He noticed that Ahlin did not like him, and this egged him on. The Swede, then, considered him a rival? He was under the impression that Francesca had of late been less friendly with Ahlin.
When he was by himself Helge turned over in his mind what he was going to say to Francesca—in his imagination he held long conversations with her. He longed for a talk like the one they had that day at Ponte Molle; he wanted to tell her all about himself, but when he saw her he felt nervous and awkward. He did not know how to lead the conversation on to what he wanted to say, and he was afraid of being pressing or tactless; afraid to do anything that made her like him less. She noticed his embarrassment, and came to the rescue with chatter and laughter, and made it easy for him to joke and laugh with her. He was grateful for the moment; she filled the pauses with small talk and helped him along when he made a start, but when he came home and thought it all over, he was disappointed. Their conversation had again been about all sorts of amusing trifles, nothing more.
When he was alone with Jenny Winge they always talked seriously—about solid things, so to speak. Sometimes he was slightly bored with these discussions on abstract matters, but more often he liked to talk to her, because the conversation frequently turned from general matters to things concerning himself. Gradually he got into the way of telling her a great deal about himself—about his work, the difficulties he encountered in life and those in himself. He noticed that Jenny avoided talking about Francesca Jahrman with him, but not that she scarcely ever talked about herself.
It did not occur to him that the reason why he could not talk to Francesca as he talked to Jenny was that he wanted to appear far more important, confident, and strong to her than he really believed himself to be.
On Christmas Eve they all went to the club, and afterwards to the midnight mass at S. Luigi de Franchesi. Helge found it very impressive. The church was in semidarkness, in spite of the lighted chandeliers; they hung so high that their blaze of light was lost. The altar was one solitary wall of light from the flashing golden flames of hundreds of wax candles, and the subdued sound of the organ and the singing of the choir floated through the church. He sat beside a lovely young Italian woman, who took a rosary of lapis lazuli from a velvet case and prayed fervently. Gradually Francesca began to mutter more and more audibly. She was sitting beside Jenny in front of him.
“Let’s go, Jenny. You don’t think this gives you any sort of real Christmas feeling, do you? It’s like an ordinary concert, and a bad one at that. Listen to that man singing now—absolutely no expression. His voice is absolutely done. Ugh!”
“Hush, Cesca! Remember you are in church.”
“Church! It’s a concert, I tell you—didn’t we have to get tickets and a program? I can’t stand it. I shall lose my temper soon.”
“We’ll go after this if you like, but do keep quiet while we are here.”
“New Year’s night last year was quite different,” said Francesca. “I went to Gesu. They had the Te Deum; it was very beautiful. I knelt beside an old peasant from the Campagna and a young girl; she looked ill—but oh, so pretty! Everybody sang; the old man knew the whole Te Deum by heart. It was very solemn.”
As they made their way slowly down the crowded aisle, the Ave Maria sounded through the church.
“Ave Maria.” Francesca sniffed. “Can’t you hear how indifferent she is to what she sings—exactly like a gramophone? I cannot bear to hear that kind of music ill-treated.”
“Ave Maria,” said a Dane walking beside her—“I remember how beautifully it was sung by a young Norwegian lady—a Miss Eck.”
“Berit Eck. Do you know her, Mr. Hjerrild?”
“She was in Copenhagen two years ago studying under Ellen Beck. I knew her quite well. Do you know her?”
“My sister knew her,” said Francesca. “I think you met my sister Borghild in Berlin. Do you like Miss Eck—or Mrs. Hermann as she is now?”
“She was a very nice girl—and good-looking. Extraordinarily gifted, too, I think.”
Francesca and Hjerrild lagged behind.
Heggen, Ahlin, and Gram were to accompany the ladies home and have supper. Francesca had got a big parcel from home, and the table was laid with Norwegian Christmas fare, decorated with daisies from the Campagna and candles in seven-branched candlesticks.
Francesca came in last and brought the Dane with her.
“Wasn’t it nice, Jenny, of Mr. Hjerrild to come too?”
There were butter and cheese, cold game and brawn and ham on the table, as well as drinks for the men. Francesca sat by Hjerrild, and when the conversation became more animated and general she turned to speak to him.
“Do you know the pianist, Mr. Hermann, who married Miss Eck?”
“Yes; I know him very well. I lived at the same boardinghouse with him in Copenhagen, and I saw him in Berlin on my way here.”
“What do you think of him?”
“He is a handsome fellow, tremendously talented. He gave me some of his latest compositions—very original, I call them. I like him very much.”
“Have you got them here? May I have a look at them? I should like to try them on the piano at the club. I knew him years ago,” said Francesca.
“Oh yes. I remember now, he has a photo of you. He would not say who it was.”
Heggen’s attention was drawn to their conversation.
“Yes,” said Francesca inaudibly; “I think I gave him a photo
