The first acquaintance Madeleine made in her new home was with the
sewing-maid, for naturally there were a good many repairs of various
kinds to be seen to. She had already made some acquaintance with the
family by previous short visits to Sandsgaard, and the same impression
of coldness which she had hitherto received from her relations still
oppressed her. Not that Madeleine was of a timid nature--far from it;
but the change from a free and open-air life to the regularity of a
well-ordered house was too abrupt. She tried in vain to adapt herself to
her new surroundings, and during the first few weeks she fretted herself
quite out of health. For a reason she could scarcely define, she
concealed this fact from her father when writing to him.
Her cousin Gabriel was the only person who seemed to have a friendly
word for Madeleine; the others were so reserved that she could not help
thinking they were selfish. With Rachel she could never get on friendly
terms, and the two cousins had but little in common. Although Rachel was
only a few years the elder, she was greatly superior to her cousin in
knowledge and experience. Whilst Madeleine was bright and radiant as
sunshine, there was something in Rachel's cold and commanding nature
which betokened an uneasy longing for employment, and a desire to take
an active part in whatever she could find to occupy her.
Not long previously Rachel had had a sharp dispute with her father. She
came one day into the office, and desired him to give her some
employment in the business. Consul Garman never lost his self-command,
but on this occasion he was on the very point of doing so. The dispute
was short, it is true, and soon ended, like every other conflict that
was carried on against the father's principles, in a decided victory for
his side; but from that time the daughter became still more cold and
reserved in her manner.
It was a light task for Rachel to read her little country cousin through
and through, and when she made up her mind that Madeleine had nothing in
her except perhaps some undefined longings, but at the same time no real
desire for work, she let her go her own way, and the relation between
them became almost that of a child to a grown person--friendly, but
without intimacy.
Mrs. Garman was not particularly well disposed towards her new guest,
because she had not been originally consulted as to her visit; and even
the good-natured Miss Cordsen frightened Madeleine at first, with her
tall, spare figure and well-starched cap-strings.
The sewing-maid was a pale, weakly creature, with large wondering eyes
which wore a deprecatory expression. She was still pretty, but the first
look told that her face had once been still prettier, and there was
something stunted and faded about her appearance. Her cheeks were
somewhat sunken, and it could be seen that she had lost some of her
teeth.
During the first few days Madeleine had to spend much of her time with
the sewing-maid, for Mrs. Garman was anxious that her dress should be in
keeping with the rest of the establishment, and the Consul had given
Miss Cordsen strict orders on the subject. It was a great relief to
Madeleine, in her loneliness, to show herself kindly and almost
affectionately disposed towards the timid girl. One evening when she had
gone, Madeleine asked Miss Cordsen who she was, and the old lady, after
scrutinizing her sharply, answered, "that Marianne was a granddaughter
of old Anders Begmand, and that some years before she had had a baby.
Her sweetheart," said Miss Cordsen, fixing her eyes again sharply on
Madeleine, "had gone to America, and the child was dead, and as she had
been in service at Sandsgaard, the Garmans had had her taught
dressmaking, so that now she had constant employment in the house."
This was all Madeleine found out, and she did not ask any more questions
on the subject, which was a relief to Miss Cordsen.
The old lady's story was, however, not Strictly correct in its details;
a secret of the Garman family was hid in the sempstress's history--a
secret which Miss Cordsen concealed with the greatest jealousy.
