On the outer edge of the fishing-village stood a little cottage on a
low mound of white sea sand. It was not built in line with the even,
neat, conventional houses that enclosed the wide green place where the
brown fish-nets were dried, but seemed as if forced out of the row and
pushed on one side to the sand-hills. The poor widow who had erected it
had been her own builder, and she had made the walls of her cottage
lower than those of all the other cottages and its steep thatched roof
higher than any other roof in the fishing-village. The floor lay deep
down in the ground. The window was neither high nor wide, but
nevertheless it reached from the cornice to the level of the earth.
There had been no space for a chimney-breast in the one narrow room and
she had been obliged to add a small, square projection. The cottage had
not, like the other cottages, its fenced-in garden with gooseberry
bushes and twining morning-glories and elder-bushes half suffocated by
burdocks. Of all the vegetation of the fishing-village, only the
burdocks had followed the cottage to the sand-hill. They were fine
enough in summer with their fresh, dark-green leaves and prickly
baskets filled with bright, red flowers. But towards the autumn, when
the prickles had hardened and the seeds had ripened, they grew careless
about their looks, and stood hideously ugly and dry with their torn
leaves wrapped in a melancholy shroud of dusty cobwebs.
The cottage never had more than two owners, for it could not hold up
that heavy roof on its walls of reeds and clay for more than two
generations. But as long as it stood, it was owned by poor widows. The
second widow who lived there delighted in watching the burdocks,
especially in the autumn, when they were dried and broken. They
recalled her who had built the cottage. She too had been shrivelled and
dry and had had the power to cling fast and adhere, and all her
strength had been used for her child, whom she had needed to help on in
the world. She, who now sat there alone, wished both to weep and to
laugh at the thought of it. If the old woman had not had a burr-like
nature, how different everything would have been! But who knows if it
would have been better?
The lonely woman often sat musing on the fate which had brought her to
this spot on the coast of Skone, to the narrow inlet and among these
quiet people. For she was born in a Norwegian seaport which lay on a
narrow strip of land between rushing falls and the open sea, and
although her means were small after the death of her father, a
merchant, who left his family in poverty, still she was used to life
and progress. She used to tell her story to herself over and over
again, just as one often reads through an obscure book in order to try
to discover its meaning.
The first thing of note which had happened to her was when, one evening
on the way home from the dressmaker with whom she worked, she had been
attacked by two sailors and rescued by a third. The latter fought for
her at peril of his life and afterwards went home with her. She took
him in to her mother and sisters, and told them excitedly what he had
done. It was as if life had acquired a new value for her, because
another had dared so much to defend it. He had been immediately well
received by her family and asked to come again as soon and as often as
he could.
His name was Börje Nilsson, and he was a sailor on the Swedish lugger
“Albertina.” As long as the boat lay in the harbor, he came almost
every day to her home, and they could soon no longer believe that he
was only a common sailor. He shone always in a clean, turned-down
collar and wore a sailor suit of fine cloth. Natural and frank, he
showed himself among them, as if he had been used to move in the same
class as they. Without his ever having said it in so many words, they
got the impression that he was from a respectable home, the only son of
a rich widow, but that his unconquerable love for a sailor’s profession
had made him take a place before the mast, so that his mother should
see that he was in earnest. When he had passed his examination, she
would certainly get him his own ship.
The lonely family who had drawn away from all their former friends,
received him without the slightest suspicion. And he described with a
light heart and fluent tongue his home with its high, pointed roof, the
great open fireplace in the dining-room and the little leaded glass
panes. He also painted the silent streets of his native town and the
long rows of even houses, built in the same style, against which his
home, with its irregular buttresses and terraces, made a pleasant
contrast. And his listeners believed that he had come from one of those
old burgher houses with carved gables and with overhanging second
stories, which give such a strong impression of wealth and venerable
age.
Soon enough she saw that he cared for her. And that gave her mother and
sisters great joy. The young, rich Swede came as if to raise them all
up from their poverty. Even if she had not loved him, which she did,
she would never have had a thought of saying no to his proposal. If she
had had a father or a grown-up brother, he could have found out about
the stranger’s extraction and position, but neither she nor her mother
thought of making any inquiries. Afterwards she saw how they had
actually forced him to lie. In the beginning, he had let them imagine
great ideas about his wealth without any evil intention, but when he
understood how glad they were over it, he had not dared to speak the
truth for fear of losing her.
