# Quicksand (Larsen)/Part 13

Thirteen
She liked it, this new life. For a time it blotted from her mind all else. She took to luxury as the proverbial duck to water. And she took to admiration and attention even more eagerly.
It was pleasant to wake on that first. afternoon, after the insisted-upon nap, with that sensation of lavish contentment and well-being enjoyed only by impecunious sybarites waking in the houses of the rich. But there was something more than mere contentment and well-being. To Helga Crane it was the realization of a dream that she had dreamed persistently ever since she was old enough to remember such vague things as day-dreams and longings. Always she had wanted, not money, but the things which money could give, leisure, attention, beautiful surroundings. Things. Things. Things.
​So it was more than pleasant, it was important, this awakening in the great high room which held the great high bed on which she lay, small but exalted. It was important because to Helga Crane it was the day, so she decided, to which all the sad forlorn past had led, and from which the whole future was to depend. This, then, was where she belonged. This was her proper setting. She felt consoled at last for the spiritual wounds of the past.
A discreet knocking on the tall paneled door sounded. In response to Helga‘s “Come in” a respectful rosy-faced maid entered and Helga lay for a long minute watching her adjust the shutters. She was conscious, too, of the girl‘s sly curious glances at her, although her general attitude was quite correct, willing and disinterested. In New York, America, Helga would have resented this sly watching. Now, here, she was only amused. Marie, she reflected, had probably never seen a Negro outside the pictured pages of her geography book.
​Another knocking. Aunt Katrina entered, smiling at Helga‘s quick, lithe spring from the bed. They were going out to tea, she informed Helga. What, the girl inquired, did one wear to tea in Copenhagen, meanwhile glancing at her aunt‘s dark purple dress and bringing forth a severely plain blue crêpe frock. But no It seemed that that wouldn‘t at all do.
“Too sober,” pronounced Fru Dahl. “Haven‘t you something lively, something bright?” And, noting Helga‘s puzzled glance at her own subdued costume, she explained laughingly: “Oh, I‘m an old married lady, and a Dane. But you, you‘re young. And you‘re a foreigner, and different. You must have bright. things to set off the color of your lovely brown skin. Striking things, exotic things. You must make an impression.”
“I‘ve only these,” said Helga Crane, timidly displaying her wardrobe on couch and chairs. “Of course I intend to buy here. I didn‘t want to bring over too much that might be useless.”
​“And you were quite right too . Umm. Let‘s see. That black there, the one with the cerise and purple trimmings. Wear that.”
Helga was shocked. “But for tea, Aunt! Isn‘t it too gay? Too—too—outré‽”
“Oh dear, no . Not at all, not for you. Just right.” Then after a little pause she added: “And we‘re having people in to dinner tonight, quite a lot. Perhaps we‘d better decide on our frocks now.” For she was, in spite of all her gentle kindness , a woman who left nothing to chance. In her own mind she had determined the role that Helga was to play in advancing the social fortunes of the Dahls of Copenhagen, and she meant to begin at once.
At last, after much trying on and scrutinizing, it was decided that Marie should cut a favorite emerald-green velvet dress a little lower in the back and add some gold and mauve flowers, “to liven it up a bit,” as Fru Dahl put it.
“Now that,” she said, pointing to the ​Chinese red dressing-gown in which Helga had wrapped herself when at last the fitting was over, “suits you. Tomorrow we‘ll shop. Maybe we can get something that color. That black and orange thing there is good too, but too high. What a prim American maiden you are, Helga, to hide such a fine back and shoulders. Your feet are nice too, but you ought to have higher heels and buckles.”
Left alone, Helga began to wonder. She was dubious, too, and not a little resentful. Certainly she loved color with a passion that perhaps only Negroes and Gypsies know. But she had a deep faith in the perfection of her own taste, and no mind to be bedecked in flaunting flashy things. Still-she had to admit that Fru Dahl was right about the dressing-gown. It did suit her. Perhaps an evening dress. And she knew that she had lovely shoulders, and her feet were nice.
When she was dressed in the shining black taffeta with its bizarre trimmings of ​purple and cerise, Fru Dahl approved her and so did Herr Dahl. Everything in her responded to his “She‘s beautiful; beautiful!” Helga Crane knew she wasn‘t that, but it pleased her that he could think so, and say so. Aunt Katrina smiled in her quiet, assured way, taking to herself her husband‘s compliment to her niece. But a little frown appeared over the fierce mustache, as he said, in his precise, faintly feminine voice: “She ought to have ear-rings, long ones. Is it too late for Garborg‘s? We could call up.”
And call up they did. And Garborg, the jeweler, in Fredericksgaarde waited for them. Not only were ear-rings bought, long ones brightly enameled, but glittering shoe-buckles and two great bracelets. Helga‘s sleeves being long, she escaped the bracelets for the moment. They were wrapped to be worn that night. The ear-rings, however, and the buckles came into immediate use and Helga felt like a veritable savage as they made their leisurely way ​across the pavement from the shop to the waiting motor. This feeling was intensified by the many pedestrians who stopped to stare at the queer dark creature, strange to their city. Her cheeks reddened, but both Herr and Fru Dahl seemed oblivious of the stares or the audible whispers in which Helga made out the one frequently recurring word "sorte," which she recognized as the Danish word for "black."
