to 
 feel that it was her will from the old days which had taken the 
 lead of her shattered mind, so that she could get back ever so 
 little of the respect and confidence in herself from before. 
 
 If she was to go on living, Gunnar was life itself to her. A 
 few words written by him on a piece of paper, a book that 
 brought her a message from some emotion in his soul had 
 awakened the last smouldering longing back to life when after 
 the death of the child she had dragged herself about like a 
 maimed animal. 
 
 If he came now — he would win her. If he would but carry 
 her the first bit of the way, she would try to walk the rest of it 
 herself. And as she sat there waiting for him she decided in 
 her shrinking soul: If he comes, I shall live. If the other 
 
 one comes, I must die. 
 
 And when she heard steps on the stairs, and they were not 
 those of Gunnar, and there was a knock at the door, she bent 
 her head and went shivering to open it for Helge Gram, in- 
 stinctively feeling that she opened the door to the fate she had 
 challenged. 
 
 She stood looking at him while he walked into the room, 
 putting his hat on a chair. She had not acknowledged his 
 greeting this time either. 
 
 “ I knew you were in town,” said he. “ I came the day 
 
286 
 
 JENNY 
 
 before yesterday from Paris. I looked up your address at the 
 club, and meant to come and see you some day — but then I 
 saw you in the street this afternoon. I recognized your grey 
 fur a long way off.” He spoke swiftly — out of breath, as it 
 were. “Will you not say good evening to me? Are you vexed 
 because I have come to see you? ” 
 
 “ Good evening, Helge,” she said, taking the hand he offered 
 her. “Will you not sit down, please?” 
 
 She sat down on the sofa. She could hear that her voice 
 sounded calm and as usual. But in her brain she had the same 
 delirious sensation of dread as in the afternoon. 
 
 “ I wanted to come and see you,” said Helge, sitting down 
 on a chair close to her. 
 
 “ It was good of you,” replied Jenny. Both were silent. 
 
 “ You live in Bergen now,” she said. “ I saw that you had 
 got your degree. I congratulate you.” 
 
 “Thank you.” 
 
 There was another pause. 
 
 “ You have been abroad a long time. I meant to write to 
 you sometimes, but it never came off. Heggen lives in this 
 house, I see.” 
 
 “Yes; I wrote him to get a studio for me, but they are so 
 dear and so difficult to find. This room has a good light, 
 though.” 
 
 “ I see that you have some pictures drying.” 
 
 He rose, went across the room, but returned immediately to 
 his seat. Jenny bent her head, feeling that he did not take 
 his eyes from her. They tried to keep up conversation. He 
 asked about Francesca Ahlin and other acquaintances they had 
 in common, but there were long intervals when he sat staring 
 at her. 
 
 “ Do you know that my parents are divorced? ” he asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
JENNY 
 
 287 
 
 “ They stayed together for our sake as long as they could, 
 whining and creaking against each other like two millstones 
 until they had ground everything to powder between them. 
 There was nothing more to grind, I suppose, so the mill stopped. 
 
 “ I remember when I was a boy. They did not fight, but 
 there was something in their voices that made you think they 
 would like to. Mother abused him and used plain talk, always 
 ending with tears. Father kept cool and quiet, but his voice 
 was full of hatred and so hard and cutting. I lay in my bed 
 listening to this performance that was forced on me. I used 
 to think what a relief it would be to put a knitting needle right 
 through my head, in at one ear and out at the other. The 
 voices created a physical pain in my ears and spread to the 
 whole of my head. Well, that was the beginning — they have 
 done their duty as parents, and now it is all over. 
 
 “ Hatred is an ugly thing; it makes everything ugly that 
 comes in contact with it. I went to see my sister last summer. 
 We have never been sympathetic, but I thought it disgusting 
 to see her with that husband of hers. Sometimes I saw him 
 kiss her — taking his pipe out of his thick wet mouth, he kissed 
 his wife. I saw Sophy get quite white when he touched her 
 He is a pope in his pulpit and a libertine at home. 
 
 “ As to you and me — it was quite natural. I understood it 
 afterwards — that the fine, delicate threads between us should 
 break, that they could not stand the atmosphere at home. When 
 I had gone from you that time I regretted it, and meant to 
 write to you, but do you know why I did not? I had a letter 
 from my father, telling me he had been to see you and that he 
 thought I ought to resume my relations with you. I have a 
 superstitious objection to any advice from that quarter, so I 
 did not write. 
 
