Oh! what a pace she was driving at! The farmer whipped up the gray
stallion, and sat looking steadily out over the fields, as if he had no
suspicion that any one was following him; but his wife certainly did
not mind. She whipped the bay as hard as she could, and did not care
who saw her.
And it was in broad daylight that they were playing the fool like this
on the high-road, instead of keeping their quarrels within four walls
as decent people did! It was true enough that gentle folks had no
feeling of shame in them!
Then she called out and stood up in the trap to beat the horse—with the
handle even! Couldn’t she let him drive out in peace to his fair
charmer, whoever she was, and make it warm for him when he came home?
How could she do the same thing over and over again for twenty years?
Really women were persevering creatures!
And how _he_ could be bothered! Having everlasting disturbances at home
for the sake of some hotel landlady or some other woman, who could not
be so very different to be with than his own wife! It would take a
long-suffering nature to be a brute in that way; but that must be what
they call love, properly speaking.
The threshing-machine had come to a standstill, and the people at Stone
Farm were hanging out of the doors and windows, enjoying it royally. It
was a race, and a sight for the gods to see the bay mare gaining upon
the stallion; why, it was like having two Sundays in one week! Lasse
had come round the corner, and was following the mad race, his hand
shading his eyes. Never had he known such a woman; Bengta was a perfect
lamb compared to her! The farmer at Kaase Farm, who was standing at his
gate when they dashed past, was secretly of the same opinion; and the
workers in the fields dropped their implements, stared and were
scandalized at the sight.
At last, for very shame, he had to stop and turn round. She crawled
over into his carriage, and the bay followed quietly with her empty
vehicle. She put her arm about his shoulder, and looked happy and
triumphant, exactly like the district policeman when he has had a
successful chase; but he looked like a criminal of the worst kind. In
this way they came driving back to the farm.
One day Kalle came to borrow ten krones and to invite Lasse and Pelle
to the christening-party on the following Sunday. Lasse, with some
difficulty, obtained the money from the bailiff up in the office, but
to the invitation they had to say “No, thank you,” hard though it was;
it was quite out of the question for them to get off again. Another day
the head man had disappeared. He had gone in the night, and had taken
his big chest with him, so some one must have helped him; but the other
men in the room swore solemnly that they had noticed nothing, and the
bailiff, fume as he might, was obliged to give up the attempt to solve
the mystery.
One or two things of this kind happened that made a stir for a day or
two, but with these exceptions the winter was hard to get through.
Darkness ruled for the greater part of the twenty-four hours, and it
was never quite light in the corners. The cold, too, was hard to bear,
except when you were in the comfortable stable. In there it was always
warm, and Pelle was not afraid of going about in the thickest darkness.
In the servants’ room they sat moping through the long evenings without
anything to occupy themselves with. They took very little notice of the
girls, but sat playing cards for gin, or telling horrible stories that
made it a most venturesome thing to run across the yard down to the
stable when you had to go to bed.
Per Olsen, on account of his good behavior, was raised to the position
of head man when the other ran away. Lasse and Pelle were glad of this,
for he took their part when they were put upon by any one. He had
become a decent fellow in every respect, hardly ever touched spirits,
and kept his clothes in good order. He was a little too quiet even for
the old day-laborers of the farm and their wives; but they knew the
reason of it and liked him because he took the part of the weak and
because of the fate that hung over him. They said he was always
listening; and when he seemed to be listening within to the unknown,
they avoided as far as possible disturbing him.
“You’ll see he’ll free himself; the Evil One’ll have no claim upon
him,” was the opinion of both Lasse and the laborers’ wives when they
discussed Per Olsen’s prospects at the Sunday milking. “There are some
people that even the Almighty can’t find anything to blame for.”
Pelle listened to this, and tried every day to peep at the scar on Per
Olsen’s thumb. It would surely disappear when God removed his judgment!
During most of the winter Pelle drove the horse for the threshing-
machine. All day he trotted round upon the horse-way outside the farm,
over his wooden shoes in trodden-down snow and manure. It was the most
intolerable occupation that life had yet offered him. He could not even
carve, it was too cold for his fingers; and he felt lonely. As a
herd-boy he was his own master, and a thousand things called to him;
but here he had to go round and round behind a bar, always round. His
one diversion was to keep count of the times he drove round, but that
was a fatiguing employment and made you even duller than the
everlasting going round, and you could not leave off. Time held nothing
of interest, and short as it was the day seemed endless.
