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

Gold--Shining,  Blood-Red Gold; But," Added He,  Mysteriously,  "I Will Tap

The Gold Out Of Them--I Will--Till It Shines As Red As Blood All Over

Sandsgaard! Just Wait A Minute!" And Off He Rushed Down The Slope With

The Activity Of A Deer. Woodlouse And The Swede Looked At Each Other

Meaningly,  And Each Went His Way Without Saying A Word.

After The Window Had Been Broken,  Marianne Quickly Put Out The Light.

She Took Her Petticoat,  And Tried To Stop Up The Window,  But The Wind

Was Blowing So Hard That She Could Not Manage To Make It Tight. She

Shivered With The Cold As She Stood,  And Hurriedly Got Into Bed. But

Every Time A Blast Came She Felt The Cold Draught,  And Could Not Get

Warm.

In The Room Below She Heard Her Grandfather Stumbling About,  Drinking Up

What Was Left In The Glasses. Marianne Clasped Her Hands,  And Prayed

That She Might Die; But In The Night She Got Up,  And Felt Herself

Throbbing With Heat And Shivering With Fever. She Thought She Could Hear

A Tumult,  And The Sound Of Many Voices.

Mrs. Garman Had Already Gone To Bed After Her Long And Tiring Day.

Madeleine Had Also Slipped Out Of The Way,  As She Always Tried To Do

When Fanny Came. Both Fanny And Morten Were At Sandsgaard That Evening.

The Latter Behaved To Madeleine Just As Before,  And Was So Smiling And

Kind That Madeleine Had Often To Ask Herself If She Had Not,  After All,

Been Dreaming On That Moonlight Evening.

It Was Nearly Eleven O'Clock,  And Gabriel Had Just Returned From His

Expedition To The Field Above The West End. He Had Heard A Noise Up

There When He Had Gone Out To See How The Wind Was.

The Consul And Uncle Richard Were Playing Chess. Morten,  Fanny,  And

Rachel Were Talking Of To-Morrow'S Ball,  And They Every Now And Then

Addressed Themselves To Miss Cordsen,  Who Was Sitting By The Fireside

Polishing The Silver.

"It Is A South Wind,  Is It Not,  Gabriel?" Said The Consul,  As He

Listened To The Sough Of The Wind Through The Trees.

"South-West,  And Blowing Fresh,  Father," Answered Gabriel.

"Good!" Said The Consul. "It Won'T Do Us Any Harm If Only The Wind

Doesn'T Get Round To The Northward,  Because That Drives The Sea Right In

On To The Yard."

The Ladies Were Getting Up To Say Good Night,  And Morten Was Just

Going To Brew Himself Another Glass Of Toddy,  When Excited Voices

Were Heard Below. Some One Came Hurriedly Up The Staircase,  The Door

Opened,  And In Rushed Anders Begmand. His Face Was As White As It

Could Be For Sweat And Pitch,  His Stiff Hair Was Standing On End,

While,  Hat In Hand And With His Eyes Fixed On The Young Consul,  He

Began--"The--The--The"--Quicker And Quicker. It Was Quite Plain That

It Was Something Of Great Importance,  And His Face Grew As Red As Fire

With The Effort. "The--The--The--"

"Sing,  Will You?" Shouted The Young Consul,  Stamping On The Floor.

Begmand Began Singing To A Merry Little Air,  "A Fire'S Broken Out In The

Pitch-House!"

At The Same Moment Some One In The Yard Below Shouted At The Top Of His

Voice,  "Fire! Fire!"

Morten Tore Aside The Blind,  And The Red Glare Could Be Seen On The Dewy

Panes. Every One Sprang To The Window.

"Silence!" Cried The Young Consul,  While Every One Paused And Looked At

Him. The Little Man Was Standing As Erect As An Arrow,  His Eyes Calm And

Clear,  And His Lower Jaw Projecting As Usual; And As If Conscious That

He Was The Chief Of The House,  He Said,  "A Fire Has Broken Out In The

Building-Yard. You,  Morten,  Go And Get The Two Engines From The

Warehouse. The Keys Are Hanging In The Men'S Bedroom. Take The

Fire-Buckets With You."

Morten Dashed Off.

"Dick,  You Must Go Up To The Second Floor In The Same Building. There'S

A Large Sail There; Put It In The Sea,  And Stretch It Over The Roof Of

The Storehouse. You Understand? The Storehouse Must Be Saved,  Or Else--"

Uncle Richard Was Already Out Of The Door With Anders Begmand.

"Gabriel! You Run Up To The Farm! Gabriel!" Cried The Consul. But There

Was No Gabriel To Be Seen; He Had Already Vanished Through Another Door.

"Oh! What A Wretched Boy It Is!" Said The Young Consul,  In Spite Of

Himself.

There Was Something Uncanny About The Black Smoke,  And The Dark Red

Flame,  Which Seemed Every Moment To Get A Surer Foothold,  And To Gather

Strength Without A Soul To Oppose Them. Gabriel Noticed Nothing: He Saw

Only The Red Glare On The Ship,  Which Loomed Against The Dark Grey Sky,

And Off He Ran Like A Madman Over The Field Above The House. When He Saw

The Ship Was In danger,  Tom Robson Was His First And Only Thought,  And

He Went Straight Into The House Where He Was So Well Known.

