Jenny/Part 2, 5
Jenny and Helge were sitting on the sofa in his room, silent, with arms encircled. It was a Sunday in June; Jenny had been for a walk with Helge in the morning and had dined at the Grams'. After dinner they all sat in the drawing-room, struggling through the tedious afternoon, until Helge got Jenny into his own room on the pretext of reading her something he had written.
"Ugh!" said Jenny at last.
Helge did not ask why she said it. He only laid his head in her lap and let her stroke his hair; neither spoke.
Helge sighed: "It was nicer at your place in the Via Vantaggio, was it not?"
The sound of plates and of fat spluttering in a pan came from the kitchen. Mrs. Gram was getting supper. Jenny opened the window wide to let out the smell that had penetrated into the room. She stood a moment looking out on the yard. All the windows were kitchen or bedroom windows with blinds half drawn, except one large one in each corner. Ugh! How well she knew those dining-rooms with a single corner window looking on to the yard, dark and dismal, with never a glimpse of sun. Soot came in when one aired the rooms, and the smell of food was permanent. The playing of a guitar came from a servant's room, and a high soprano voice was singing a doleful Salvation Army hymn.
The guitar reminded her of Via Vantaggio, and Cesca, and Gunnar, who used to sit on her sofa with his legs on a stool, strumming on Cesca's guitar and singing Cesca's Italian songs. And she was seized with a sudden, desperate longing for everything out there. Helge came to her side: "What are you thinking of?"
"Of Via Vantaggio."
"Oh yes. What a lovely time we had there!"
She put her arm round his neck and drew his head on to her shoulder. It had struck her the moment he spoke that he was not a part of that which filled her heart with longing. She raised his head again and looked into his amber brown eyes, wishing to be reminded of all the glorious days in the Campagna, when he lay among the daisies looking at her. And she wanted to shake off the intense, sickening feeling of discomfort which always came over her when she was in his home.
Everything was unbearable here. The first evening she was invited to the house after Helge's official arrival, when Mrs. Gram had introduced her to her husband, she had to pretend not to know him, while Helge stood looking on at this comedy, knowing they had deceived his mother. It was dreadful—but something still worse had happened. She had been left alone with Gram for a few minutes and he mentioned that he had been to the studio to see her one afternoon, but she had not been in. "No, I was not at the studio that day," she had answered, turning very red. He looked at her in great surprise, and almost without knowing why she did so she blurted out: "I was, but I could not let you in, because there was somebody with me." Gram had smiled and said: "Yes, I heard quite distinctly that somebody was moving in the studio." In her confusion she had told him that it was Helge, and that he had been a few days in town incognito.
"My dear Jenny," Gram had said, and she saw that he was hurt, "you need not have kept it secret from me. I would certainly not have intruded on you—but I will say that it would have given me much pleasure if Helge had told me." She found nothing to say, and he continued: "I shall be careful not to tell him."
She had never meant to keep it a secret from Helge that she had told his father, but she had not yet been able to tell him—afraid that he would not like it. She was worried and nervous about all these mysteries, one after the other.
It is true, she had not told them anything at home either, but that was quite different. She was not used to speak to her mother about anything concerning herself; she had never expected any understanding from her, and had never asked for it. Her mother, besides, was very anxious about Ingeborg just at present. Jenny had got her to rent a cottage a little way out of town; Bodil and Nils came to school by train every day, and Jenny lived in the studio.
Yet she had never been so fond of her mother and her home as she was now. Once or twice when she had been worried about things, and out of spirits, her mother had tried to help and comfort her without asking any questions. She would have blushed at the mere thought of forcing herself into the confidence of any of her children. To grow up in a home like Helge's must have been a torture. It seemed almost as if the gloom of it hung about them even when they were together elsewhere.
"Dearest," she said, caressing him.
Jenny had offered to help Mrs. Gram wash up and to get the supper, but she had said, with her usual smile: "No, my dear, you have not come here for that—certainly not, Miss Winge."
Perhaps she did not mean it, but Mrs. Gram always smiled in a spiteful way when she talked to her. Poor woman, it was probably the only smile she had.
Gram came in; he had been for a walk. Jenny and Helge went to sit with him in his study. Mrs. Gram came in for an instant.
"You forgot to take your umbrella, dear—as usual. You were lucky to escape a shower. Men want such a lot of looking after, you know," she said, turning to Miss Winge.
"You manage it very well," said Gram. His voice and manners were always painfully polite when he spoke to his wife.
"You are sitting in here too, I see," she said to Helge and Jenny.
"I have noticed that the study is the nicest room in every house," said Jenny. "It was in our house, when my father was alive. I suppose it is because they are made to work it."
"The kitchen ought in that case to be the very nicest room in every house," said Mrs. Gram. "Where do you think more work is done, Gert—in your room or mine?—for I suppose the kitchen is my study."
