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She Was Good For Nothing
by
“Oh, you poor thing! How you work, standing there in the water!” cried the visitor. “You really require something to warm you; and yet malicious folks cry out about the few drops you take!” And in a few minutes’ time the mayor’s late speech was reported to the laundress; for Martha had heard it all, and she had been angry that a man could speak as he had done to a woman’s own child, about the few drops the mother took: and she was the more angry, because the mayor on that very day was giving a great feast, at which wine was drunk by the bottle–good wine, strong wine. “A good many will take more than they need–but that’s not called drinking. They are good; but you are good for nothing!” cried Martha, indignantly.
“Ah, so he spoke to you, my child?” said the washerwoman; and her lips trembled as she spoke. “So he says you have a mother who is good for nothing? Well, perhaps he’s right, but he should not have said it to the child. Still, I have had much misfortune from that house.”
“You were in service there when the mayor’s parents were alive, and lived in that house. That is many years ago: many bushels of salt have been eaten since then, and we may well be thirsty;” and Martha smiled. “The mayor has a great dinner party to-day. The guests were to have been put off, but it was too late, and the dinner was already cooked. The footman told me about it. A letter came a little while ago, to say that the younger brother had died in Copenhagen.”
“Died!” repeated the laundress–and she became pale as death.
“Yes, certainly,” said Martha. “Do you take that so much to heart? Well, you must have known him years ago, when you were in service in the house.”
“Is he dead? He was such a good, worthy man! There are not many like him.” And the tears rolled down her cheeks. “Good heavens! everything is whirling around me–it was too much for me. I feel quite ill.” And she leaned against the plank.
“Good heavens, you are ill indeed!” exclaimed the other woman. “Come, come, it will pass over presently. But no, you really look seriously ill. The best thing will be for me to lead you home.”
“But my linen yonder–“
“I will take care of that. Come, give me your arm. The boy can stay here and take care of it, and I’ll come back and finish the washing; that’s only a trifle.”
The laundress’s limbs shook under her. “I have stood too long in the cold water,” she said faintly, “and I have eaten and drunk nothing since this morning. The fever is in my bones. O kind Heaven, help me to get home! My poor child!” and she burst into tears. The boy wept too, and soon he was sitting alone by the river, beside the damp linen. The two women could make only slow progress. The laundress dragged her weary limbs along, and tottered through the lane and round the corner into the street where stood the house of the mayor; and just in front of his mansion she sank down on the pavement. Many people assembled round her, and Lame Martha ran into the house to get help. The mayor and his guests came to the window.
“That’s the washerwoman!” he said. “She has taken a glass too much. She is good for nothing. It’s a pity for the pretty son she has. I really like the child very well; but the mother is good for nothing.”
Presently the laundress came to herself, and they led her into her poor dwelling, and put her to bed. Kind Martha heated a mug of beer for her, with butter and sugar, which she considered the best medicine; and then she hastened to the river, and rinsed the linen–badly enough, though her will was good. Strictly speaking, she drew it ashore, wet as it was, and laid it in a basket.