There was also a large light green summer landscape—an experiment in impressionism—but thin and plain as far as colouring went. The one over the piano was better, the sun above the ridge and the air quite good. A portrait of Mrs. Gram hung beside it—very good indeed—better than any of the other things. The figure and the hands were perfectly drawn, the bright red dress, draped at the sides, the openwork black mittens, and the high black hat with a red wing were very effective; the pale face with the dark eyes below the curls on her forehead was good, but unfortunately she stood as glued on to the grey-blue background. The portrait of a child drew her attention—near the frame was written “Bamsey, four years old.” Was that pretty little frowning child in a white shirt Helge? How good he was!
Mrs. Gram returned with some cake and wine on a tray. Jenny muttered something about giving trouble:
“I have been looking at your husband’s paintings.”
“I don’t understand much about it, but I think they are beautiful. He says himself that they are no good, but it is only a way of talking, I think,” she said, with a short, harsh laugh. “My husband is pretty easy-going, you see, and painting pictures could not pay our way when we had married and had children, so he had to do something useful besides. But he was too lazy to paint as well, and that is why he pretended that he had no talent. To me his pictures are much prettier than all the modern paintings, but I suppose you think differently?”
“Your husband’s pictures are very pretty, especially your portrait, which I think beautiful.”
“Do you?—but it is not very like me, and certainly not flattering.” She laughed again, the same slightly bitter laugh. “I think he painted much better before he began to imitate those who were modern then—Thaulow and Krogh and others.”
Jenny sipped her wine in silence while Mrs. Gram went on talking.
“I should like to ask you to stay to lunch, Miss Winge, but I have to do everything myself, you see, and we were not prepared for your coming. I am sorry, but I hope you will come another time.”
Jenny understood that Mrs. Gram wished to get rid of her—it was quite natural, as she was without a servant and had to get the lunch—so she took her leave. On the stairs she met Mr. Gram—she thought so at least. As she passed him she had the impression that he looked very young and that his eyes were very blue.