The Institution for Fallen Women of St. Peter’s Parish was thus brought
into active existence, and the police-chief’s wife was not a little
proud of her register. It was a thick, solemn book, in yellowish
parchment, with red-leather back and the Institution’s name in gilt
letters.
Otherwise the work of the Institution was yet preparatory; for the
endowments were not yet sufficient to establish a separate foundation
with buildings and managers. Besides, it was rather slow work to
collect the support; public opinion was not enthusiastic. Neither did
it seem so easy to find the fallen women of St. Peter’s Parish.
But then that was not the Secretary’s business. She held open office
in her drawing-room every morning from ten to eleven; the register lay
opened at the first page, where as yet there stood nothing but the
headings above the columns: Name, age, by whom presented, etc. At one
side stood the ink-stand with a decorated quill-pen for ornament and a
new steel-pen to write with.
But no one came, and the lady was oftentimes a little impatient. Now
and then meetings were held, or the chaplain called on her to talk
about the Institution’s affairs. In this way it was her part to talk
about these things with a young man, and her handsome eyes had often
to droop deep down over the register. But it was still an inspiring
feeling--so the chaplain said--that one should, in her own purity, have
an eye for the evil about her, and do what was in human power to rescue
the fallen.
At home at the Ark they lived as they could, but not always as they
should. The man of the many faces had shown himself several times, and
upon these visits always ensued a mutual prosperity and an obliging
mood in the sulky hostess.
The trio-concerts were therefore flourishing, and they not only
extended to poor Fürstenau, but also Onslow and Kalliwoda--yes, even
Father Haydn had to give himself up to be trilled by Olkonomen, drummed
by Jorgen Tambur, and pounded by old Schirrmeister, who played like a
madman, and drank--like a Dutch musician.
During the autumn Christian Falbe had one of his very worst periods;
and that engrossed his sister so much that she did not take notice how
pale and changed Elsie had become.
Madam Speckbom, on the other hand, noticed it quick enough; but she
smiled her philosophical smile; when young folks are in love, it looks
just like that for a time.
The moment she saw Svend and Elsie together, she said to herself: “That
will be a match.” They mated each other so completely--that Madam saw
at once, and she had a sure eye in such matters.
So when Svend presented himself one Saturday afternoon, awkward and
embarrassed, Madam Speckbom treated him very kindly indeed, and bade
him be seated on the sofa, while she went into the kitchen to call
Elsie.
But Elsie was not there; she was nowhere, she was not to be found. She
only came to light a good while after Svend had at last gone away.
Madam scolded her, but nevertheless smiled shrewdly to herself; for
that symptom she understood, too; girls act just so when they are the
most seriously smitten.
During the first few days Elsie had not lifted her eyes. She took hold
of the housework very actively, and never went out. But through the
night she wept for shame and anguish; every morning she expected the
whole world had learned of it.
But as day after day slipped by without anything happening whatsoever,
and as everything went on as before, without the least attention to
her, she began to think that perhaps it was not so dangerous after all.
There was an anxiety over her which was new; neither could she laugh as
of old; but her light disposition soon helped her over the worst of
it and, little by little, she regained her good, sound sleep and her
bright eyes.
But Svend she would not see. Every time she thought of him, she blushed
red as fire; it was much harder to think of him than of the other.
She had seen the Consul walk by the house several times at dusk; but
to her joy she knew that he did not dare to come in. But almost every
evening that Madam Speckbom was out, a middle-aged woman came, who was
so smiling and pleasant. She invited Elsie so persistently to call on
her; she lived near by, down on Strand street. But at the same time she
sedulously enjoined her not to mention a word to Madam Speckbom about
her visits.
But one evening there was a terrible scene. Madam Speckbom had caught a
strange man in the dark entry; and as he would not give his name, Madam
resolutely threw open the door to the drawing-room, where Elsie was
sitting with the lamp.
A single glance at the young girl’s distracted face, when it was seen
that it was Consul With she had caught, was enough for Madam. She knew
the Consul so thoroughly that she saw it all in an instant; and Madam
Speckbom had no respect for him, at least. So he was hustled out of
doors with a powerful thrust, and attended by a stream of abuse and
curses which the elegant gentleman pocketed with exquisite grace--glad
to get away.
But then Madam had a settlement with Elsie, which ended by driving her
out of doors that self-same evening.
For, as she said, had it been some one else--for instance, the boy at
the brick-yards--she should not have had a word to say, but should
rather have helped them to come together and begin house-keeping. No
one could say of Madam Speckbom that she was hard on young folks. But
throw herself away on such an old hog as Consul With--no! no! if Elsie
did not hold herself any higher than that, then she could remain no
longer under Madam Speckbom’s roof.
The usually mild-tempered lady was raging, now that she had once
become angry. And this had stirred and vexed her to the uttermost.
Such a boundless falseness in Elsie, to fool her with the boy from
the brick-works--her, Madam Speckbom, who had so sure an eye in such
matters--and then, Consul With! No, there could be no question at all
that Elsie had shown the blackest ingratitude, and was a detected false
and giddy thing.
Loppen was standing out in the dark street before she fairly had her
wits again. She had cried at first; but now she stopped to think it
over. Her greatest fear was whether Madam would hold her peace, or
whether everybody would hear of it.
It was cold where she was standing; the wind was blowing and she was
without a wrap. She decided to go to a friend of hers, who worked in
the neighborhood, and wait awhile; perhaps Madam would reconsider.
Loppen staid with her friend for the night, and the next morning she
went over to Madam Speckbom’s house. But Madam saw her as she came down
the hill and shut the door in her face.
