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.
Chapter 6 Pg 38
"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
Chapter 6 Pg 39
"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