"Undoubtedly more useful work is done in your room."
"I believe, after all, that I must accept your kind offer of help, Miss Winge—it is getting late."
They were at table when the bell rang. It was Mrs. Gram's niece, Aagot Sand. Mrs. Gram introduced Jenny.
"Oh, you are the artist with whom Helge spent so much of his time in Rome. I guessed that much when I saw you in Stenersgaten one day in the spring. You were walking with Uncle Gert, and carried your painting things."
"You must be mistaken, Aagot," said Mrs. Gram. "When do you imagine you saw them?"
"The day before Intercession Day, as I was coming back from school."
"It is quite true," said Gram. "Miss Winge had dropped her 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 her. Did you not suspect when you saw me that I was the kind old gentleman who had helped you?"
"I was not sure," said Jenny feebly, her face turning purple. "I did not think you recognized me." She tried to smile, but she was painfully conscious of her blushing and unsteady voice.
"It was an adventure, indeed," said Mrs. Gram. "A most peculiar coincidence."
"Have I said something wrong again?" asked Aagot when they went into the drawing-room after supper. Mr. Gram had retired to his study and Mrs. Gram had gone into the kitchen. "It is detestable in this house. You never know when there's going to be an explosion. Please explain. I don't understand anything."
"Mind your own business," said Helge angrily.
"All right, all right—don't bite me! Is Aunt Rebecca jealous of Miss Winge now?"
"You are the most tactless woman.…"
"After your mother, yes. Uncle Gert told me so one day." She laughed. "Have you ever heard anything so absurd! Jealous of Miss Winge." She looked inquisitively at the two others.
"You need not bother about things that only concern us, Aagot," said Helge curtly.
"Indeed? I only thought—but never mind; it does not matter."
"No; it does not in the least."
Mrs. Gram came in and lit the lamp. Jenny looked almost scared at her angry face. She stood a moment, staring with hard, glittering eyes, then she bent down and picked up Jenny's scissors, which had fallen on the floor.
"It looks as if it were a speciality of yours to drop things. You should not let things slip through your fingers, Miss Winge. Helge is not as gallant as his father, it seems." She laughed. "Do you want your lamp?…" She went into the study and pulled the door after her. Helge listened an instant—his mother spoke in a low but angry voice in the other room.
"Can't you leave that wretched business alone for once?" came distinctly through the door; it was Gram speaking.
Jenny turned to Helge: "I am going home now—I have a headache."
"Don't go, Jenny. There will be such a scene if you go. Stay a little longer. Mother will only be more angry if you run away now."
"I cannot stand it," she whispered, nearly crying.
Mrs. Gram walked through the room. Gram came in and joined them.
"Jenny is tired; she is going now. I will see her home."
"Are you going already? Can't you stay a little longer?"
"I have a headache and I am tired," murmured Jenny.
"Please stay a little," he whispered to her. "She"—he indicated the kitchen with his head—"does not say anything to you, and while you are here we are spared a scene."
Jenny sat down quietly and took up her needlework again. Aagot crocheted energetically at a hospital shawl.
Gram went to the piano. Jenny was not musical, but she understood that he was, and by and by she became calm as he played softly—all for her, she felt.
"Do you know this one, Miss Winge?"
"No."
"Nor you either, Helge? Did you not hear it in Rome? In my time it was sung everywhere. I have some books with Italian songs."
He rose to look for them; as he passed Jenny he whispered:
"Do you like me to play?"
"Yes."
"Shall I go on?"
"Yes, please."
He stroked her hand: "Poor little Jenny. You had better go now—before she comes."
Mrs. Gram brought a tray of cakes and dessert.
"How nice of you to play to us, Gert. Don't you think my husband plays beautifully, Miss Winge? Has he played to you before?" she asked innocently.
Jenny shook her head: "I did not know that Mr. Gram played the piano."
"What a beautiful worker you are." She looked at Jenny's embroidery. "I thought you artists did not condescend to do needlework. It is a lovely pattern—where did you get it? Abroad, I suppose?"
"I designed it myself."
"Oh well, then it is easy to get nice patterns. Have you seen this, Aagot? Isn't it pretty? You are very clever"—and she patted Jenny's hand.
What loathsome hands she had, thought Jenny—small, short fingers, with nails broader than long, and splayed out wide.
Helge and Jenny saw Aagot to her rooms and walked slowly down Pilestaedet in the pale night of June. The chestnuts in bloom along the hospital wall smelt strongly after the afternoon shower.
"Helge," said Jenny, "you must try and arrange so that we need not go with them the day after tomorrow."
"It is impossible. They have asked you and you have accepted. It is for your sake they have arranged this picnic."
"But can you not understand how miserable it will be? I wish we could go alone somewhere, you and I, as in Rome."
