Garman and Worse by Alexander Lange Kielland

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She should not be disappointed of her trust in him, and with renewed
strength, and without a tremor in his voice, he began upon the last part
of his discourse. Ever higher and fuller rang his voice, until its
sonorous tone filled the church, and was re-echoed from the vaulted
roof. The congregation followed him with attention, while some of the
old women were moved to tears. And now a sensation of uneasiness seemed
to pass through those who composed the great assembly. It was indeed an
extraordinary sermon, with its earnest entreaties to be thoroughly
upright and sincere, and with its reckless condemnation of all forms and
ceremonies, all of which were but of secondary consideration. It seemed
too bold, too exaggerated.

He seemed anxious to confess his sceptical opinions, in holding which he
did not stand alone. He was only alone in confessing them. He knew only
too well that fine web of soothing compromise, with which people were in
the habit of deadening their consciences. He knew it still better, too,
from his own point of view as a clergyman, who even more than others was
bound to live in the full glare of truth, even though he might be
despised, hated, and persecuted by an unreasoning world. If he followed
the beaten track, whither would it lead? To a position of comfort and
respectability, in which the first duty was to throw a veil over one's
own heart and those of others: to suppress all doubt and inquiry, and to
deaden all real life in the individual, so that the whole machine might
continue its regular movements without noise or friction. But truth was
a two-edged sword, sharp and shining as crystal. When the light of truth
broke into the heart of man, it caused an agony as piercing as when a
woman brings her child into the world.

But, instead of this, was a man to lead a life of slumber, shut in by
falsehood and form, without force or courage; giving no sign of firmness
or power, but stuffed and padded like the hammers of a piano?

He was so carried away by his thoughts that he forgot his notes and said
many things he would never have dared to write; and after the last
thundering outburst, he concluded with a short and burning prayer for
himself and for all, to have power to defy the falsehood by which man
was bound, and to live a life of sincerity.

He then went on in an entirely changed voice with the rest of the
service; but Rachel particularly noticed that he left out the prayer for
the arms of the country, by land and sea; and now, as he read the
prayers in a calm, quiet voice, the assembly seemed to breathe more
freely, as if after a storm.

Among the men could be heard whispers, and the prevailing idea seemed to
be that the sermon was a complete scandal; while those who had to do
with the law were of opinion that he would be cited before the
Consistorial Court. Among the women the feeling seemed rather undecided,
and many inquiring glances were thrown towards where the men were
sitting, in the hope of divining what the opinion would be, either of a
husband, or a brother, or, in fact, of that particular person of the
opposite sex, according to whose decision each woman was in the habit of
forming her own.

Most eyes, however, sought the dean, who sat as he had done during the
whole sermon, slightly leaning back on his seat, and holding a large
hymn-book, which was a gift from his previous congregation, between his
hands. From the upper windows on the other side of the church a subdued
light fell on his form. The face had the same exalted and peaceful
expression; not a sign of uneasiness or annoyance had passed over it
during the whole sermon, which was not without a soothing effect upon
the congregation. The feeling of restlessness and excitement was
universal, but most people seemed inclined to defer, their final
judgment.

Pastor Martens had left the pew immediately after the sermon, for he had
to conduct the Communion Service. While he performed it, his somewhat
unmusical voice trembled with inward emotion. There could be no doubt
whatever as to what were the inspector's real opinions.

The chaplain could not help being rather pleased at the satisfaction the
dean would now be obliged to render him, for it had been quite against
the chaplain's wish and advice, that Johnsen was allowed to preach at
the morning service. It would have been more advisable to have given him
a first trial either at a Bible-reading, or at most at the evening
service. But now the murder was out, and he had shown his feeling of
antagonism to the Church before the whole congregation. What would the
dean do? The affair would naturally have to be reported.

As soon as the service was over, Martens left the altar and hurried into
the sacristy, into which he had already seen the dean enter.

"What do you say to that, sir?" he cried breathlessly, as he shut the
door after him.

Dean Sparre was sitting in his armchair, reading the hymn-book he had in
his hand. At the chaplain's question he raised his head with an
expression of mild reproof at the disturbance, and said abstractedly,
"To what are you alluding?"