 “ All the time since we parted I have been longing for you, 
 Jenny, dreaming of you, and recalling again and again to my 
 memory the time I spent here with you. Do you know which 
 
288 
 
 JENNY 
 
 place in Rome I revisited first of all — yesterday ? I went to 
 Montagnola and I found our names on the cactus leaf.” 
 
 Jenny was sitting with clenched hands, very pale. 
 
 “ You look exactly the same as then, and you have lived 
 three years about which I don’t know anything,” said Helge 
 gently. “ I can scarcely realize that I am here with you again 
 — it seems as if all that has happened since we parted here in 
 Rome were not true. Yet you belong perhaps to somebody else 
 now? ” 
 
 Jenny did not answer. 
 
 “Are you engaged?” he asked quietly. 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Jenny ” — Helge bent his head so that she could not see his 
 face — “all these years I have been hoping — dreaming of 
 winning you back. I have imagined that we should meet again 
 some day and come to an understanding. You said I was 
 the first man you had been fond of. Is my dream impossible? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” she said. 
 
 “ Heggen? ” 
 
 She did not answer at once. 
 
 “ I have always been jealous of Heggen,” said Helge gently. 
 “ I thought he was the one, especially when I saw that you 
 both lived here. So you are in love with each other ? ” 
 
 Jenny still did not answer. 
 
 “ Do you love him? ” 
 
 “ Yes, but I will not marry him.” 
 
 “ Oh, I see,” said Helge, in a hard voice. 
 
 “No.” She bent her head, tired, smiling sadly: “I have 
 
 done with love; I don’t want to have anything more to do with 
 it. I am tired, and I wish you would go, Helge.” 
 
 But he did not move. 
 
 “ I cannot realize now when I see you again that it is all 
 over. I never would believe it. I have been thinking so much 
 of it, I suppose it was my own fault. I was so timid, I never 
 
JENNY 
 
 289 
 
 knew what was the right thing to do. Everything might have 
 been quite different. I have often remembered the last evening 
 I was with you in Rome, and it seemed always that such an 
 occasion would present itself again, for I left you then because 
 I thought it was right. Surely, that could not have been the 
 cause of my losing you? I had never been near a woman 
 then,” he said, looking down. “ I was warned by what I had 
 seen at home. Dreams and fancies became a hell at times, but 
 that fear was always paramount. 
 
 “ I am twenty-nine and there has been no beautiful or happy 
 experience in my life but that short spring spent with you. 
 Can you not understand that I have never been able to sep- 
 arate you from my thoughts, that I love you as before? The 
 only happiness I have known is that you gave me. I cannot 
 let you go out of my life — not now.” 
 
 She got up, trembling, and he rose too. Instinctively she 
 drew back a few steps from him: 
 
 “ Helge, there has been another.” 
 
 He stood still, looking at her. 
 
 “ You say there has been another — and it could have been 
 I. I don’t care; I want you all the same. I want you now 
 because you promised me once to be mine.” 
 
 Terrified, she tried to go past him, but he seized her violently 
 in his arms. It took a few seconds for her brain to realize that 
 he was kissing her mouth. She thought she made a resistance, 
 but was in fact almost passive in his arms. She wanted to 
 tell him not to, and she wanted to say who the other had been, 
 but she could not. She would have told him about the child, 
 but when she remembered the boy she shrank from mentioning 
 him; she felt she must not drag her child into the disaster she 
 knew was coming. As this thought crossed her mind she 
 imagined she felt the dead little one caressing her, and it gave 
 her a sensation of joy, so that her body relaxed for a second 
 in his arms. 
 
JENNY 
 
 290 
 
 “You are mine — mine only — yes, yes, Jenny!” 
 
 She tore herself away from him and, running to the door, 
 she called aloud for Gunnar. Helge was at her side again in 
 an instant, taking her back in his arms. 
 
 They wrestled with each other by the door without a word. 
 It seemed to Jenny that her life depended on her opening it and 
 escaping into Gunnar’s room, but feeling Helge close to her, 
 stronger than she, as he held her, it seemed to her that there 
 was no escape — and at last she gave way. 
 
 In the grey morning light, he came over to her to kiss her: 
 
 “ My glorious Jenny. How wonderfully beautiful you are. 
 You are mine now, and everything will come right, will it not? 
 Oh, I love you so. 
 