As Marianne went home that evening this event came into her thoughts; it
was, in fact, never entirely absent from them. The bright and friendly
manner of Madeleine, who was so unlike the rest of her family, had awoke
in her many reminiscences. She felt quite sure that Madeleine did not as
yet know all her history; it was impossible that she could know it, for
she seemed so kindly disposed towards her, and Marianne dreaded that any
one should tell her. There were, indeed, plenty of people who could tell
her story, but none knew what she had suffered. As she went on her way
all the sad events of her life's misfortune seemed to pass in review
before her. Her first thought was, how handsome he looked when he came
home from abroad, before there was any talk about his marriage with the
magistrate's daughter! how long he had prayed and tormented her, and how
long she had striven against him; and then came the dreadful day, when
she had been called into the Consul's private office. She never could
imagine how any one had found it out; the only one who could know
anything was Miss Cordsen: but still less could she now understand how
she had allowed herself to be talked over, and compelled to agree to
what had since been arranged. There must be truth in what people said,
that it was impossible to resist the young Consul, and so she allowed
herself to be betrothed to Christian Kusk, one of the worst men she
knew, who shortly after went to America; then the child was born, and
was christened Christian. Then again she recalled that night when the
child died; but all further impressions became indistinct and hazy as
mist. She had hoped that her shame might kill her, but it had only
tortured her. To Sandsgaard, where she had vowed never again to set her
foot, she now went daily. Whenever she chanced to meet one of the
family, and especially Fanny, her heart seemed to cease beating; but
they passed her with as much unconcern as if they knew nothing, or as if
she had nothing to do with them.
Many a time also she had met him. At first they passed each other
hurriedly, but after a time he also seemed to have forgotten, and now he
greeted her with a friendly nod, and the well-known voice said, "How are
you, Marianne?"
It was as if these people lived surrounded by a thick wall of
indifference, against which her tiny existence was shattered like
fragile glass.
Marianne took a short cut through the ship-yard, where the carpenters
were busy dividing the shavings and putting them into sacks. She found
her grandfather, who had finished his work in the pitch-house, and they
set off homewards together.
Anders Begmand lived in the last of the little red-painted cottages
which lay below the steep slope on the western side of the bay of
Sandsgaard. The road along the shore was only a footpath leading to the
door of each cottage, and then on to the next. Seaweed and half-decayed
fish refuse lay on the shore, while at the back of the houses were heaps
of kitchen refuse, and other abominations. The path itself consisted of
a row of large stones, on which people had to walk if they wished to
keep out of the accumulation of dirt. The houses were mostly crowded,
but especially so in the winter, when the sailors were home from sea.
They were all in the employ of Garman and Worse, and the firm owned
everything they possessed, even to their boats, their houses, and the
very ground under their feet. When the boys grew old enough, they went
to sea in one of the vessels belonging to the firm, and the brightest of
the girls were taken into service, either at the house or at the farm.
Otherwise the cottagers were left pretty much to themselves. They paid
no rent, and there was no interference on the part of the firm with the
"West End," which was the name by which the little row of cottages was
generally known amongst the workpeople.
Anders Begmand's house was both the last and the smallest, but now that
he was alone with his two grandchildren, Marianne and Martin, he did not
require much room. Before, when his wife was alive, and they had three
grown-up sons at home, one of whom was married, it was often close work
enough; but now all were dead and gone. The wife lay in the churchyard,
and the sons in the deep sea.
Anders was an old man, bent by age. His curly white hair covered his
head like a mop, and stood out under his flat cap, which looked more
like the clot of pitch it really almost was, than anything else. In his
youth Anders had made one voyage to the Mediterranean, in the _Family
Hope_, but he had then been discharged; for he had a failing, and that
was--he stammered. Sometimes he could talk away without any hesitation,
but if the stammering once began, there was nothing for it but to give
up the attempt for that time. There he would stand, gasping and gasping,
till he got so enraged that he nearly had a fit. When he was young it
was dangerous to go near him at such times, for the angrier he got the
more he stammered, and the more he stammered the more his anger
increased. There was only one way out of it, and that was by singing;
and so whenever anything of more than usual importance refused to come
out, he was obliged to sing his intelligence, which he did to a merry
little air he always used on these occasions. It was said that he had to
sing when he proposed to his wife, but whether there was any truth in
the statement is not quite clear. It was certain, however, that he did
not often have to sing, and woe to any one who dared to say, "Sing,
Anders." This was, of course, when he was young; he was now so broken
down that any one could say what they liked to him. There was,
therefore, no longer any pleasure in teasing him, and he was allowed to
go in peace. Among the workmen he was held in the greatest respect, not
only because he had been in the shop for more than fifty years, but
because he had had so much sorrow in his old age, and especially because
of the misfortune of Marianne, who was the apple of his eye and the
light of his life. Martin, too, had brought him nothing but trouble: he
was quite hopeless, and the captain with whom he had returned on his
last voyage had complained of him, and refused to take him out again; so
now he stayed at home, drinking and getting into mischief.