Her Aunt Katrina merely remarked: “A high color becomes you, Helga. Perhaps tonight a little rouge—” To which her husband nodded in agreement and stroked his mustache meditatively. Helga Crane said nothing.
They were pleased with the success she was at the tea, or rather the coffee—for no tea was served—and later at dinner. Helga herself felt like nothing so much as some new and strange species of pet dog being proudly exhibited. Everyone was very polite and very ​friendly, but she felt the massed curiosity and interest, so discreetly hidden under the polite greetings. The very atmosphere was tense with it. “As if I had horns, or three legs,” she thought. She was really nervous and a little terrified, but managed to present an outward smiling composure. This was assisted by the fact that it was taken for granted that she knew nothing or very little of the language. So she had only to bow and look pleasant. Herr and Fru Dahl did the talking, answered the questions. She came away from the coffee feeling that she had acquitted herself well in the first skirmish. And, in spite of the mental strain, she had enjoyed her prominence.
If the afternoon had been a strain, the evening was something more. It was more exciting too. Marie had indeed “cut down” the prized green velvet, until, as Helga put it, it was “practically nothing but a skirt.” She was thankful for the barbaric bracelets, for the dangling ear-rings, for the beads about her ​neck. She was even thankful for the rouge on her burning cheeks and for the very powder on her back. No other woman in the stately pale-blue room was so greatly exposed. But she liked the small murmur of wonder and admiration which rose when Uncle Poul brought her in. She liked the compliments in the men‘s eyes as they bent over her hand. She liked the subtle half-understood flattery of her dinner partners. The women too were kind, feeling no need for jealousy. To them this girl, this Helga Crane, this mysterious niece of the Dahls, was not to be reckoned seriously in their scheme of things. True, she was attractive, unusual, in an exotic, almost savage way, but she wasn‘t one. of them. She didn‘t at all count.
Near the end of the evening, as Helga sat effectively posed on a red satin sofa, the center of an admiring group, replying to questions about America and her trip over, in halting, inadequate Danish, there came a shifting of the curious interest away from herself. ​lowing the others‘ eyes, she saw that there had entered the room a tallish man with a flying mane of reddish blond hair. He was wearing a great black cape, which swung gracefully from his huge shoulders, and in his long, nervous hand he held a wide soft hat. An artist, Helga decided at once, taking in the broad streaming tie. But how affected! How theatrical!
With Fru Dahl he came forward and was presented. “Herr Olsen, Herr Axel Olsen.” To Helga Crane that meant nothing. The man, however, interested her. For an imperceptible second he bent over her hand. After that he looked intently at her for what seemed to her an incredibly rude length of time from under his heavy drooping lids. At last, removing his stare of startled satisfaction, he wagged his leonine head approvingly.
“Yes, you‘re right. She‘s amazing. Marvelous,” he muttered.
Everyone else in the room was deliberately not staring. About Helga there sputtered ​a little staccato murmur of manufactured conversation. Meanwhile she could think of no proper word of greeting to the outrageous man before her. She wanted, very badly, to laugh. But the man was as unaware of her omission as of her desire. His words flowed on and on, rising and rising. She tried to follow, but his rapid Danish eluded her. She caught only words, phrases, here and there. “Superb eyes . . . color . . . neck column . . . yellow . . . hair . . . alive . . . wonderful. . . .” His speech was for Fru Dahl. For a bit longer he lingered before the silent girl, whose smile had become a fixed aching mask, still gazing appraisingly, but saying no word to her, and then moved away with Fru Dahl, talking rapidly and excitedly to her and her husband, who joined them for a moment at the far side of the room. Then he was gone as suddenly as he had come.
“Who is he?” Helga put the question timidly to a hovering young army officer, a very ​smart captain just back from Sweden. Plainly he was surprised.
“Herr Olsen, Herr Axel Olsen, the painter. Portraits, you know.“
”Oh,” said Helga, still mystified.
“I guess he‘s going to paint you. You‘re lucky. He‘s queer. Won‘t do everybody.“
”Oh, no. I mean, I‘m sure you‘re mistaken. He didn‘t ask, didn‘t say anything about it.”
The young man laughed. “Ha ha! That‘s good! He‘ll arrange that with Herr Dahl. He evidently came just to see you, and it was plain that he was pleased.” He smiled, approvingly.
“Oh,” said Helga again. Then at last she laughed. It was too funny. The great man hadn‘t addressed a word to her. Here she was, a curiosity, a stunt, at which people came and gazed. And was she to be treated like a secluded young miss, a Danish ‘‘frøkken‘‘, not to be consulted personally even on matters affecting ​her personally? She, Helga Crane, who almost all her life had looked after herself, was she now to be looked after by Aunt Katrina and her husband? It didn‘t seem real.
It was late, very late, when finally she climbed into the great bed after having received an auntly kiss. She lay long awake reviewing the events of the crowded day. She was happy again. Happiness covered her like the lovely quilts under which she rested. She was mystified too. Her aunt‘s words came back to her. “You‘re young and a foreigner and-and different.” Just what did that mean, she wondered. Did it mean that the difference was to be stressed, accented? Helga wasn‘t so sure that she liked that. Hitherto all her efforts had been toward similarity to those about her.
“How odd,” she thought sleepily, “and how different from America!”