 “ Are you tired? You must sleep when I have gone, and I 
 will come to see you again at noon. Sleep soundly, my darling 
 Jenny. Are you so tired? ” 
 
 “ Yes, very tired, Helge.” 
 
 She was lying with her eyes half closed, looking at the pale 
 morning light coming through the ribs of the blind. 
 
 He kissed her when he stood fully dressed, holding his hat; 
 then he kneeled by her bed and put an arm under her shoulder: 
 “ Thank you for tonight. Do you remember that I said 
 those same words to you the first morning in Rome, w’hen we 
 were at Aventine? ” 
 
 Jenny nodded on her pillow. 
 
 “ One more kiss — and good-night — my lovely Jenny.” 
 
 At the door he stopped: 
 
 “ What about the front door ? Is there a key, or is it one of 
 those ordinary ones with a latch ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, an ordinary one. You can open it all right from the 
 inside.” 
 
 She remained in bed with her eyes closed. She saw her own 
 body as it lay under the cover, white, bare, beautiful — a thing 
 
JENNY 291 
 
 that she had flung away as she had the gloves. It was not hers 
 any more. 
 
 She gave a start on hearing Heggen mount the stairs slowly 
 and open his door. He walked up and down in his room, 
 then came out again and went up the stairs to the roof. She 
 heard him pacing to and fro above her head. She was sure he 
 knew, but it did not make much impression on her tired brain. 
 She felt no pain now. It seemed to her that he would prob- 
 ably think what had happened as natural and unavoidable as 
 she did. She could not decide what was the next thing to do 
 — it must just come as the other had done, as a necessary con- 
 sequence of her opening the door last night to Helge. 
 
 She put out one foot from under the cover and lay looking at 
 it. It was pretty. She bent it, accentuating the instep. Yes, 
 it was pretty, white with blue veins and pink heel and toes. 
 
 She was tired — it was nice to feel so utterly tired. It felt 
 like having recovered from some keen suffering. She was 
 tired now, and what she had to do she did mechanically. 
 
 She got up and dressed. When she had put on stockings, 
 bodice, and a skirt she slipped her feet into a pair of bronze 
 slippers, washed, and did her hair in front of the glass without 
 noticing the reflection of her face in it. Then she went to the 
 small table where she kept her painting things, looking for 
 the box containing her implements. In the night she had been 
 thinking of the small triangular scraper, — she had sometimes 
 played with it, putting it against her artery. 
 
 She took it out, looked at it, testing it with her finger, but 
 she put it back again and took out a folding knife that she 
 had once bought in Paris. It had a corkscrew, tin-opener, and 
 many blades; one was short, pointed, and broad. She opened it. 
 
 She went back to her bed and sat down on it. Putting her 
 pillow on the table at the side of the bed, she steadied her 
 left hand on it and cut through the artery. 
 
 The blood spurted out, hitting a small water-colour on the 
 
JENNY 
 
 292 
 
 wall above her bed. Noticing it, she moved her hand. She 
 lay down on the bed and mechanically pushed off her shoes 
 with her feet, and put her hand under the cover to prevent the 
 blood from making a mess. 
 
 She did not think; she was not afraid; she felt only that she 
 was surrendering to the inevitable. The pain of the cut was 
 not great — only sharp and distinct, and concentrated on one 
 spot. 
 
 After a while a strange, unknown sensation took hold of 
 her, an agony that grew and grew — not a fear of anything in 
 particular, but the feeling of an ache round her heart and sick- 
 ness, as it were. She opened her eyes, but black specks flick- 
 ered before her sight and she could not breathe. The room 
 seemed to crumble down on her. She tumbled out of bed, tore 
 the door open, rushed up the stairs to the roof, and collapsed 
 on the last step. 
 
 Helge had met Gunnar Heggen as he came out of the front 
 door. They had looked at each other, both touching their 
 hats, and passed on without a word. 
 
 That meeting had sobered Helge. After the intoxication of 
 the night his mood instantly changed to the other extreme, and 
 what he had experienced seemed to him incredible, inconceiv- 
 able, and monstrous. 
 
 He had dreamt of this meeting with her all these years. She, 
 the queen of his dreams, had scarcely spoken to him, at first 
 sitting quiet and cold and then suddenly throwing herself into 
 his arms, wild, mad, without saying a word. It struck him now 
 that she had said nothing - — nothing at all to his words of love 
 in the night. A strange, apalling woman, his Jenny. He 
 realized suddenly that she had never been his. 
 