The evening was dull and rainy, and a light already shone in the cottage
as Begmand and Marianne approached.
"There they are, drinking again," said she.
"I believe they are," answered Begmand.
She went to the window, the small panes of which were covered with dew,
but she knew one which had a crack in it, through which she could look.
"There they are, all four of them," whispered Marianne. "You'll have to
sit there, in front of the kitchen door, grandfather."
"Yes, child; yes!" answered the old man.
When they entered the room, there was a pause in the conversation, which
was carried on by four men who sat drinking round the table. They had
not long begun, and were only in the first stage of harmless elevation.
Martin greeted them in a cheerful tone, which he thought would hide his
guilty conscience. "Good evening, grandfather. Good evening, Marianne.
Come, let me offer you a drop of beer."
The thick smoke from the freshly lighted pipes still lay curling over
the table, and round the little paraffin lamp without a globe. On the
table were tobacco, glasses, matches, and half-empty bottles, while on
the bench stood several full ones awaiting their fate.
Tom Robson, who sat opposite the door, lifted the large mug which had
been standing between him and his friend Martin, and, with his hand on
his heart, began to sing--
"Oh, my darling! are you here,
Marianne I love so dear?"
He had composed this couplet himself, in honour of Marianne, to the
great annoyance of the hungry-looking journeyman printer who sat in the
corner close by him.
Gustaf Oscar Carl Johan Torpander was a most remarkable Swede, inasmuch
as he did not drink; but otherwise there was about him that exaggerated
air of politeness, and that imitation of French manners, which seems
generally to attach to the shady individuals of that nation. He had
risen when Marianne came into the room, and was now making a low bow,
with his shoulders, and especially the left one, well over his ears. His
head was on one side, and he kept his eyes the whole time fixed on the
young girl. While Tom Robson was singing his poetry, the Swede shook his
head with a sympathetic smile to Marianne, by which he meant to express
his regret that they met in such bad company.
The fourth person of the group was sitting with his back to the door,
and did not move, for he was deaf; but when at length the Swede, who was
still bowing, attracted his attention, he turned round heavily on his
chair and nodded deafly to the new-comers. This person's real name had
almost disappeared from the memory of man, for he had been nicknamed
"Woodlouse" among his acquaintance. Mr. Woodlouse passed his time in a
dingy den in the magistrate's office, where he either slept or occupied
himself in sorting documents and papers. But there he had grown to be
almost a necessity, for he had the special gift of knowing the contents
of every paper, and the name of every single person who for years had
sought information at the office. He could stand in the middle of the
room and point to the different shelves, and say, apparently without
effort, what each contained, and what was missing. He had thus gone down
as a kind of living inventory from magistrate to magistrate, and as his
special knowledge increased he endeavoured to get his salary raised, so
that he might give himself up recklessly to his two ruling passions,
which were drinking beer and reading novels at night.
As Marianne went through the room she moved her grandfather's chair
close to the kitchen door, and gave him a meaning look. He nodded to
show that he understood her wishes. She then said good night to the old
man, and went into the kitchen, from whence a little dark staircase led
upstairs to her room.
Marianne locked her door and went to bed. She was so tired every night
that she could scarcely keep her eyes open while she undressed, and she
fell asleep the moment she got into bed. Under her the noise of voices
continued, varied by quarrelling and cursing, which mingled with the
dreams of her heavy and broken slumber. In the morning her hair and
pillow were damp with perspiration; she was chilled with cold, and was
even more tired than when she went to rest.
The talking soon went on again as briskly as ever. Martin related how he
had been up to the office that morning, intending to speak to the young
Consul personally. He wished to complain of the captain who had told
tales about him.
