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Chapters (29)
  1. Copyright Page
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. ONE
  6. TWO
  7. THREE
  8. FOUR
  9. FIVE
  10. SIX
  11. SEVEN
  12. EIGHT
  13. NINE
  14. TEN
  15. ELEVEN
  16. TWELVE
  17. THIRTEEN
  18. FOURTEEN
  19. FIFTEEN
  20. SIXTEEN
  21. SEVENTEEN
  22. EIGHTEEN
  23. NINETEEN
  24. TWENTY
  25. TWENTY-ONE
  26. TWENTY-TWO
  27. TWENTY-THREE
  28. TWENTY-FOUR
  29. TWENTY-FIVE

Fru Fischer was late. As usual. She apologized profusely. Also as usual. And, yes, she would have some coffee. And some smørre brød. Though she must say that the coffee here at the Vivili was atrocious. Simply atrocious. “I don’t see how you stand it.” And the place was getting so common, always so many Bolsheviks and Japs and things.14 And she didn’t—“begging your pardon, Helga”—like that hideous American music15 they were forever playing, even if it was considered very smart. “Give me,” she said, “the good old-fashioned Danish melodies of Gade and Heise.16 Which reminds me, Herr Olsen says that Nielsen’s “Helios” is being performed with great success just now in England.17 But I suppose you know all about it, Helga. He’s already told you. What?” This last was accompanied with an arch and insinuating smile.

A shrug moved Helga Crane’s shoulders. Strange she’d never before noticed what a positively disagreeable woman Fru Fischer was. Stupid, too.

FIFTEEN

FIFTEEN

WELL INTO HELGA’S SECOND YEAR in Denmark, came an indefinite discontent. Not clear, but vague, like a storm gathering far on the horizon. It was long before she would admit that she was less happy than she had been during her first year in Copenhagen, but she knew that it was so. And this subconscious knowledge added to her growing restlessness and little mental insecurity. She desired ardently to combat this wearing down of her satisfaction with her life, with herself. But she didn’t know how.

Frankly the question came to this: what was the matter with her? Was there, without her knowing it, some peculiar lack in her? Absurd. But she began to have a feeling of discouragement and hopelessness. Why couldn’t she be happy, content, somewhere? Other people managed, somehow, to be. To put it plainly, didn’t she know how? Was she incapable of it?

And then on a warm spring day came Anne’s letter telling of her coming marriage to Anderson, who retained still his shadowy place in Helga Crane’s memory. It added, somehow, to her discontent, and to her growing dissatisfaction with her peacock’s life. This, too, annoyed her.

What, she asked herself, was there about that man which had the power always to upset her? She began to think back to her first encounter with him. Perhaps if she hadn’t come away—She laughed. Derisively. “Yes, if I hadn’t come away, I’d be stuck in Harlem. Working every day of my life. Chattering about the race problem.”

Anne, it seemed, wanted her to come back for the wedding. This, Helga had no intention of doing. True, she had liked and admired Anne better than anyone she had ever known, but even for her she wouldn’t cross the ocean.