As a rule, Pelle awoke happy, but now every morning when he woke he was
weary of everything; it was to be that everlasting trudging round
behind the bar. After a time doing this for about an hour used to make
him fall into a state of half-sleep. The condition came of itself, and
he longed for it before it came. It was a kind of vacuity, in which he
wished for nothing and took no interest in anything, but only staggered
along mechanically at the back of the bar. The machine buzzed
unceasingly, and helped to maintain the condition; the dust kept
pouring out at the window, and the time passed imperceptibly. Generally
now dinner or evening surprised him, and sometimes it seemed to him
that the horses had only just been harnessed when some one came out to
help him in with them. He had arrived at the condition of torpor that
is the only mercy that life vouchsafes to condemned prisoners and
people who spend their lives beside a machine. But there was a
sleepiness about him even in his free time; he was not so lively and
eager to know about everything; Father Lasse missed his innumerable
questions and little devices.
Now and again he was roused for a moment out of his condition by the
appearance at the window of a black, perspiring face, that swore at him
because he was not driving evenly. He knew then that Long Ole had taken
the place of Per Olsen, whose business it was to feed the machine. It
sometimes happened, too, that the lash of the whip caught on the axle
and wound round it, so that the whole thing had to be stopped and drawn
backward; and that day he did not fall into a doze again.
In March the larks appeared and brought a little life. Snow still lay
in the hollows, but their singing reminded Pelle warmly of summer and
grazing cattle. And one day he was wakened in his tramp round and round
by seeing a starling on the roof of the house, whistling and preening
its feathers in delight. On that day the sun shone brightly, and all
heaviness was gone from the air; but the sea was still a pale gray down
there.
Pelle began to be a human being again. It was spring, and then, too, in
a couple of days the threshing would be finished. But after all, the
chief thing was that waistcoat-pocket of his; that was enough to put
life into its owner. He ran round in a trot behind the bar; he had to
drive quickly now in order to get done, for every one else was in the
middle of spring ploughing already. When he pressed his hand against
his chest, he could distinctly feel the paper it was wrapped in. For it
was still there, wasn’t it? It would not do to open the paper and look;
he must find out by squeezing.
Pelle had become the owner of fifty öres—a perfectly genuine fifty-öre
piece. It was the first time he had ever possessed anything more than
two and one öre pieces, and he had earned it by his own cleverness.
It was on Sunday, when the men had had a visit from some quarrymen, and
one of them had hit upon the idea of sending for some birch-fat to have
with their dram. Pelle was to run to the village shop for it, and he
was given a half-krone and injunctions to go in the back way, as it was
Sunday. Pelle had not forgotten his experience at Christmas, and kept
watch upon their faces. They were all doing their best to smooth them
out and busy themselves with one thing and another; and Gustav, who
gave him the money, kept turning his face away and looking at something
out in the yard.
When he stated his errand, the shopman’s wife broke into a laugh. “I
say, don’t you know better than that?” she exclaimed. “Why, wasn’t it
you who fetched the handle-turner too? You’ve all found that very
useful, haven’t you?”
Pelle turned crimson. “I thought they were making fun of me, but I
didn’t dare say no,” he said in a low voice.
“No, one has to play the fool sometimes, whether one is it or not,”
said the woman.
“What is birch-fat, then?” asked Pelle.
“Why, my gracious! You must have had it many a time, you little imp!
But it shows how often you have to put up with things you don’t know
the name of.”
A light dawned upon Pelle. “Does it mean a thrashing with a birch-rod?”
“Didn’t I say you knew it?”
“No, I’ve only had it with a whip—on my legs.”
“Well, well, you needn’t mind that; the one may be just as good as the
other. But now sit down and drink a cup of coffee while I wrap up the
article for them.” She pushed a cup of coffee with brown sugar toward
him, and began ladling out soft soap on to a piece of paper. “Here,”
she said. “You give them that: it’s the best birch-fat. And you can
keep the money yourself.”
Pelle was not courageous enough for this arrangement.
“Very well, then,” she said. “I’ll keep the money for you. They shan’t
make fools of us both. And then you can get it yourself. But now you
must put on a bold face.”
Pelle did put on a bold face, but he was decidedly nervous. The men
swore at the loss of the half-krone, and called him the “greatest idiot
upon God’s green earth”; but he had the satisfaction of knowing that
that was because he had not been stupid enough. And the half-krone was
his!
A hundred times a day he felt it without wearing it out. Here at last
was something the possession of which did not rob it of its lustre.
There was no end to the purchases he made with it, now for Lasse, now
for himself. He bought the dearest things, and when he lingered long
enough over one purchase and was satiated with the possession of it, he
set about buying something else. And all the while he kept the coin. At
times he would be suddenly seized with an insane fear that the money
was gone; and then when he felt it, he was doubly happy.