"Why, the sermon; of course I allude to the sermon; it is perfectly
scandalous!" cried the chaplain, excitedly.

"Well, certainly," answered the dean, "I cannot say that it was a good
sermon, taken as a whole, but if you take into consideration--"

"But really, sir--" interrupted the chaplain.

"It appears to me, and it is not the first time I have noticed it, my
dear Martens, that you do not quite get on with our new fellow-worker;
but is it not to us that he ought really to look for support?"

The chaplain cast down his eyes; there was some extraordinary power
about his superior. Not an instant before he had formed his opinion
quite clearly, but the moment he found himself face to face with the
dean's genial countenance, all his ideas seemed to change.

"It grieves me to be obliged to speak to you thus, my dear Martens, but
I do so with the best intentions; and, then, we are alone."

"But don't you think, sir, that he was far too bold?" asked the
chaplain.

"Yes, clearly, clearly so," assented the dean, in a friendly tone. "He
was unguarded, like all beginners; perhaps the most unguarded I have
heard. But then we know quite well that the same thing often occurred in
our own time. It would be quite unreasonable to expect the Spirit's full
maturity in the young."

This remark caused Martens involuntarily to think of his own first
attempt. He answered, however, "But he maintained that we ministers,
above all others, are living a life of falsehood, shut in by meaningless
forms."

"Exaggeration! a wild and dangerous exaggeration! In that I quite agree
with you, my dear Martens. But, on the other hand, which of us can deny
that a ceremonial, be it ever so beautiful and full of meaning, still in
the course of time, when it is frequently repeated, loses something of
its influence over us? But who will dare cast the first stone? Is it not
youth, as we see, who has not yet experienced the wear of that
continuous labour which strives to be true to the end? And then
naturally we get exaggeration--dangerous exaggeration. But," continued
the dean, "before everything, let us agree to look upon his sermon in
the right light, for the opinion of many will be formed upon ours, and
if we now allow this young man to slip out of our hands he will, likely
enough, be entirely lost for the good work; and I must say I have great
hopes of him. I feel sure that in his right place, which would be in a
large town--for instance, in Christiania--he will make a name for
himself in the Church, and I venture to think that his labours will bear
abundant fruit."

Martens again looked up at the dean as he pronounced these words, and
for the first time he now perceived what it was that made his manner so
irresistible. It was the smile, that changing and varying smile, which
yet never entirely left the noble features. It seemed to mingle in all
he said, like a warm and soothing sunbeam; and as the chaplain
constrained himself to alter his opinion under its influence, he felt
that the muscles of his mouth involuntarily assumed the dean's
expression.

Madame Rasmussen could not conceal her astonishment at the moderation
with which the chaplain spoke of Johnsen's sermon. She was herself in
the highest degree shocked, and when Mr. Martens told her that, in his
opinion, Mr. Johnsen would be likely to become a clergyman of
considerable note in Christiania some day, she almost thought that he
was carrying his forbearance too far. Still she could not but like
Pastor Martens, who had now lived with her for two years without a
single ill word having passed between them. Madame Rasmussen was a young
widow, plump, good-looking, and light-hearted. She had no children, and
it was quite a pleasure to her to manage for the chaplain--to prepare
his little dishes, and to keep his things in order. She was the only
person in the whole town who really knew that Martens wore a wig. This
was not, however, a thing to be spoken about, and nobody else was
admitted into the secret.

As Mrs. Garman drove home from church with Rachel and Madeleine, she
spoke disapprovingly of Johnsen's sermon. She considered that it was
highly improper for a young man to be so forward and daring; but it was
quite in accordance with the spirit of the times, as Pastor Martens had
explained on the previous Sunday.

"Ah, Pastor Martens is quite a different man, is he not?" asked Mrs.
Garman, addressing Madeleine, as Rachel made no reply.

"Yes--oh yes!" answered Madeleine, abstractedly. She was wondering all
the time where Delphin could have come from so suddenly, when he
appeared close to her and Fanny in the crowd at the church door He had
greeted her in a most friendly way, but when they got to the carriage
they found that both he and Fanny had vanished without saying good-bye.

