Garman And Worse A Norwegian Novel by Alexander Lange Kielland (best ereader for pdf and epub txt) 📕

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