He did not, however, get so far as the Consul, but one of the clerks, a
stupid lout with an eyeglass, had come out and told him that he would
get no employment on a ship belonging to the firm, until he had been to
the Seamen's school, and gave up drinking. As he told his story there
was an evil glare in his eyes, which were large and bright like
Marianne's, but piercing and cruel. In the pale face there was also the
same trace of weakness as in his sister's; but Martin was tall and bony,
and his arms were strong and powerful, and he gesticulated with them as
he talked, and gave force to his words by striking the table with his
fist. He became every moment more violent, as he got heated by drink and
argument.
He was not going to the school to please Garman and Worse; and as to his
drinking, what had the young Consul got to do with that? But they should
see what he would do. And with a mighty oath, he shook his clenched fist
in the direction of Sandsgaard.
"Right you are, my boy!" cried Tom Robson, laughing; "good again. Let us
see what you are made of."
Robson was never so happy as when he could get Martin to talk himself
into a fury, which was not a very difficult task.
Ever since his childhood Martin had shown himself of a worthless and
cross-grained nature. His character at school was, that he was one of
the cleverest and at the same time the most quarrelsome among the boys,
and since then he had done nothing but fall foul of everything and
everybody he came in contact with. Martin did most of the talking of the
four, who already began to be excited by drink. It would perhaps be more
correct to say, of the three, for Torpander was not there to drink, but
only to be near Marianne. Woodlouse did not say much, for he heard but
little; and when Mr. Robson, who had taken on himself the duty of
chairman, gave him an opportunity of speaking, Woodlouse used so many
strange expressions that the others did not understand him.
Neither did Torpander do much of the talking: for him the event of the
evening was Marianne's return, after which he preferred to sit in silent
rapture. This afternoon, however, Torpander joined Martin in his attack
on the Garmans, whom he also hated, and poured forth a lot of newspaper
tirade about the tyranny of capital, and such like.
"Oh, stop that infernal Swedish jargon!" cried the chairman, "and let us
hear what Woodlouse is mumbling about."
"You see, gentlemen," began Woodlouse, eagerly, "the right of the
proletariat--"
"What does he mean?" shouted Martin.
Woodlouse did not hear the remark, and paused in his speech, as his eyes
wandered inquiringly from one to another to see if they were listening.
But Martin could not keep silent any longer, and broke out into a volley
of oaths and curses against Garman and Worse, capital, captain, and the
whole world, only interrupting himself occasionally to take a drink or
light his pipe over the lamp.
Old Anders had at first taken his place by the kitchen door, but that
evening they seemed to be pretty quiet, and he was always anxious to
hear what they said when the conversation turned upon the firm. He
therefore left the door and came up to the table, where Tom Robson made
room for him, and at the same time offered him a drink from his mug.
"Thanks, Mr. Robson," said Begmand, as he put the mug to his lips.
Tom Robson was not only the chairman, but at the same time the host of
the company, for it was he who paid for the liquor. By his side on the
bench he kept a bottle of rum, from which he every now and then poured
out a glass for each. He generally put a good drop of rum into his own
beer, "to kill the insects," he said. He was now occupied in cutting up
some cake tobacco to fill his pipe.
"Beautiful tobacco that, Mr. Robson," said Begmand.
"Take a bit," answered Tom, good naturedly.
"Thanks, Mr. Robson," said the old man, overjoyed, as he took out his
pipe, the stem of which was not more than half an inch long, while the
whole was as black as everything else which belonged to Anders.
He pressed down the moist tobacco as hard as he could, in the hope of
getting as much as would last for a day or two; he then picked up a
burning ember from the turf fire, which he applied to the bowl.
It was no easy matter to get the tobacco to light, but the smoke, when
it began to draw, seemed warm and comforting to the old man. He sat
there, crouching on the edge of the bench, eagerly watching Tom each
time he passed him the mug, and not forgetting to say "Thank you, Mr.
Robson," before he took his drink.
Martin grew more and more violent. "Isn't it enough," he yelled, "for us
to work ourselves to death for these creatures? Are they going to watch
every bit we eat, and every drop we drink? Just look at their houses!
look how they live up there! Who has got all that for them? We, I tell
you, grandfather; we who have been toiling here fishing, and going to
sea year after year, son after father, in storm and tempest, watching
night after night in wind and snow, so as to bring back wealth for these
wretches! Just look what we get for it all! What a pig-stye we live in!