Rachel let her mother talk away, as was her wont. She was all the time
meditating on the importance of the event which had just taken place,
and was wondering how Johnsen would come out of it all. It was quite
clear that her mother's was the prevailing opinion, and it was but too
probable that with most people the ill feeling would take a still more
bitter form. She could picture him to herself calm and steadfast in the
midst of it all. Here at length she had found a truly courageous man.

During dinner Delphin gave his own rendering of some extracts from the
sermon, with as much spirit as his fear of Mrs. Garman would allow, and
the performance afforded Uncle Richard great amusement. Rachel thought
it best to contain her feelings, for she knew that conversation with Mr.
Delphin on a serious subject was nothing else than an impossibility.
Madeleine, on the contrary, could not help laughing. She always found
Delphin very amusing, and at the same time so good-natured. She had
latterly been almost annoyed with Fanny because she treated Delphin
coolly and distantly. But Delphin seemed scarcely to notice her conduct;
on the contrary, he seemed even in better spirits than before. He really
was a good fellow.

Several people also thought that Morten Garman was a good fellow, to
allow Delphin to carry on with Fanny without interference. It was not
easy to know if Morten saw anything or not, and whether his confidence
in his wife, or his own bad conscience, caused his indifference.

Rachel passed the Monday and Tuesday in an anxious state of mind.
Something, she thought, must happen. The feeling against Johnsen was
strong, but it must surely take some more decided form. She knew that he
would come to see her, happen what might, and she expected him.

CHAPTER XII.

Fanny and Madeleine had accepted an invitation for the Wednesday in the
same week. Rachel had simply refused without giving a reason, but people
were now used to her manner.

"I have such a dreadful headache!" sighed Fanny, as she came into
Madeleine's room, who was getting ready to go out. Madeleine had come
into the town on the Sunday evening.

"Poor Fanny!" said Madeleine, feelingly; "have you got that headache
again?"

"Yes, it came just as if it were on purpose, at the very moment I was
going to change my dress. Oh, how bad it is!"

"I think you have had a great many of these headaches lately, Fanny; you
ought to speak to the doctor."

"It is no use," answered Fanny, endeavouring to cool her forehead by
pressing a little hand-glass against it. "The only thing that does me
any good is fresh air and perfect quiet. Oh, the noise here from the
street is dreadful! To think that I have to spend the whole evening in a
hot room! I can't bear it; it will be too much for me!"

"You shan't go out at all when you are so unwell," said Madeleine,
decidedly. "I will make such a nice excuse for you."

"Oh, if I could only stop at home, or, even better still, if I could get
to Sandsgaard; it is so quiet there!" said Fanny, with a sigh.

"Yes, that is just what you shall do," cried Madeleine. "You take the
carriage when it has left me, and drive out there. I believe it is
clearing up, and we shall have a lovely quiet moonlight evening."

"Yes; I don't much mind what the weather is," said Fanny, with a sickly
smile. "But do you think it will do for me--"

"You need not trouble about that. I will make such charming and
plausible excuses for you, that you will really feel quite rewarded for
all the trouble you have had in teaching me the ways of society. Look
now, I will begin like this;" and Madeleine, who had now got on her
dress, curtsied and smiled, and began a most pathetic story about dear
Fanny's dreadful headache. Fanny began to laugh, until it gave her head
so much pain that she could not help crying out. She, however, allowed
herself to be persuaded, and Madeleine drove off alone.

Madeleine now began to find herself at home in her new life. Fanny was
so good and kind to her, that the young girl at last got the better of
her shyness, and told her friend the whole story about Per, and the rest
of her doings at home.

Fanny did not laugh at her in the least; on the contrary, she said that
she quite envied Madeleine the romantic little episode, which would be a
sweet recollection for the rest of her life. But when Madeleine timidly
said that she considered it more than a recollection, and that she
regarded herself as really engaged, she met with such a determined
opposition that she did not know what to think. "Young girls, often have
these absurd adventures," said Fanny, "when they are not old enough to
know better." She had herself been madly in love with a chimney-sweep--a
common chimney-sweep, just think of that!

The more Madeleine became accustomed to town life the easier she found
it to deaden her recollections of the past. But however successful she
was in burying them out of sight for the time, they would recur whenever
she was alone. But she refused to listen to them; they could never
become realities. Still, she never cared to go home to Bratvold with her
father, even for a few days. She seemed to dread looking on the sea
again.

