There was nothing else to do but to take up painting again, although it would probably not be much good now, lovesick as she was. She laughed. That was just what she was—lovesick. The object did not exist at present, but the love was there.
Jenny went to the window and looked out. In the gathering darkness the sky looked almost violet, and the tiled roofs, the chimney-pots, and the telephone wires all melted together into one grey tint in the twilight. A reddish light rose from the streets, colouring the frosty haze. The rolling of carriages and the screech of a tram on the rails sounded clearly on the frozen ground.
She did not feel inclined to go home to dinner, but, having promised her mother to come, she put the stove out and left.
The cold was raw and damp; the fog smelt of soot and gas and frozen dust. What a dull street it was where her studio lay. It led down from the centrum, with its noise and traffic, its shops with brilliant show windows and people streaming in and out, and its course ended by the lifeless grey walls of the fort. The houses on either side looked grey and deserted: the new buildings of stone and glass, where business fluttered in and out on paper, prepared by busy young people in the strong white light behind big windows, and people talked to each other by telephone—and the old ones remaining from the time the town was small were low and brown, with shiny fronts and linen blinds in the office windows. Here and there behind a small pane with curtains and flowerpots was a humble home—strangely solitary dwellings in this thoroughfare, where the houses mostly were deserted at night. The shops were not of the kind that people rush in and out of. Some of them had wallpaper, plaster ornaments for ceilings, and stoves for sale; others were furniture stores, with the windows full of empty mahogany beds and varnished oak chairs that looked as if nobody would ever sit on them.
In a gateway a child was standing—a little boy, blue in the face from cold with a big basket on his arm. He was looking at two dogs fighting in the centre of the street and making the frozen dust fly about. He started when the dogs came tumbling near the place where he was standing.
“Are you afraid?” asked Jenny. As the boy did not answer, she continued: “Would you like me to see you past them?” He came to her side immediately, but did not speak.
“Which way are you going? Where do you live?”
“In Voldgata.”
“Did you come on an errand all the way here, such a little boy?—it was very brave of you.”
“We deal with Aases in this street because father knows him,” was the boy’s answer. “This basket is so heavy.”
Jenny looked about her; the street was nearly empty:
“Give it to me. I will carry it for you a bit of the way.”
The boy gave her the basket reluctantly.
“Take my hand till we have got past those dogs. How cold your hands are! Have you no gloves?”
The boy shook his head.
“Put your other hand in my muff. You won’t? You think it a silly thing for a boy to carry a muff—is that it?”
She remembered Nils when he was small; she had often longed for him. He was big now and had many friends; he was at an age when it was no fun to walk about with an elder sister. He came seldom to her studio now. The year she had been abroad and the months she had spent with Helge had changed their relations; perhaps when he got older they would be friends again as before. They probably would, for they were fond of each other, but just now he was happy without her. She wished he were a small boy now, so that she could take him on her lap and tell him stories full of adventures while she washed and undressed him and kissed him—or a little bigger, as in the time when they went out together for excursions in Nordmarken, and the road to the butcher’s was long and full of remarkable happenings.
“What is you name, little boy?”
“Ausjen Torstein Mo.”
“How old are you?”
“Six.”
“I suppose you don’t go to school yet?”
“No, but I shall in April.”
“Do you think it will be nice?”
“No—the teacher is so strict. Oscar goes to school, but we shan’t be together, for he is being moved into the second form.”
“Is Oscar your friend?” asked Jenny.
“Yes; we live in the same house.”
After a short pause Jenny spoke again: “Aren’t you sorry there is no snow? You have got the hill by the bay where you can toboggan. Have you got a sled?”
“No, but I have snowshoes and ski.”
They had turned into another street. Jenny let go the boy’s hand and looked at the basket. It was so heavy, and Ausjen was so small—so she kept it, although she did not like to be seen with a poor little urchin in a good street. She would have like to take him to the confectioner’s, but thought it would be rather awkward if she met anyone she knew there.
In the dark Voldgata she took his hand again and carried the basket to the house where he lived, giving him a coin as a parting gift.
On her way through the town she bought chocolates and a pair of red woollen gloves to send to Ausjen. It was nice to be able to give somebody an unexpected pleasure. She might try to get him for a model, but he was very small to sit so long. Poor little hand; it had got warm in hers, and it seemed as if it had been good for her to hold it. Yes, she wanted to try and paint him; he had a queer little face. She would give him milk with a little coffee in it and a nice roll and butter, and