 Helge walked about in the quiet streets, up and down the 
 Corso. He tried to think of her as she had been when they 
 were engaged, to separate the dreams from the reality, but he 
 could not form a clear picture of her, and he realized that he 
 
JENNY 
 
 293 
 
 had never penetrated to the bottom of her soul. There had 
 always been something about her he could not see, though he 
 felt it was there. 
 
 He did not really know anything about her. Heggen might 
 be with her now — why not ? There had been another — she 
 said so herself — who ? How many more ? What else that he 
 did not know — but had always felt ? . . . 
 
 And now — after this he could not leave her; he knew it — 
 less than ever now. Yet he did not know her. Who was she, 
 who had held him in a spell for three years — who had this 
 power over him? 
 
 He turned on his way, hurrying back to her door, driven by 
 fear and by rage. The front door stood open. He rushed up 
 the stairs — she would have to answer him — tell him every- 
 thing — he would not let her go. The door was open; he 
 looked in and saw the empty bed with the blood-stained sheets 
 and the blood on the floor. Turning round, he saw that she 
 was lying huddled at the top of the stairs, and that the marble 
 steps were red with her blood. 
 
 With a scream he ran up the stairs and lifted her up. He 
 felt her body limp against his arm and her hands hung down 
 cold — and he understood that the body he had held in his 
 arms a few hours ago, hot and trembling with life, was now a 
 dead thing, and would soon be carrion. 
 
 He sank to his knees with her on his arm, calling out wildly. 
 
 Heggen tore open the door to the terrace. His face was white 
 and drawn. He saw Jenny. Seizing Helge, he flung him 
 aside and bent down on his knees beside her. 
 
 “ She was lying there when I came back — lying there. . . 
 
 “ Run for a doctor — quick! ” Gunnar had pulled away her 
 clothes, feeling her heart; he steadied her head and lifted her 
 hands. Then he saw the wound, and, pulling out the blue 
 silk ribbon from her bodice, he tied it hard round her wrist. 
 
 “ Yes, but where shall I find . . 
 
JENNY 
 
 294 
 
 Gunnar gave a sudden cry of rage — then said in a quiet 
 voice : 
 
 “ I will go. Carry her in,” but he took her in his own arms 
 and went towards the door. At sight of the blood-stained bed 
 his face twitched. Turning away, he pushed open the door to 
 his room and placed her on his own untouched bed. Then he 
 rushed down the stairs. 
 
 Helge had moved at his side the whole time, his mouth half 
 open as if paralysed in the act of crying out. But he stopped 
 at Gunnar’s door. When he was left alone with her he stole 
 into the room, touching her hand with his finger-tips, and he 
 fell down beside the bed, crying wildly, hysterically, with his 
 head against it. . . . 
 
 XI 
 
 G UNNAR walked along the narrow road, overgrown 
 with grass, between the high, whitewashed garden 
 walls. On the one side lay the barracks, probably 
 with a terrace, as high up over his head some soldiers were 
 laughing and talking. A tuft of yellow flowers, growing in a 
 cleft of the wall, hung swaying. On the other side of the road 
 the huge old poplars by the Cestius pyramid and the cypress 
 grove in the new part of the cemetery stretched their tops to- 
 wards the blue and silver clouded sky. 
 
 Outside the grated gate a girl sat crocheting. She opened to 
 him, curtseying to thank him for the coin he gave her. 
 
 The spring air was mild and damp; in the closed green shade 
 of the churchyard it became wet and warm as in a hothouse, 
 and the narcissus along the border of the path gave out a hot, 
 sickly scent. 
 
 The old cypresses stood round the graves that lay, green and 
 dark with creepers and violets, set in terraces from the ivy- 
 
JENNY 295 
 
 clad wall of the town. Above the flowers rose the monuments 
 of the dead, little marble temples, white figures of angels, and 
 big, heavy slabs of stone. Moss grew on them and on the 
 trunks of the cypresses. Here and there a white or red flower 
 still clung to the camelia trees, but most of them lay brown and 
 faded on the black earth, exhaling raw, damp fumes. He re- 
 membered something he had read: the Japanese did not like 
 camelias because they fell off whole and fresh like heads 
 chopped off. 
 
