Jenny

As Helge Gram turned the corner into Via Condotti in the dusk a military band came down the street playing “The Merry Widow” in such a crazy, whirling 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 continued 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 evening in the dusk among the crowds, until it became as familiar to him as the best-known thoroughfare of his own city⁠—Christiania. 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.

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 recognized 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 Scandinavian 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 Norwegians.

The girls turned a corner; Helge was close upon them, screwing 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 way in these winding streets. I thought you were Norwegian, or at any rate Scandinavian, and I cannot manage the Italian language. Would you be kind enough to tell me where to find a car? My name is Gram,” he added, raising his hat again.

He was lying looking at her: “I believe it is you, Jenny, I am in love with,” he said suddenly.

She turned halfway 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 together⁠—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 wonderful that you are sitting here. I do not really know you, though we have talked about many things.

Two 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 contemporaries?” asked Jenny.

“No, never,” he answered curtly.

“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.

Jenny 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 beginning 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 handbag. Ugh! those letters from Gert⁠—she could not be bothered to read them. Every word proved to her that they did not understand one another; she felt it when they talked together, but in writing it was more painfully distinct still. Yet there was a mental relationship 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 meanings 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.