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