 Jenny Winge lay buried at the farthest end of the cemetery 
 near the chapel on a grassy slope, covered with daisies. There 
 were only a few graves. On the border of the slope cypresses 
 had been planted, but they were still very small, like toy trees 
 with their pointed green tops on straight brown trunks, re- 
 minding one of the pillars in a cloister arcade. Her grave was 
 a little way from the others; it was only a pale grey mound of 
 earth, the grass round it having been trodden down when it was 
 being dug. The sun shone on it and the dark cypresses formed 
 a wall behind it. 
 
 Covering his face with his hands, Gunnar bent on his knees 
 until his head rested on the faded wreaths. 
 
 The weariness of spring weighted his limbs, the blood flowed 
 aching with sorrow and regret at every beat of his heavy heart. 
 
 Jenny — Jenny — Jenny — he heard her pretty name in 
 every trill of the birds — and she was dead. 
 
 Lying far down in the dark. He had cut off a curl from her 
 fair hair and carried it in his pocket-book. He took it out and 
 held it in the sunshine — those poor little filmy threads were 
 the only part of her luxurious, glossy hair the sun could reach 
 and warm. 
 
 She was dead and gone. There were some pictures of hers 
 . . . there had been a short notice about her in the papers. 
 And the mother and sisters mourned her at home, but the real 
 Jenny they had never known, and they knew nothing about her 
 
JENNY 
 
 296 
 
 life or her death. The others — those who had known — stared 
 in despair after her, not understanding what they knew. 
 
 She who lay there was his Jenny; she belonged to him alone. 
 
 Helge Gram had come to him; he had asked and told, wailed 
 and begged: 
 
 “ I don’t understand anything. If you do, Heggen, I beg 
 you to tell me. You know — will you not tell me what you 
 know? ” 
 
 He had not answered. 
 
 “ There was another; she told me so. Who was it? Was it 
 you? ” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “ Do you know who it was? ” 
 
 “ Yes, but I am not going to tell you. It is no good your 
 asking, Gram.” 
 
 “ But I shall go mad if you don’t explain.” 
 
 “ You have no right to know Jenny’s secrets.” 
 
 “ But why did she do it? Was it because of me — of him — 
 or of you? ” 
 
 “No; she did it because of herself.” 
 
 He had asked Gram to leave him and had not seen him since; 
 he had left Rome. It was in the Borghese garden, two days 
 after the funeral, that Gram had come across him sitting in the 
 sunshine. He was so tired; he had had to see to everything — 
 give satisfactory explanations at the inquest, arrange for the 
 interment, and write to Mrs. Berner that her daughter had died 
 suddenly from heart failure. And all the time he had a kind 
 of satisfaction in the thought that nobody knew of his own 
 sorrow, 'that the real cause of her death was known only by him 
 and for ever hidden with him. The sorrow had sunk so deep 
 into him that it would for ever be the inmost essence of his 
 soul, and he would never speak of it to any living being. 
 
 It would govern his whole life — and be governed by it; the 
 
JENNY 
 
 2 97 
 
 colour and form of it would change, but it would never be 
 effaced. Every hour of the day it was different, but it was 
 always there, and always would be. On the morning when he 
 had run for the doctor, leaving the other man alone with her, 
 he had wanted to tell Helge Gram all he knew, and in such a 
 way that his heart would turn to ashes like his own had done; 
 but in the days that followed all he knew became a secret be- 
 tween him and the dead woman — the secret of their love. 
 All that had happened had happened because of her being what 
 she was, and as such he had loved her. Helge Gram was a 
 casual, indifferent stranger to him and to her, and he had no 
 more wish to avenge himself on him than he had pity for his 
 sorrow and dread at the mystery. 
 
 And he understood that what had happened was natural be- 
 cause she was made as she was. Her mind swayed and bent 
 for a gust of wind, because it had grown so upright and slender; 
 he had thought she could grow as a tree grows, and had not 
 understood that she was only a flower, a rich, fragile stem, 
 springing up to be kissed by the sun and to let all the heavy, 
 longing buds break into bloom. She had only been a little 
 girl after all, and to his eternal sorrow he had not understood 
 it until too late. 
 
 For she could not right herself again when once she had been 
 bent; she was like a lily, that does not grow from the root 
 again if the first stalk has been broken. There was nothing 
 supple or luxuriant about her mind — but he loved her such as 
 she was. And she was his only, for he alone knew how fair 
 and delicate she had been — so strong in her desire to grow 
 straight, and yet so frail and brittle, and with delicate honour, 
 from which a spot never could be washed away because it made 
 so deep a mark. She was dead. He had been alone with his 
 love many nights and days, and he would be alone with it all 
 the days and nights of his life. 
 
