“Say you!—Boy!” he shouted.

And the boy was none other than the washerwoman’s son, who was passing by and respectfully took off his cap. The brim was bent so it could go in his pocket. The boy stood there respectfully, as if he were standing before the king, in his simple and clean but well-patched clothes and big wooden shoes.

“You’re a good boy,” said the mayor. “You’re polite. I suppose your mother is washing clothes down by the river. That’s where you’re headed with what you have in your pocket. It’s a sad thing about your mother. How much have you got there?”

“Half a pint,” said the boy in a low, scared voice.

“And she had the same this morning,” said the man.

“No, it was yesterday,” the boy answered.

“Two halves make a whole! She’s no good! It’s a sad thing with that class of people. Tell your mother that she should be ashamed of herself! And don’t you become a drunkard, but you probably will!—Poor child!—go on now!”

And the boy went on. He kept his cap in his hand, and the wind blew his blond hair so that it stuck out in long wisps. He walked down the street, into the alley and down to the river where his mother stood out in the water by her washing bench, beating the heavy linen with her paddle. There was a current in the water because the sluices were open from the mill. The sheets were pulled by the current and almost knocked the bench over. The washerwoman had to push against it.

“I almost went for a sail!” she said, “It’s a good thing you came because I need a little something to build up my strength! It’s cold out here in the water. I’ve been standing here for six hours now. Have you got something for me?”

The boy took out the bottle, and his mother set it to her lips and took a gulp.

“Oh, that does me good! How it warms me up! It’s just as good as hot food, and not as expensive! Drink, my boy. You look so pale. You’re freezing in those thin clothes. It’s autumn, after all. Oh, the water is so cold. Just so I don’t get sick. But I won’t! Give me another swallow, and you drink too, but just a little bit. You mustn’t get dependent on it, my poor, pitiful boy.”

And she went over by the bridge where the boy was standing and climbed up on dry land. The water poured from the apron of rushes she had tied around her waist. Water was flowing from her skirts.

“I slave and toil and work my fingers to the bone, but it doesn’t matter, as long as I can honestly raise you, my sweet child!”

Just then an older woman came. She was poorly dressed and looked badly too. She was lame in one leg and had an enormously large false curl covering one eye. The curl was supposed to hide her eye, but it only made the defect more noticeable. She was a friend of the washerwoman. The neighbors called her “Gimpy-Maren with the Curl.”

“You poor thing, how you toil and slave standing in that cold water! You certainly need a little something to warm you up, but people begrudge you even the little drop you get!” And then the mayor’s words to the boy were repeated to the washerwoman because Maren had heard all of it, and it had annoyed her that he talked that way to the child about his mother, and the little she drank, when the mayor himself was having a big dinner party with bottles of wine in abundance. “Fine wines and strong wines! Many will more than quench their thirst, but that’s not drinking, oh no! And they’re just fine, but you’re no good!”

“So he’s been talking to you, my boy?” said the washerwoman, and her lips quivered. “You have a mother who’s no good! Maybe he’s right, but he shouldn’t say it to a child. I put up with a lot from those in that house.”

“That’s right, you worked there when the mayor’s parents lived there, didn’t you? It was many years ago. Many bushels of salt have been eaten since that time, so it’s no wonder we’re thirsty!” Maren laughed. “They’re having a big dinner today at the mayor’s. It should have been canceled, but it was too late because the food had been prepared. I heard about it from the yard boy. Just an hour ago a letter came with the news that the younger brother has died in Copenhagen.”

“Dead!” exclaimed the washerwoman and turned deathly pale.

“Oh my!” said the other woman, “You’re taking it rather to heart! Oh, you knew him, didn’t you, when you worked there?”

“Is he dead? He was the best, the most wonderful person! God won’t get many like him!” and the tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh, my God. I’m getting dizzy! It must be because I emptied the flask. It was too much for me. I feel so sick!” And she leaned against the wooden fence.

“Dear God, you’re quite ill, dear!” said the woman. “Maybe it’ll pass though—No, you really are bad off. I’d better get you home.”

“But the clothes there—”

“I’ll take care of it. Take my arm. The boy can stay here and watch things in the meantime, and I’ll come back and wash the rest. There’s just a little bit left.”

And the washerwoman’s legs buckled under her.

“I stood in the cold water too long, and I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since this morning. I have a fever. Oh, dear Jesus, help me home! My poor child!” and she cried.

The boy cried too and was soon sitting alone on the bank close to the wet clothes. The two women walked slowly, the washerwoman wobbling, up the alley, down the street, past the mayor’s house, and all at once she sank down on the cobblestones. People gathered around.

Gimpy-Maren ran into the house for help. The mayor and his guests looked out the windows.

“It’s the washerwoman,” he said. “She’s had a drop too much. She’s no good. It’s a real shame for that good-looking boy she has. I really like the little fellow, but his mother’s no good.”

She regained consciousness and was led to her humble home, where she was put to bed. Good-hearted Maren made her a bowl of warm beer with butter and sugar. She thought that would be the best medicine. Then she went back to the river and did some well-meant but half-hearted rinsing. She really only pulled the wet clothes to the shore and put them in a box.

In the evening she sat with the washerwoman in her humble room. She had gotten a couple of roasted potatoes and a lovely fatty piece of ham from the mayor’s cook for the sick woman. Maren and the boy enjoyed them. The sick woman was content with the smell. She said it was so nourishing.

The boy went to sleep in the same bed as his mother, but he had his spot crosswise at the foot of the bed. He had an old rug for a cover, sewn together from blue and red strips of cloth.

The washerwoman felt a little better. The warm beer had strengthened her, and the smell of the good food had helped.