Before he left they were betrothed, and when the lugger came again,
they were married. It was a disappointment for her that he also on his
return appeared as a sailor, but he had been bound by his contract. He
had no greetings either from his mother. She had expected him to make
another choice, but she would be so glad, he said, if she would once
see Astrid.—In spite of all his lies, it would have been an easy matter
to see that he was a poor man, if they had only chosen to use their
eyes.
The captain offered her his cabin if she would like to make the journey
in his vessel, and the offer was accepted with delight. Börje was
almost exempt from all work, and sat most of the time on the deck,
talking to his wife. And now he gave her the happiness of fancy, such
as he himself had lived on all his life. The more he thought of that
little house which lay half buried in the sand, so much the higher he
raised that palace which he would have liked to offer her. He let her
in thought glide into a harbor which was adorned with flags and flowers
in honor of Börje Nilsson’s bride. He let her hear the mayor’s speech
of greeting. He let her drive under a triumphal arch, while the eyes of
men followed her and the women grew pale with envy. And he led her into
the stately home, where bowing, silvery-haired servants stood drawn up
along the side of the broad stairway and where the table laden for the
feast groaned under the old family silver.
When she discovered the truth, she supposed at first that the captain
had been in league with Börje to deceive her, but afterwards she found
that it was not so. They were accustomed on board the boat to speak of
Börje as of a great man. It was their greatest joke to talk quite
seriously of his riches and his fine family. They thought that Börje
had told her the truth, but that she joked with him, as they all did,
when she talked about his big house. So it happened that when the
lugger cast anchor in the harbor which lay nearest to Börje’s home, she
still did not know but that she was the wife of a rich man.
Börje got a day’s leave to conduct his wife to her future home and to
start her in her new life. When they were landed on the quay, where the
flags were to have fluttered and the crowds to have rejoiced in honor
of the newly-married couple, only emptiness and calm reigned there, and
Börje noticed that his wife looked about her with a certain
disappointment.
“We have come too soon,” he had said. “The journey was such an
unusually quick one in this fine weather. So we have no carriage here
either, and we have far to go, for the house lies outside the town.”
“That makes no difference, Börje,” she had answered. “It will do us
good to walk, after having been quiet so long on board.”
And so they began their walk, that walk of horror, of which she could
not think even in her old age without moaning in agony and wringing her
hands in pain. They went along the broad, empty streets, which she
instantly recognized from his description. She felt as if she met with
old friends both in the dark church and in the even houses of timber
and brick; but where were the carved gables and marble steps with the
high railing?
Börje had nodded to her as if he had guessed her thoughts. “It is a
long way still,” he had said.
If he had only been merciful and at once killed her hope. She loved him
so then. If he of his own accord had told her everything, there would
never have been any sting in her soul against him. But when he saw her
pain at being deceived, and yet went on misleading her, that had hurt
her too bitterly. She had never really forgiven him that. She could of
course say to herself that he had wanted to take her with him as far as
possible so that she would not be able to run away from him, but his
deceit created such a deadly coldness in her that no love could
entirely thaw it.
They went through the town and came out on the adjoining plain. There
stretched several rows of dark moats and high, green ramparts, remains
from the time when the town had been fortified, and at the point where
they all gathered around a fort, she saw some ancient buildings and
big, round towers. She cast a shy look towards them, but Börje turned
off to the mounds which followed the shore.
“This is a shorter way,” he said, for she seemed to be surprised that
there was only a narrow path to follow.
He had become very taciturn. She understood afterwards that he had not
found it so merry as he had fancied, to come with a wife to the
miserable little house in the fishing village. It did not seem so fine
now to bring home a better man’s child. He was anxious about what she
would do when she should know the truth.
“Börje,” she said at last, when they had followed the shelving, sandy
hillocks for a long while, “where are we going?”
He lifted his band and pointed towards the fishing-village, where his
mother lived in the house on the sand-hill. But she believed that he
meant one of the beautiful country-seats which lay on the edge of the
plain, and was again glad.
They climbed down into the empty cow-pastures, and there all her
uneasiness returned. There, where every tuft, if one can only see it,
is clothed with beauty and variety, she saw merely an ugly field. And
the wind, which is ever shifting there, swept whistling by them and
whispered of misfortune and treachery.
Börje walked faster and faster, and at last they reached the end of the
pasture and entered the fishing village. She, who at the last had not
dared to ask herself any questions, took courage again. Here again was
a uniform row of houses, and this one she recognized even better than
that in the town. Perhaps, perhaps he had not lied.
Her expectations were so reduced that she would have been glad from the
heart if she could have stopped at any of the neat little houses, where
flowers and white curtains showed behind shining window-panes. She
grieved that she had to go by them.