Then only did Elsie realize that she was cast out in earnest; and her
misfortune fell upon her with sudden force which seemed about to crush
her. She slunk into the narrowest streets along the beach and walked
along sobbing, with bowed head, without noticing where she was going.
Then she met the pleasant woman who had called on her several times.
“Poor, little Elsie!” said the kind woman. “What have they been doing
to you? Come in with me; I live near by, and there you shall have such
a good time and no one shall touch you. Come, my child.”
It made Elsie unspeakably happy to hear these friendly words, and she
gladly went with her.
The house was rather small and lay hidden between two big warehouses
which belonged to Consul With. The woman took her up into a cosy,
little room which looked toward the sea. Farther in was a yet smaller
and yet cosier bed-chamber.
“See! you can stay here as long as you like,” said the woman and
fondled her; “I have expected you to come ever so long.”
Elsie was even then not much astonished.
In the dreams she had been wont to dream to Schirrmeister’s music,
it had been quite like this and yet more wonderful. And the last few
weeks, with all their mighty upheavals and emotions, had so shattered
reality for her that she neither doubted nor questioned, but let
herself float with the current--happy and content at being freed from
that horrible desolation which she had felt for a time.
It was only when the pleasant woman, quite _en passant_, mentioned
Consul With while she was changing her stockings--there were stockings,
too, ready in the bureau--that Elsie realized it with a pang; she arose
from the sofa and tried to flee.
But the woman clung to her and talked away so feelingly about the
kind Consul, told so many generous and gentle things of him; and
besides--where would she fly to?
Loppen lay down on the sofa again; and when the pleasant woman shortly
after brought in coffee, eggs and wheat-bread on a salver with a white
napkin, she fell to eating and amusing herself at watching the boats
row by out on the bay.
During the fall and winter, Elsie lived there and had a pleasant time.
Little by little she accustomed herself to the Consul, who was kind
and good-humored. She went out very seldom, and there were some of her
acquaintances whom she was dreadfully afraid to meet. On the contrary,
others stopped and talked with her, looked at and felt of all she wore;
and their envy was a sort of compensation to her. But before Miss Falbe
she was so afraid that she ran whenever she saw her out on the street.
And then, she was still more afraid of Svend. She knew that he had come
to town after the work at the brick-yards had stopped in the fall; and
one evening she noticed that he was following her along Strand street.
She hurried on and locked herself in. Soon she heard him shake the
latch and call to her half aloud. But she kept very still and so he
went away again.
But a day or so afterwards he was standing in the center of her room
before she dreamed of such a thing. Elsie ran to the chamber door to
fasten herself in. Meanwhile, Svend stood very quietly and looked about
himself. He was changed. His face was no longer handsome and brown as
in the summer, and Elsie could plainly see that he had been carousing
of late.
“I know it all, Elsie,” he began. “But it makes no difference at all. I
have a hundred crowns left from my summer’s work; if you will go with
me right now, we will get married and go to my uncle’s in Arendal,
where I am promised work.”
Elsie dropped the latch; she was no longer afraid now; but she hung her
head for shame and said:
“No, Svend; that you must not ask of me, for I cannot do it. I am much
obliged, though, that you did want to.”
Svend sat down on a chair by the door, and when he saw that Elsie was
crying, he cried too. In this way they wept together for a time, each
in his corner.
But suddenly Elsie chanced to think that some one might come. She dried
her eyes in a hurry and begged him to go--to go as quick as he could.
Kindly and humbly he let himself be driven away; but he said he would
come again.
And he did come again often, at times when they could be undisturbed.
Every time she looked at him her shame flamed up again, but constantly
a little lighter, until she could sit long hours and talk with him.
With a strange, nervous interest she heard how his money grew less and
less. She inquired anxiously about his companions, and when she heard
that he had fallen in with some of “the gang,” she knew that he was
going wrong.
But she did not warn him; neither did she think it so bad. It would
have been much, much worse if he had remained as handsome and innocent
as when she saw him the first time, now that she herself had sunk so
low.
The day he had twenty crowns of his money left, he offered them to her,
half confident, half humbly, for a single kiss.
But, both frightened and angry, Elsie drew back; not for all the world
would she touch him or his money.
Svend bore it, ashamed, and crouched like a dog that gets a blow. But
when he slunk towards the door, she took pity on him and so kissed him
for nothing.
So the winter passed away.
But as the days lengthened and brightened through February and March,
all sorts of rumors, which had lain quiet, hatching in the darkness of
winter, began to rustle their wings, and a new story about Consul With
flew blustering from house to house.
The Consul resorted to his usual expedient; he sailed for London
on business. And one day the pleasant woman came to Elsie with an
altogether new face, in which there was not the least trace of a smile
left, and announced curtly and decidedly, that the Consul had gone
away now for a year at least, and Elsie had no further business in the
house, but must bundle herself off and not take a thing with her.
Loppen was no longer the same girl as when she was cast out of Madam
Speckbom’s. She got up and roundly abused the pleasant woman, and there
ensued a short-lived brawl, which ended by the woman swearing that
Loppen should be out of the house before the sun went down.
“Gladly--very gladly, indeed,” answered Elsie; that had long been her
intention; she was sick of it all. And when Svend just then came up the
stairs, she cried out, with flashing eyes: “Now, I will go with you,
Svend.”
But Svend seemed more puzzled than happy, and he whispered despondently:
“I haven’t a shilling left.”
Then Loppen laughed; she laughed so it rang through the house, up the
stairs and down the stairs; but Svend was almost frightened.
And beaming, as if it was the grandest triumph in the world, she took
his arm and walked past the woman, who stood and laughed at them in
disdain.
They went up to “the gang;” at Miss Falbe’s door Elsie paused and grew
sober; but it was only for a moment.