Quicksand
sen for that portrait. It wasn‘t, she contended, herself at all, but some disgusting sensual creature with her features. Herr and Fru Dahl had not exactly liked it either, although collectors, artists, and critics had been unanimous in their praise and it had been hung on the line at an annual exhibition, where it had attracted much flattering attention and many tempting offers.
Now Helga went in and stood for a long time before it, with its creator‘s parting words in mind: “. . . a tragedy . . . my picture is, after all, the true Helga Crane.” Vehemently she shook her head. "It isn‘t, it isn‘t at all," she said aloud. Bosh! Pure artistic bosh and conceit. Nothing else. Anyone with half an eye could see that it wasn‘t, at all, like her.
“Marie,” she called to the maid passing in the hall, “do you think this is a good picture of me?”
Marie blushed. Hesitated. “Of course, Frøkken, I know Herr Olsen is a great artist,
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