Then she saw suddenly, just at the outer edge of the fishing-village,
one of the most wretched of hovels, and it seemed to her as if she had
already seen it with her mind’s eye before she actually had a glimpse
of it.
“Is it here?” he said, and stopped just at the foot of the little
sand-hill.
He bent his head imperceptibly and went on towards the little cottage.
“Wait,” she called after him, “we must talk this over before I go into
your home. You have lied,” she went on, threateningly, when he turned
to her. “You have deceived me worse than if you were my worst enemy.
Why have you done it?”
“I wanted you for my wife,” he answered, with a low, trembling voice.
“If you had only deceived me within bounds! Why did you make everything
so fine and rich? What did you have to do with man-servants and
triumphal arches and all the other magnificence? Did you think that I
was so devoted to money? Did you not see that I cared enough for you to
go anywhere with you? That you could believe you needed to deceive me!
That you could have the heart to keep up your lies to the very last!”
“Will you not come in and speak to my mother?” he said, helplessly.
“I do not intend to go in there.”
“Are you going home?”
“How can I go home? How could I cause them there at home such sorrow as
to return, when they believe me happy and rich? But with you I will not
stay either. For one who is willing to work there is always a
livelihood.”
“Stop!” he begged. “I did it only to win you.”
“If you had told me the truth, I would have stayed.”
“If I had been a rich man, who had pretended to be poor, then you would
have stayed.”
She shrugged her shoulders and turned to go, when the door of the
cottage opened and Börje’s mother came out. She was a little, dried-up
old woman with few teeth and many wrinkles, but not so old in years or
in feelings as in looks.
She had heard a part and guessed a part, for she knew what they were
quarrelling about. “Well,” she said, “that is a fine daughter-in-law
you have got me, Börje. And you have been deceiving again, I can hear.”
But to Astrid she came and patted her kindly on the cheek. “Come in
with me, you poor child! I know that you are tired and worn out. This
is my house. He is not allowed to come in here. But you come. Now you
are my daughter, and I cannot let you go to strangers, do you
understand?”
She caressed her daughter-in-law and chatted to her and drew and pushed
her quite imperceptibly forward to the door. Step by step she lured her
on, and at last got her inside the house; but Börje she shut out. And
there, within, the old woman began to ask who she was and how it had
all happened. And she wept over her and made her weep over herself. The
old woman was merciless about her son. She, Astrid, did right; she
could not stay with such a man. It was true that he was in the habit of
lying, it was really true.
She told her how it had been with her son. He had been so fair in face
and limbs, even when he was small, that she had always marvelled that
he was a poor man’s child. He was like a little prince gone astray. And
ever after it had always seemed as if he had not been in his right
place. He saw everything on such a large scale. He could not see things
as they were, when it concerned himself. His mother had wept many a
time on that account. But never before had he done any harm with his
lies. Here, where he was known, they only laughed at him.—But now he
must have been so terribly tempted. Did she really not think, she,
Astrid, that it was wonderful how the fisher boy had been able to
deceive them? He had always known so much about wealth, as if he had
been born to it. It must be that he had come into the world in the
wrong place. See, that was another proof,—he had never thought of
choosing a wife in his own station.
“Where will he sleep to-night?” asked Astrid, suddenly.
“I imagine he will lie outside on the sand. He will be too anxious to
go away from here.”
“I suppose it is best for him to come in,” said Astrid.
“Dearest child, you cannot want to see him. He can get along out there
if I give him a blanket.”
She let him actually sleep out on the sand that night, thinking it best
for Astrid not to see him. And with her she talked and talked, and kept
her, not by force, but by cleverness, not by persuasion, but by real
goodness.
But when she had at last succeeded in keeping her daughter-in-law for
her son, and had got the young people reconciled, and had taught Astrid
that her vocation in life was just to be Börje Nilsson’s wife and to
make him as happy as she could,—and that had not been the work of one
evening, but of many days,—then the old woman had laid herself down to
die.
And in that life, with its faithful solicitude for her son, there was
some meaning, thought Börje Nilsson’s wife.
But in her own life she saw no meaning. Her husband was drowned after a
few years of married life, and her one child died young. She had not
been able to make any change in her husband. She had not been able to
teach him earnestness and truth. It was rather in her the change
showed, after she had been more and more with the fishing people. She
would never see any of her own family, for she was ashamed that she now
resembled in everything a fisherman’s wife. If it had only been of any
use! If she, who lived by mending the fishermen’s nets, knew why she
clung so to life! If she had made any one happy or had improved
anybody!
It never occurred to her to think that she who considers her life a
failure because she has done no good to others, perhaps by that thought
of humility has saved her own soul.