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secure position, who could take them away from the monotonous
work in office or shop and settle them in a little home, where
the three rooms would hold all their belongings, and they could
spread out all the pieces of needlework with embroidered roses
and bluebells which they had made while dreaming their girlish
day-dreams about love. They smiled at those dreams now
with a superior air, and to those who still dreamed they had the
satisfaction of stating that the reality was quite different. They
were pleased to be among the initiated who knew what it really
meant — and they were perhaps content.
But there was happiness all the same in not being content,
in refusing to put up with things and be thankful when life
offered things of little worth; far better to say: I believe in
my dreams; I will call nothing happiness but that which I
claim, and I believe it exists. If it is not to be mine, it is
my own fault; it is because I have been one of the foolish
virgins who did not watch and wait for the bridegroom, but
the wise will see him and will enter in with rejoicing.
When Jenny came home she saw there was a light in her
mother’s room, so she went in to tell her about the party at
Ahlström’s studio, and how Heggen was. Ingeborg and Bodil
slept farther down in the room, with their black plaits across
the pillows. Jenny felt no compunction at standing there
telling falsehoods to her mother. She had always done it from
the time she was a schoolgirl and used to tell merry tales about
the children’s parties, where she had in reality been sitting
alone, watching the others dance — an unhappy and lonely
little girl who could not dance or talk of anything that the boys
cared for.
When Ingeborg and Bodil came home from a dance their
mother sat up in bed listening and smiling and asking
questions, young and rosy in the lamplight, and they could always
tell the truth, because it was full of merriment and laughter.
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