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mother’s breast, which at present he only blindly sought for,
and to discover his own little fingers, which he could not
separate when he had clutched them together. By and by he would
be able to recognize his mother, to look at the lamp and at
mother’s watch when she was dangling it before his eyes.
There were so many things baby-boy would have to learn.
All his things were in a drawer she never opened. She knew
what every little piece looked like; she could feel them in the
palms of her hands, the soft linen and the fluffy woollen things
and the unfinished jacket of green flannel on which she had
embroidered yellow buttercups — the jacket he was to wear
when she took him out.
She had begun a picture of the beach with red and blue
children on the white sands. Some of the compassionate ladies
came to look at it, trying to make acquaintance with her:
“How nice!” But she was not pleased with the sketch, and
cared neither to finish it nor to make a new one.
Then one day the hotel closed up again, the sea was stormy,
and summer had gone.
Gunnar wrote from Italy, advising her to go there. Cesca
wanted her to go to Sweden, and her mother, who knew nothing,
wrote she could not understand why she stayed so long in
Germany. Jenny was thinking of going away, but she could
not make up her mind, although a faint longing began to stir
in her.
She became restless at going about like that without being
able to do anything. She had to take a decision — even if
it came only to throwing herself into the sea one night from
the pier.
One evening she took out Heggen’s books from their case.
Among them was one with poetry — Fiori della Poesia Italiana
— in an edition for tourists, bound in leather. She turned the
leaves to see if she had forgotten all her Italian.
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