"There is nothing I would like better, but if we refuse to be a party to their midsummer outing it will only make things more unpleasant at home."
"Not more than usual, I suppose," she said scornfully.
"Yes, much more. Can you not put up with it for my sake? Hang it all, you are not obliged to be in the midst of it always, or to live and work there!"
He was right, she thought, and reproached herself for not being patient enough. He, poor boy, had to live and work in a home she could scarcely endure for two hours. He had grown up in it and lived his whole youth in it.
"I am horrid and selfish, Helge." She clung to him, tired, worried, and humiliated. She longed for him to kiss her and comfort her. What did it really matter to them? They had each other, and belonged somewhere far away from the air of hatred, suspicion, and anger in his home.
The scent of jessamine was wafted from the old gardens that still remained.
"We can go off by ourselves another day—just you and I," he said, to comfort her. "But how could you be so silly?" he said suddenly. "I cannot understand it. You ought to have known that mother would get to know it—as sure as anything."
"Of course she does not believe the story your father told," said Jenny timidly.—Helge sniffed.—"I wish he would tell her everything just as it happened."
"You may rest assured he won't do that. And you cannot do it—you must just go on pretending. It was awfully stupid of you."
"I could not help it, Helge."
"Well—I had told you enough about things at home for you to know. You could have prevented father from coming again, and all your visits to the office—as well as the meetings in Stenersgate."
"Meetings?—I saw the view and knew I could make a good picture of it—and so I have."
"Yes, yes, you have. The fault, no doubt, is mostly father's. Oh, the way he speaks of her." Helge fumed. "You heard what he had said to Aagot—and what he said to you tonight. 'She'"—imitating his father—"does not say anything to you! Remember it is our mother he speaks of like that."
"I think your father is much more considerate and courteous to your mother than she is to him."
"That consideration of father's—I know it. Do you call it considerate the way he has won you over to his side? And his politeness—if you knew how I have suffered under it as a child, and since. He used to stand and listen very politely without saying a word, and if he spoke, it was in an icy cold, extremely civil manner. I almost prefer mother's loud anger and scoldings. Oh, Jenny, it is all so miserable."
"My poor, darling boy."
"It is not all mother's fault. Everybody prefers father. You do—quite naturally—I do myself, but I understand her being as she is. She wants to be first with everybody, and she never is. Poor mother."
"I am sorry for her," said Jenny, but her heart remained cold to Mrs. Gram. The air was heavy with scent from leaf and blossom as they went through the square. On the seats under the trees there was whispering and murmuring in the clear summer night.
Their solitary steps echoed on the pavement of the deserted business quarter where the tall buildings slept—the pale blue sky was reflected in the shop windows.
"May I come up?" he whispered as they stood at her entrance.
"I am tired," said Jenny softly.
"I should like to stay a while with you—don't you think it would be nice to be by ourselves a little?"
She said nothing, but began to walk up the stairs, and he followed.
Jenny lighted the seven-armed candlestick on her writing-table, took a cigarette, and held it to the flame: "Will you smoke?"
"Thanks." He took the cigarette from her lips.
"The thing is, you see," he said suddenly, "that there was once some story about father and another woman. I was twelve then, and I don't know exactly how much truth there was in it. But mother!… it was a dreadful time. It was only because of us that they remained together—father told me so himself. God knows, I don't thank him for it! Mother is honest at least, and admits that she means to hold on to him by hook or by crook and not let go."
He sat down on the sofa. Jenny went and sat beside him, kissing his eyes. He sank on his knees and laid his head in her lap.
"Do you remember the last evening in Rome, when I said good-night? Do you still love me as you did then?"
She did not answer.
"Jenny?"
"We have not been happy together today—it's the first time."
He lifted his head: "Are you vexed with me?" he said in a low voice.
"No, not vexed."
"What, then?"
"Nothing—only.…"
"Only what?"
"Tonight"—she hesitated—"when we walked here, you said we would go somewhere alone—some other day. It was not as it was in Rome; now it is you who decide what I must do and not do."
"Oh no, Jenny."
"Yes—but I don't mind; I like it so. I only think that, if such is the case, you ought to help me out of all this trouble."
"You don't think I did help you today?" he asked slowly.
"Ye—s. Well, I suppose there was nothing you could do."
"Shall I go now?" he whispered after a pause, drawing her close to him.
"Do as you wish," she said quietly.
"You know what I wish. What do you wish—most?"
"I don't know what I want." She burst into tears.
"Oh, Jenny darling." He kissed her softly time after time. When she recovered herself he took her hand: "I am going now. Sleep well, dear; you are tired. You must not be cross with me."
"Say good-night nicely to me," she said, clinging to him.
"Good-night, my sweet, beloved Jenny." He left, and she fell to crying again.