Pelle had suddenly become a capitalist, and by his own cleverness; and
he made the most of his capital. He had already obtained every
desirable thing that he knew of—he had it all, at any rate, in hand;
and gradually as new things made their appearance in his world, he
secured for himself the right to their purchase. Lasse was the only
person who knew about his wealth, and he had reluctantly to allow
himself to be drawn into the wildest of speculations.
He could hear by the sound that there was something wrong with the
machine. The horses heard it too, and stopped even before some one
cried “Stop!” Then one after another came the shouts: “Stop! Drive on!
Stop! On again! Stop! Pull!” And Pelle pulled the bar back, drove on
and pulled until the whole thing whizzed again. Then he knew that it
was Long Ole feeding the machine while Per Olsen measured the grain:
Ole was a duffer at feeding.
It was going smoothly again, and Pelle was keeping an eye on the corner
by the cow-stable. When Lasse made his appearance there, and patted his
stomach, it meant that it was nearly dinner-time.
Something stopped the bar, the horses had to pull hard, and with a jerk
it cleared the invisible hindrance. There was a cry from the inside of
the threshing-barn, and the sound of many voices shouting “Stop!” The
horses stopped dead, and Pelle had to seize the bar to prevent it
swinging forward against their legs. It was some time before any one
came out and took the horses in, so that Pelle could go into the barn
and see what was the matter.
He found Long Ole walking about and writhing over one of his hands. His
blouse was wrapped about it, but the blood was dripping through on to
the floor of the barn. He was bending forward and stumbling along,
throwing his body from side to side and talking incoherently. The
girls, pale and frightened, were standing gazing at him while the men
were quarreling as to what was the best thing to do to stop the flow of
blood, and one of them came sliding down from the loft with a handful
of cobwebs.
Pelle went and peered into the machine to find out what there was so
voracious about it. Between two of the teeth lay something like a peg,
and when he moved the roller, the greater part of a finger dropped down
on to the barn floor. He picked it up among some chaff, and took it to
the others: it was a thumb! When Long Ole saw it, he fainted; it could
hardly be wondered at, seeing that he was maimed for life. But Per
Olsen had to own that he had left the machine at a fortunate moment.
There was no more threshing done that day. In the afternoon Pelle
played in the stable, for he had nothing to do. While he played, he
suggested plans for their future to his father: they were engrossed in
it.
“Then we’ll go to America, and dig for gold!”
“Ye-es, that wouldn’t be a bad thing at all. But it would take a good
many more half-krones to make that journey.”
“Then we can set up as stone-masons.”
Lasse stood still in the middle of the foddering-passage, and pondered
with bent head. He was exceedingly dissatisfied with their position;
there were two of them toiling to earn a hundred krones, and they could
not make ends meet. There was never any liberty either; they were
simply slaves. By himself he never got any farther than being
discontented and disappointed with everything; he was too old. The mere
search for ways to something new was insuperable labor, and everything
looked so hopeless. But Pelle was restless, and whenever he was
dissatisfied with anything, made plans by the score, some of the
wildest, and some fairly sensible; and the old man was carried away by
them.
“We might go to the town and work too,” said Lasse meditatively. “They
earn one bright krone after another in there. But what’s to be done
with you? You’re too little to use a tool.”
This stubborn fact put a stop for the moment to Pelle’s plans; but then
his courage rose again. “I can quite well go with you to the town,” he
said. “For I shall——” He nodded significantly.
“What?” asked Lasse, with interest.
“Well, perhaps I’ll go down to the harbor and be doing nothing, and a
little girl’ll fall into the water and I shall save her. But the little
girl will be a gentleman’s daughter, and so——” Pelle left the rest to
Lasse’s imagination.
“Then you’d have to learn to swim first,” said Lasse gravely. “Or you’d
only be drowned.”
Screams were heard from the men’s bedroom. It was Long Ole. The doctor
had come and was busy with his maimed hand. “Just run across and find
out what’ll happen to it!” said Lasse. “Nobody’ll pay any attention to
you at such a time, if you make yourself small.”
In a little while Pelle came back and reported that three fingers were
quite crushed and hanging in rags, and the doctor had cut them off.
“Was it these three?” asked Lasse, anxiously, holding up his thumb,
forefinger, and middle finger. Truth to tell, Pelle had seen nothing,
but his imagination ran away with him.
“Yes, it was his swearing-fingers,” he said, nodding emphatically.
“Then Per Olsen is set free,” said Lasse, heaving a deep sigh. “What a
_good_ thing it has been—quite providential!”
That was Pelle’s opinion too.
The farmer himself drove the doctor home, and a little while after he
had gone, Pelle was sent for, to go on an errand for the mistress to
the village-shop.