 He had stifled his cries of despair many a night in his pillows. 
 
JENNY 
 
 298 
 
 She was dead, and she had never been his. He was the one 
 she should have loved and belonged to, for she was the only one 
 he had ever loved. He had never touched or seen her beautiful, 
 slim, white body that enclosed her soul like a velvet sheath about 
 a thin, feeble blade. Others had possessed it, and had not 
 understood what a strange and rare treasure had happened to 
 fall into their hands. It lay buried in the grave, a prey to 
 ugly change until it was consumed and reduced to a handful of 
 dust in the earth. 
 
 Gunnar was shaking with sobs. 
 
 Others had loved her, soiled, and destroyed her, not knowing 
 what they did — and she had never been his. 
 
 As long as he lived there would be moments when he w T ould 
 feel the same agony about it as now. 
 
 Yet he was the only one who owned her at the last; in his 
 hand only would her golden hair sparkle, and she herself was 
 living in him now; her soul and her image were reflected in 
 him clear and firm as in still water. She was dead; she had 
 no more sorrow — it stayed with him instead, to go on living, not 
 to die until he died himself, and because it was living it would 
 grow and change. What it would be like in ten years, he did 
 not know, but it might grow to something great and beautiful. 
 
 As long as he lived there would be moments when he 
 would feel the same strange, deep joy that it was so, as he 
 felt now. 
 
 He remembered dimly what he had been thinking in the early 
 morning hour when he was walking on the terrace overhead 
 while she was ending her life. He had been enraged with her. 
 How could she do it? He had begged and implored to be 
 allowed to help her, to carry her away from the abyss she w T as 
 nearing, but she had pushed him away and thrown herself down 
 before his eyes — exactly in the way a woman would — an 
 obstinate, irresponsible, foolish way. 
 
JENNY 
 
 299 
 
 When he saw her lying lifeless he had been in despair and 
 rage again, because he would not have let her go. Whatever 
 she had done he would have exonerated her, helped her, offered 
 her his love and trust. 
 
 As long as he lived there would be moments when he would 
 reproach her for choosing to die — Jenny, you should not have 
 done it. Yet there would be moments when he would under- 
 stand that she did so, because it was in keeping with her 
 character, and he would love her for it as long as he lived. And 
 never would he wish that he had not loved her. 
 
 But he would cry desperately, as he had already done, be- 
 cause he had not loved her long before; he would cry for the 
 lost years when she had lived beside him as his friend and 
 comrade and he had not understood that she was the woman 
 who should have been his wife. And never would the day 
 dawn when he would wish he had not understood, even if only 
 to see that it was too late. 
 
 Gunnar rose from his knees. He took a small box from his 
 pocket and opened it. One of Jenny’s pink crystal beads was 
 in it. He had found it in the drawer of her dressing-table 
 when he packed up her belongings; the string had broken and 
 he kept one of the beads. He took some earth from the grave 
 and put it in the box. The bead rolled about in it and was 
 covered with grey dust, but the clear rose colour showed through 
 and the fine rents in the crystal glittered in the sun. 
 
 He had sent all her possessions to her mother, except the let- 
 ters, which he had burnt. The child’s clothes were in a sealed 
 cardboard box. He sent it to Francesca, remembering that 
 Jenny had said one day she would give them to her. 
 
 He had looked through all her sketch-books and drawings 
 before packing them and carefully cut out the leaves with the 
 picture of the boy, hiding them in his pocket-book. They were 
 his — all that was hers alone was his. 
 
JENNY 
 
 3 00 
 
 On the plain grew some purple anemones; he rose mechani- 
 cally to pick them. Oh, spring-time! 
 
 He remembered a spring day two years ago when he had been 
 in Norway. He had been given a cart and a red mare' at the 
 posting station; the owner was an old schoolfellow of his. It 
 was a sunny day in March ; the meadows were yellow with with- 
 ered grass, and the dung-heaps over the ploughed fields shone 
 like pale brown velvet. They drove past the familiar farms 
 with yellow, grey, and red houses and apple yards and lilac 
 bushes. The forest all round was olive green, with a purple 
 tint on the birch twigs, and the air was full that day with the 
 chirping of invisible birds. 
 
 Two little fair-haired children were walking in the road, 
 carrying a can. “Where are you going, little ones?” 
 
 They stopped, looking suspiciously at him. 
 