And even that does not belong to us. Nothing does! It all belongs to
them--clothes, food, and drink, body and soul, house and home, every
bit!"
Begmand sat rocking himself to and fro, and drawing hard at his pipe.
Woodlouse saw that there was a pause, and so began again.
"Property is robbery--"
But Martin would not let him continue. "There is no one in the whole
world," he shouted, "who puts up with what we do! Why don't we go up and
say, 'Share with us, we who have done all the work'? There has been
enough of this blood-sucking! But no; we are not a bit better than a lot
of old women; not one of us! They would never put up with that sort of
thing in America."
"Ha! ha! good again!" laughed Tom Robson. "I dare say you think people
are willing to share like brothers in America? No, my boy; you would
soon find out you were wrong."
"Do you mean to tell me that workmen in America live like we do?" asked
Martin, somewhat abashed.
"No; but they do what you can't do," answered Tom.
"What do they do?" asked Martin.
"They work; and that is what you and no one else does here!" shouted
Tom, bringing his fist down heavily on the table. He was beginning to
feel the effects of the rum.
"What's that about work? Do you mean to say--?" began the Swede.
"Hold your jaw!" cried Tom. "Let the old un have his say!"
"You are quite wrong, Martin," said Begmand, and this time without
stammering. The watery look of his old eyes told that the beer was
beginning to work. "It's shameful of you to talk like that about the
firm. They have given both your father and your grandfather certain
employment; and you might have had the same if you had behaved yourself.
The old Consul was the first man in the whole world, and the young
Consul is a glorious fellow too. Here's his health!"
"Oh!" broke in Martin, "I don't know what you are talking about,
grandfather. I don't see that you have got much to boast of. What about
my father, and Uncle Svend, and Uncle Reinert,--every one lost in the
Consul's ships; and what have you got by it all? Two empty hands, and
just as much food as will keep body and soul together. Or perhaps you
think," continued he, with a fiendish laugh, "that we have some
connection with the family because of Marianne!"
"Martin, it's--it's--" began the old man, his face crimsoning up to the
very roots of his hair, and struggling vainly with his infirmity.
"Have a drink, old un," said Tom, good naturedly, handing Begmand the
mug.
The old man paused for breath. "Thanks, Mr. Robson," said he, taking a
long breath.
Tom Robson made signs to the others to leave him alone. Begmand put his
pipe into his waistcoat pocket, got up, and went into the little room by
the kitchen, where he slept. The unwonted drink had roused again the
fire of his youth, and never had he felt his helplessness so keenly as
he did that evening.
The others still sat drinking till there was no more, and the lamp began
to grow dim as the oil gave out. Then they staggered off; Woodlouse away
through West End, while Tom clambered up a steep path that led over the
hill at the back of Begmand's cottage. He lived with a widow in a small
house near the farm buildings of Sandsgaard.
Torpander went with Robson, because he was afraid to go through West End
alone, and because he wanted to have a last glance at Marianne's window,
which looked on to the hillside.
Martin shut the door after them, and managed to lift up the lid of a
sort of locker in which he was going to sleep. He did not see that there
were some empty bottles on the locker, and they rolled down on the
floor, and one of them was broken against the spittoon. The lid slipped
out of his hand, and, without trying to undress, he let himself fall
just as he was into the bedclothes.
The last remaining drop of oil in the lamp was now gone, and the last
blue flame flickered up through the chimney and was quenched. Then
followed a thick grey smoke, which came curling up from the still
glowing wick, and wreathed itself in graceful spirals through the glass
and glided out into the room, until it looked like a maze of fairy
threads in the faint light from the window.
Nothing was heard but the sound of heavy breathing. The old man's
respiration was short and broken, while Martin, after turning over a few
times, lay quiet, and at length began to snore. Before long he started
up again uneasily, heated as he was by drink and passion.
Still a little longer smouldered the red glow of the wick, while the
smoke wreathed up thinner and thinner through the glass and spread
itself in the darkness.