"Mr. Robson! Tom! Tom!" He Shouted Into The Dark Room,  Which Smelt Like

An Old Rum-Cask. "She'S On Fire,  Tom! The Ship'S On Fire!"

He Groped His Way To The Bed,  And Gave Mr. Robson A Good Shaking. The

Landlady,  A Slatternly Sailor'S Wife,  Now Entered With A Light. Only A

Few Minutes Before,  She Had Managed To Get Tom Undressed,  Somehow Or

Another.

"Oh No! Can That Be Mr. Gabriel?" Said She,  Drawing Her Night-Dress

Closer To Her. "Is It A Fire? Mr. Robson!" She Cried,  And Helped Gabriel

To Shake Him.

"What'S The Matter?" Muttered He In english,  Turning Round His Face,  All

Bruised And Bloody As He Was.

"Oh No,  No!" Whined The Woman,  "How Beastly Drunk He Is! Isn'T It A

Shame For Such A Fine Fellow To Make Himself Just Like A Pig? Tom! Tom!

Oh Dear Me,  How Tipsy He Is!"

Without A Moment'S Hesitation,  Gabriel Dashed The Contents Of The Basin

In His Face. Mr. Robson Sputtered And Blew,  And Raising Himself On His

Left Arm,  Swung The Right Feebly Over His Head,  And Shouted,  "Three

Cheers For Morten Garman! Hip--Hip---" But Before He Got To "Hurrah," He

Fell Back On His Side And Was Snoring Again. Gabriel Left The Room;

There Was Nothing To Be Done With Tom.

The Wind Was Sweeping Down Over The Meadow,  And Driving The Thick Smoke

From The Pitch-House Out Over The Fjord. All Round The House It Was As

Light As Day. Long Tongues Of Flame Were Flying Far Away Over The

Fields,  Shedding Their Glare Here And There On The Front Of A

Whitewashed House,  While Up Above On The Level Ground It Was Still Dark,

Under The Shadow Of The Vessel. And Now A Glitter Was Seen,  And A Rumble

Was Heard In The Direction Of The Town. The Fire Brigade Was On Its Way.

And From The Farmhouses Which Lay Near,  Down Over The Fields,  But

Chiefly In The Avenue Leading From The Town,  People Were To Be Seen

Running,  First Singly,  Then Two Or Three,  Then Several Together,  Until

The Crowd In The Avenue Appeared Like A Close Black Mass,  Dotted Here

And There With Red-And-White Specks. When Gabriel Got Down Again To The

House He Was At His Wits' Ends,  And,  Leaning Against The Garden Wall,  He

Sobbed Aloud.

Some One Came Skirting Along The Wall; It Was The Schoolmaster,  Aalbom.

He Recognized Gabriel,  And Stopped. "Isn'T It What I Always Said?" Cried

He,  Triumphantly. "You Are A Regular Laban,  Standing Here Blubbering.

You Might At Any Rate Manage To Lend A Hand With The Water,  You Lout!"

Gabriel Sprang Up,  As If Seized With A Sudden Inspiration,  Pushed The

Master Aside,  And Dashed Down Towards The Building-Yard.

"An Ill-Mannered Cub," Muttered Aalbom,  As He Continued His Way To Get A

Good Place From Which To See The Fire.

Rachel Was Naturally Most Anxious To Make Herself Useful,  But There Was

Nothing For Her To Do. She Therefore Stood On The Steps In Front Of The

House,  And Watched The Crowd Streaming Up From The Town,  While The Fire

Threw Its Ever-Increasing Glare Down The Highroad,  Which Was Now

Thronged With People. Suddenly She Heard A Voice She Recognized. "Out Of

The Way! Let The Engines Pass! Look Out There--The Engines! Out Of The

Way!" The Crowd Opened,  And Out Of The Throng Came Two Rows Of Men,

Dragging The Red-Painted Fire-Engine By A Long Rope. Jacob Worse Was

Running In Front,  Shouting And Giving His Orders. He Gave Her A Hurried

Greeting As He Passed,  And Away Rumbled The Engine Towards The

Ship-Yard. It Struck Rachel That His Face Was The Only One That Showed

Any Feeling Of Sympathy Or Sorrow; All The Rest Appeared Indifferent,

And Some Showed,  Openly Enough,  That They Thought The Fire Glorious

Sport. Rachel Turned Away And Went Into The House.

All This Time The Young Consul Was Standing At The Corner Window,  On The

North Side Of The Small Sitting-Room. The Pitch-House Was Now Blazing

Inside; The Flames Came Bursting Out Of The Door,  And Followed The Line

Of Melted Pitch Which Flowed Along The Ground. The Thick Wooden Walls

Were Glowing With The Heat,  And He Could See The People Shrink Back When

They Got Too Near Them. The Wind Was Blowing So Strongly,  That It Beat

Down The Smoke And Shrouded The Engines And Spectators From His View,

But Upon The Roof Of The Storehouse He Could