 “ Taking food to father? ” 
 
 They assented hesitatingly — a little astonished that a strange 
 gentleman should know it. 
 
 “ Climb up here and I’ll give you a ride.” He helped them 
 into the cart. “Where is father working? ” 
 
 “ At Brusted.” 
 
 “ That’s over beyond the school, is it not? ” 
 
 Thus went the conversation. A stupid, ignorant man asking 
 and asking, as grown-up people always talk to children, and the 
 little ones, who have such a lot of wisdom, consult each other 
 quietly with their eyes, giving sparingly of it — as much as 
 they think convenient. 
 
 Hand in hand they walked along beside a rushing brook 
 when he put them down, and he turned his horse in the direction 
 he wanted to go. 
 
 There was a prayer meeting that evening at his home. His 
 sister Ingeborg was sitting by the old corner cupboard, follow- 
 ing with a pale, ecstatic face and shining steel-blue eyes a shoe- 
 
JENNY 
 
 301 
 
 maker, who spoke of spiritual grace; then suddenly she rose 
 herself to bear witness. 
 
 His pretty, smart sister who once had been so fond of danc- 
 ing and merriment. She loved to read and to learn; when he 
 had got work in town he sent her books and pamphlets and the 
 Social Democrat twice a week. At thirty she was “ saved,” 
 and now she “ spoke in tongues.” 
 
 She had bestowed all her love on her nephew Anders and a 
 little girl they had with them — an illegitimate child from 
 Christiania. With sparkling eyes she told them about Jesus, 
 the children’s Friend. 
 
 The next day it was snowing; he had promised to take the 
 children to a cinema in the small neighbouring town, and they 
 had to walk a couple of miles in the melting snow, leaving 
 black footprints behind. He tried to talk to the children, ask- 
 ing questions and receiving guarded answers. 
 
 But on the way back the children were the inquisitive ones, 
 and, flattered, he gave frank and detailed answers, anxious to 
 give them proper information about the films they had seen — 
 of cowboys in Arizona and cocoanut harvest in the Philippines. 
 And he tried his best to tell them properly and answer without 
 ever being at a loss. 
 
 Oh, spring-time! 
 
 It was on a spring day he had gone to Viterbo with Jenny 
 and Francesca. Dressed in black, she had been sitting by the 
 window looking out with eyes so big and grey- — he remem- 
 bered it well. 
 
 The stonny clouds sent showers over the brown plains of the 
 Campagna, where there were no ruins for the tourists to go and 
 see, only a crumbled wall here and there and a farm with two 
 pines and some pointed straw-stacks near the house. The pigs 
 herded together in the valley, where some trees grew beside a 
 
JENNY 
 
 302 
 
 stream. The train sped between hills and oak woods where 
 white and blue anemones and yellow primroses grew among the 
 faded leaves. She said she wanted to get out to pick them, 
 gather them in the falling rain among the dripping leaves un- 
 der the wet branches. “ This is like spring at home,” she said. 
 
 It had been snowing; some of the snow was still lying grey 
 in the ditches, and the flowers were wet and heavy, with petals 
 stuck together. 
 
 Little rivulets rushed down the crevices, vanishing under the 
 railway line. A shower beat against the window and drove the 
 smoke to earth. 
 
 Then it cleared over valleys and grove, and the water streamed 
 down the sides of the hills. 
 
 He had had some of his things in one of the girls’ boxes. 
 When he remembered it in the evening they had already begun 
 to undress and were laughing and chatting when he knocked 
 at their door. Jenny opened it a little, giving him what he 
 asked for. She had on a light dressing- jacket with short sleeves, 
 leaving the slender white arm bare. It tempted him to many 
 kisses, but he dared only give it one single, light one. He had 
 been in love with her then, intoxicated with the spring, the 
 wine, the merry rain, and the sudden sunshine, with his own 
 youth and the joy of life. He wanted to make her dance — 
 that tall, fair girl, who smiled so guardedly as if she were 
 trying a new art, something she had never yet done — she who 
 had stared with grey, serious eyes at all the flowers they passed 
 and that she wanted to pick. 
 
 Oh, how different all might have been! The dry, bitter sob 
 shook his frame again. 
 