“Thank you, you dear soul,” she said to Maren. “I want to tell you everything when the boy falls asleep. I think he’s already sleeping. Look how wonderful and sweet he looks with his eyes closed! He doesn’t know what his mother is going through. May God never let him experience it.—I was working for the Councilman, the mayor’s parents, and it happened that the youngest son came home, the student. I was young and wild in those days, but respectable, I swear to God,” said the washerwoman. “The student was so cheerful and gay, so wonderful! Every drop of his blood was honest and good! A better person has never walked the earth. He was a son of the house, and I was a servant, but we became sweethearts, chastely and with honor. A kiss is not a sin, after all, when you really love each other. And he told his mother. She was like God on earth to him, and so wise and loving. He went away, but he placed his gold ring on my finger. When he was gone, my mistress called me in. She spoke to me seriously but gently, like the Lord might do. She explained to me in spirit and in truth the gap between him and me. ‘Now he admires your beauty, but appearances will fade away! You haven’t been educated like him, and you aren’t on the same mental plane. That’s the problem. I have respect for the poor,’ she said. ‘They will perhaps have a higher standing with God in heaven than many rich people, but here on earth you can’t take the wrong road when you’re driving or the carriage will topple over, and you two would topple over! I know that a good man—a tradesman—Erik, the glove maker, has proposed to you. He’s a widower, has no children, and is well off. Think it over!’ Each word she spoke was like a knife in my heart, but she was right! And it crushed me and weighed on me. I kissed her hand and cried salty tears, and even more tears when I got to my room and lay on my bed. That night was a bad night. The Lord knows how I suffered and struggled! Then on Sunday I went to Communion, for guidance. It was like an act of Providence: as I left the church, I met Erik, the glove maker. Then there was no longer any doubt in my mind. We belonged together in position and circumstances. And he was quite well-off. So I went right over to him, took his hand, and asked, ‘Are you still thinking of me?’ ‘Yes, forever and always,’ he said. ‘Would you have a girl who respects and honors you, but doesn’t love you, although that might come?’ ‘It will come!’ he said, and we clasped hands. I went home to my mistress. I was carrying the gold ring that her son had given me against my bare breast. I couldn’t wear it on my finger during the day, only at night when I lay in my bed. I kissed the ring until my lips bled, and then I gave it to my mistress and told her that the next week the engagement between me and the glove maker would be announced at church. Then my mistress took me in her arms and kissed me—She didn’t say that I was no good, but in those days maybe I was better since I hadn’t yet experienced many of the world’s misfortunes. The wedding took place at Candlemas, and the first year went well. We had a journeyman and an apprentice, and you, Maren, worked for us.”

“Oh you were a wonderful mistress!” said Maren. “I’ll never forget how kind you and your husband were.”

“You were with us in the good years! We didn’t have children then. I never saw the student. Well, I saw him, but he didn’t see me. He came home for his mother’s funeral, and I saw him standing by the grave. He was chalk-white and so sad, but it was for his mother’s sake. Later when his father died, he was abroad and didn’t come home, and hasn’t been back since. I know that he never got married. I guess he was a lawyer. He didn’t remember me, and if he had seen me, I’m sure he wouldn’t have recognized me since I’ve become so ugly. So that’s for the best.”

And she talked about the difficult days, how misfortune seemed to overwhelm them. They had five hundred dollars, and since there was a house for sale in their street for two hundred, they though it would pay to buy it and tear it down to build a new one. The house was bought. The masons and carpenters estimated that it would cost a thousand and twenty dollars more. Erik the glove maker had credit, and he got the money on loan from Copenhagen, but the captain who was bringing the money was lost in a shipwreck and the money with him.

“That’s when I had my wonderful boy, who’s sleeping here. His father fell ill with a terrible long-lasting illness. For nine months I had to dress and undress him. Things went from bad to worse for us. We borrowed and borrowed. We lost all our things, and then my husband died! I have toiled and worked, struggled and slaved for the sake of my child. I’ve washed floors, done laundry both fine and coarse. It’s God’s will that I don’t do better, but he will surely let me go soon and then provide for my boy.”

And then she slept.

Later in the morning she felt stronger and strong enough, she thought, to go back to work. She had just gone into the cold water when she was overcome by a shaking, a faint. Convulsively she reached out with her hand, took a step, and fell. Her head was lying on dry land, but her feet were in the river. Her wooden shoes that she had worn in the river—there was a bundle of straw in each of them—floated in the current. She was found by Maren, who came with coffee.

There had been a message from the mayor that she had to meet with him right away. He had something to tell her, but it was too late. A barber was fetched for blood-letting, but the washerwoman was dead.

“She drank herself to death!” said the mayor.

The letter that brought the news of his brother’s death also contained the contents of the will. There was a bequest of six hundred dollars to the glove maker’s widow, who had once served his parents. The money should be paid out to the woman and her child in larger or smaller amounts according to what was best.

“There were some dealings between my brother and her,” said the mayor. “It’s a good thing she’s out of the way. The boy will get it all, and I’ll place him with some good people. He could become a good tradesman.” And God’s blessing fell on those words.

The mayor summoned the boy and promised to provide for him, and told him what a good thing it was that his mother was dead. She was no good!

She was carried to the grave-yard, to the poor people’s cemetery. Maren planted a little rose bush by the grave, and the boy stood beside it.

“My sweet mother!” he said and tears streamed down his face. “Is it true that she was no good?”

“No, she was good!” said the old maid and looked up towards heaven. “I know that from many years’ experience and from her last night. I tell you, she was good. And God in heaven knows it too, no matter if the world says—‘She was no good!’ ”