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Exploring the Variety of Random
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jenny: A
Novel
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
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Title: Jenny: A Novel

Author: Sigrid Undset

Translator: W. Emmé

Release date: November 19, 2019 [eBook #60741]

Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JENNY: A NOVEL

***
 JENNY

THE BORZOI-GYLDENDAL BOOKS

The firm of Gyldendal [Gyldendalske Boghandel Nordisk Forlag] is
the oldest 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, Pontoppidan, 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 arrangements 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.

The Sworn Brothers

A Tale of the Early Days of Iceland. Translated from
the Danish of Gunnar 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.

Jenny
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Publisher, NEW YORK

JENNY
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.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

 PART ONE

I
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.
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 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 white 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 corrugated 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 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-coloured 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 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 white lace hanging on a string
were surely not Italian handiwork. 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
hanging 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 questions 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 figures
and vases with sprays of roses, which looked quite modern. 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, accepting, 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 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
descended on the roofs of that part of the town whence he had
come, and the first radiant sparks of the stars pierced the gathering
darkness.
Again his ears caught the sound of water emptying into a stone
cistern, and the soft ripple of the overflow from one receptacle 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 staring 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,
listening to an inner voice. It was true, then—really true—that he
was here, far, far away from everything he had longed so intensely
to leave. And he walked still more slowly, furtively, like one who has
escaped from prison.
At the corner 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 parents; 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 learn how to live cheaply. Satisfied and
exhilarated by the wine, he started to walk in a new direction, past
long, low, dilapidated houses, through an archway 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 refuse 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.
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 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.
“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 Catenari,” 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 Termini,
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 Nazionale.”
“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 confused at these
asides, which he did not understand.
“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 conversation
—“especially when it is dark.”
“Oh no, you will soon get into it.”
“I only arrived here today. I came from Florence this morning by
train.” The smaller one said something in an undertone 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 Florence.”
The other young girl smiled—she had been muttering to herself 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 because 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 will 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?”
“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 tonight.”
“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 eagerly.
The other three began to propose different cafés. 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
“What’s wrong with Cesca again tonight? We are getting too much
of her tempers lately. Take 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 anything 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 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 was good-looking, but could not compete 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 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 will decide 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, because 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 yourself.”
“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 cristallo
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 malachite 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 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 understand,
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?”
“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 become 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 handkerchief 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 now,
shaking her head at Ahlin, who insisted that his were better. Jenny,
who had ordered some fruit, was eating tangerines, and now and
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