All that day Rachel had waited in vain; she was beginning to be uneasy.
Why did he not come to see her--she who had been so much the cause of
his enterprise? He must know how anxious she was to talk with him, and
to thank him. It was surely impossible for him to think that she also
believed that he had gone too far. Should he not come to-morrow, she
would write to him.

There was but little conversation that evening at dinner. The Consul was
as precise and polite as he generally was when he was alone with the
ladies. Fanny, who had come in hopes of curing her headache, was silent
and suffering. By ten o'clock the whole house was perfectly quiet, but
Rachel was still sitting in her room, lost in thought. She could not
read, but several times she took up a pen to write, she scarcely knew
what. She never accomplished her intention, and at last she put out the
light, and sat down and gazed over the fjord, which lay sparkling in the
moonlight. If, forsaken by every one, he now came to her and prayed for
even more than her friendship, for this too she was prepared, and had
finally decided on her answer. He was a man, and a courageous one, and
she was determined to follow him. What a joy it had been to her to meet
such a man! But why was she out of spirits now?

Rachel sat by the window till she heard the carriage which brought home
Madeleine, and then hurriedly undressed and went to bed.

As Madeleine was driving home the carriage stopped for a moment in front
of the club, while a boy spoke a few words to the coachman.

The driver that evening was old Per Karl, who many years ago had come
from Denmark with a pair of horses for the young Consul. Both he and the
horses were long past their work; but whenever he could get the
opportunity, he was only too pleased to get the old blacks into the
carriage, and himself upon the box. This had been the case this evening,
when it was only the good-natured Miss Madeleine for whom the carriage
was going, and she was always perfectly satisfied, as the old Jutlander
well knew, even if the pace was not very terrific.

Per Karl now turned round and said to Madeleine, "What shall we do,
miss? Now there will be a bother. Mr. Morten is going to drive out with
us, and when he sees we have got the old horses he will be angry."

A few moments afterwards Morten came out, and, after many apologies for
the delay, took his place by Madeleine's side. He said he thought he
would go out and see how Fanny was, she looked so very unwell; and
besides, what a lovely moonlight evening it was for a drive! He sat
himself down comfortably in the carriage, and had just taken a long
whiff of his cigar, when all at once he leant forward and said, "Stop!
what was that?"

One of the horses had made a slight stumble, and the jar was felt in the
carriage.

"I declare, it is those old horses and Per Karl!" cried Morten, partly
standing up. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Oh!" muttered Per Karl, who was quite ready to defend himself, "there
is nothing the matter with the old horses; but, of course, if we had
known we were going to have you in the carriage, sir--"

"Rubbish! You know perfectly well the old horses were not to be used any
more. I will tell my father, and have them shot to-morrow, as sure as
ever it comes."

Morten was very fond of horses; and besides, he was just in that excited
and obstinate mood in which people sometimes are, when they have been
dining at their club.

Madeleine tried to pacify her cousin, but it only made him all the
worse.

"Just look how lame that one is--the left-hand one!"

"You mean the near one, sir."

"Go to the devil with your near and off! I mean the left-hand one, the
mare; both her fore legs are as round as apples. Why, I saw that in the
spring."

"Not both of them," answered the old coachman, doggedly.

"Yes, they are; but I will have this looked to. I will have a stop put
to it, once for all," said Morten, decidedly. He was just in the humour
to take everything very much in earnest.

As soon as they arrived, he scarcely gave himself time to help Madeleine
out of the carriage, so anxious was he to examine the mare's fore legs;
and she heard the voices disputing and wrangling away in the direction
of the stable, as she went into the house.

Madeleine's window looked to the westward, and when she reached her room
she found it open. She was going to shut it, but the sea looked so
peaceful down below in the clear moonlight, that she knelt down on the
window-seat, and remained gazing at the lovely scene. The moon had just
reached the point at which it began to shine upon her window, and the
shadow fell obliquely from the corner of the house, just beyond the
hedge below, thus leaving a triangular space in darkness close
underneath. As Madeleine leant out she could see that Miss Cordsen's
window was also open. She was just going to call to the old lady, with
whom she was on the most friendly terms, but on consideration she
thought it would be nicer to enjoy the delightful moonlight evening
alone.