 The day they went to Montefiascone it rained too, so hard 
 that the water was flung back from the stone bridge on to the 
 girls’ lifted skirts and ankles. How* they had laughed, all three 
 of them, when they walked up the narrow street, the rain-water 
 streaming towards them in small torrents. When they reached 
 
JENNY 
 
 303 
 
 Rocca, the castle cliff in the centre of the old town, it cleared. 
 They leaned over the rampart, looking at the lake, which lay 
 black beneath the olive groves and the vineyards. The skies 
 hung low about the hills round the lake, but across the dark 
 water there came a silver line, which broadened, the mist rolled 
 back into the crevices, and the mountain came into better view. 
 The sun pierced the clouds, which sank down to rest round the 
 small promontories with grey stone castles. Towards the north 
 a distant peak became visible — Cesca said it was Monte 
 Amiata. 
 
 The last rain-clouds rolled across the blue spring sky, melt- 
 ing before the sun; the bad weather fled westward, darkening 
 the Etrurian heights, which sloped desolately towards the far 
 yellow-white strip of the Mediterranean. The sight reminded 
 him of the mountain scenery in his own country, in spite of 
 the olive grove and the vineyards. 
 
 He and she had stooped behind the hedge, and he had held 
 out his coat so that she could light her cigarette. The wind 
 was keen up there, and she shivered a little in her wet clothes. 
 Her cheeks were red and the sun glittered in her damp, 
 golden hair as she stroked it away from her eyes with one 
 hand. 
 
 He would go there tomorrow to meet the spring, the cold, 
 naked spring, full of expectation, with all the buds wet and 
 shivering in the wind — blossoming all the same. 
 
 She and the spring were one to him, she who stood shivering 
 and smiled in the changing weather and wanted to gather all 
 the flowers into her lap. Little Jenny, you were not to gather 
 the flowers, and your dreams never came true — and now I am 
 dreaming them for you. 
 
 And when I have lived long enough to be so full of longing 
 as you were, perhaps I will do as you, and say to fate: Give 
 
 me a few of the flowers; I will be satisfied with much less than 
 
JENNY 
 
 304 
 
 I wanted in the beginning of life. But I will not die as you 
 did, because you could not be content. I will remember you, 
 and kiss your bead and your golden hair and think: She 
 
 could not live without being the best, and claiming the best as 
 her right; and maybe I shall say: Heaven be praised that she 
 
 chose death rather than living content. 
 
 Tonight I will go to Piazza San Pietro and listen to the wild 
 music of the fountain that never stops, and dream my dream. 
 For you, Jenny, are my dream, and I have never had any other. 
 
 Dream — oh, dream ! 
 
 If your child had lived he would not have been what you 
 dreamt when you held him in your arms. He might have done 
 something good and great, or something bad and disgraceful, 
 but he would never have accomplished what you dreamt he 
 should do. No woman has given life to the child she dreamt 
 of when she bore it — no artist has created the work he saw 
 before him in the moment of his inspiration. And we live sum- 
 mer after summer, but not one is like the one we have been 
 longing for when we stooped to gather the wet flowers in the 
 spring showers. And no love is what lovers dreamed when they 
 kissed for the first time. 
 
 If you and I had lived together we might have been happy 
 or not, we might have done good or ill to one another, but I 
 shall never know what our love would have been if you had been 
 mine. The only thing I know is that it would never have been 
 what I dreamt that night when I stood with you in the moon- 
 light while the fountain was playing. 
 
 And yet I would not have missed that dream, and I would 
 not miss the dream I am dreaming now. 
 
 Jenny, I would give my life if you could meet me on the 
 cliff and be as you were then, and kiss me and love me for one 
 day, one hour. Always I am thinking of what it might have 
 
JENNY 
 
 3°5 
 
 been if you had lived and been mine, and it seems to me that 
 a boundless joy has been wasted. Oh, you are dead, and your 
 death has made me so poor. I have only my dream of you, 
 but if I compare my poverty with others’ riches it is ever so 
 much more glorious. Not to save my life would I cease to love 
 you and dream of you and mourn you. 
 
 Gunnar Heggen did not know that in the great storm of his 
 heart he had lifted his arms towards heaven and was whispering 
 to himself. The anemones he had picked were still in his hand, 
 but he did not know it. 
 
 The soldiers on the wall laughed at him, but he did not see. 
 He pressed the flowers to his heart, and whispered gently to 
 himself as he walked slowly from the grave toward the cypress 
 grove. 
 
 THE END 
 
V 
 
Date Due 
 
 M) 2 2 '45 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Library Bureau Cat. no. 1137 
 
D007241 
 
 45N