Jenny 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 gardens. 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 fragments 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?"
"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, whispering 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 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 coming 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 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 moment 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 sensation, 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 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 anything 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, buttering 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 suddenly.
"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."
"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 humiliating 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 transition, 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 peaceful 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 disappointed with life now because it would not shape itself according 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. 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 indiscreet 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 disposed to love—because of our natural state—place and opportunity 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 disposed 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 understand 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 something 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 themselves. 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 authority 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 understand it all, but when I am mixed up in it myself I can't see a thing."