In that part of the garden the paths were to a great extent overgrown by
the spreading trees. The little pond, which had once been full of carp,
and where even now some remained, only no one seemed to notice them, was
fringed with tall rushes. On the other side was the old summer-house,
almost hidden among the shrubs, which were now never clipped. The fact
is, that part of the garden which was now most cared for was that which
lay just in front of the house, and the part we are now speaking of was
left pretty much to itself. Along the inside of the garden-wall there
stood a row of aspen trees, whose leaves were beginning to turn yellow
and strew themselves on the paths. Almost all the other trees still kept
their foliage, although it was already September. The mountain ash
berries were beginning to redden, and shone in heavy clusters among the
leaves, while here and there a leaf was to be seen turning from red to
yellow. The beech trees, which had been planted in the time of the young
Consul's grandfather, spread out their branches far and wide. The
shining dark green foliage hung in rich festoons nearly to the ground,
and the long shoots were fringed with masses of tufted beech-nuts.

A mysterious silence reigned in the garden, while the moonlight came
rippling noiselessly through the leaves and stealing down the trunks,
forming patches of radiance on the grass, which were sharply defined by
the edges of the dark shadows. Goldfinches, bullfinches, a few thrushes,
and other autumn birds, were sitting in the aspen trees. They were
mostly occupied in quietly pluming their feathers, and only some of the
young birds, which had been hatched that spring, were hopping about from
branch to branch. The parents sat watching them, thinking, doubtless,
how delightful it was to be young and innocent. All nature seemed to
have reached maturity, and the restless activity of spring was
forgotten. The birds were now calm and sober enough. The cocks and hens
sat peacefully side by side, no advances were made or encouraged.
Love-making, with all its follies, was at an end for that year. Only the
curious dragon-flies, with their four long wings and taper bodies, were
still busy with their love-dances over the pond. August had been so
rainy and windy that they seemed anxious to make the most of the still
autumn evening. The males were sitting dotted about among the reeds,
peering on every side with their prominent eyes, and when one approached
another too closely, the two would rush at each other till their
transparent wings, like delicate plates of silver, and their scaly
bodies, made a tiny rustling when they met in conflict. Then all was
still again among the rushes, until the arrival of a female dragon-fly.
She would come slowly and carelessly humming along from some other part
of the garden, and when she got near the pond would change her course,
turn off, and fly back again. Her little heart was doubtless beating
high; but casting aside her fears, she at length took courage, and sped
on over the pond. Away started five or six males, dashing at each other
like knights in helm and harness, and battling confusedly amid the clash
of tiny weapons. But the happy victor soon bid adieu to the conflict,
and sailed past the others to the side of his lovely prize. Their wings
met for a moment in mimic combat, and then away they glided in close
embrace far over the heads of the discomfited champions, each aiding
other with fairy wings, to seek a lonely spot far away among the rushes.

A plaintive air, sung by some shrill girlish voices in the West End, was
wafted over by the light evening breeze. It was so still that Madeleine
could follow every word:

"I now myself must sever,
My little friend, from thee.
Let naught oppress thee ever;
Soon home again I'll be."

She felt more than usually depressed, and now, just as it had happened
after church on Sunday, Delphin's image seemed suddenly to spring up
into her thoughts. Where he came from she knew not. A web of confused
reveries seemed to weave themselves in her soul, just as the moon shed
its mysterious network of shadows over the grass.

Her attention was all at once attracted by a noise in the garden. She
certainly fancied that she heard the door of the summer-house creak on
its rusty hinges. At the same moment she heard Morten's heavy tread on
the stone steps leading up to the front door: he must be returning from
the stable. It was time to go to bed, but still she remained at the
window, looking towards the summer-house. She now discovered two forms
that were going slowly down the path which led to the wicket in the
garden wall. This path was fringed on both sides by high overgrown
hedges, and she could only see the heads every now and then as they
passed. In the idea that it was one of the maids with her sweetheart,
she was just going to shut the window. It was surely nothing which
concerned her.

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