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Page 21
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.
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