I
On that windy May-day morning when Pelle tumbled out of the nest, it so
happened that old Klaus Hermann was clattering into town with his
manure-cart, in order to fetch a load of dung. And this trifling
circumstance decided the boy’s position in life. There was no more
pother than this about the question: What was Pelle to be?
He had never put that question to himself. He had simply gone onward at
hazard, as the meaning of the radiant world unfolded itself. As to what
he should make of himself when he was really out in the world —well,
the matter was so incomprehensible that it was mere folly to think
about it. So he just went on.
Now he had reached the further end of the ridge. He lay down in the
ditch to recover his breath after his long walk; he was tired and
hungry, but in excellent spirits. Down there at his feet, only half a
mile distant, lay the town. There was a cheerful glitter about it; from
its hundreds of fireplaces the smoke of midday fires curled upward into
the blue sky, and the red roofs laughed roguishly into the beaming face
of the day. Pelle immediately began to count the houses; not wishing to
exaggerate, he had estimated them at a million only, and already he was
well into the first hundred.
But in the midst of his counting he jumped up. What did the people down
there get for dinner? They must surely live well there! And was it
polite to go on eating until one was quite full, or should one lay down
one’s spoon when one had only half finished, like the landowners when
they attended a dinner? For one who was always hungry this was a very
important question.
There was a great deal of traffic on the high-road. People were coming
and going; some had their boxes behind them in a cart, and others
carried their sole worldly possessions in a bag slung over their
shoulders, just as he did. Pelle knew some of these people, and nodded
to them benevolently; he knew something about all of them. There were
people who were going to the town—his town—and some were going farther,
far over the sea, to America, or even farther still, to serve the King
there; one could see that by their equipment and the frozen look on
their faces. Others were merely going into the town to make a hole in
their wages, and to celebrate May-day. These came along the road in
whole parties, humming or whistling, with empty hands and overflowing
spirits. But the most interesting people were those who had put their
boxes on a wheelbarrow, or were carrying them by both handles. These
had flushed faces, and were feverish in their movements; they were
people who had torn themselves away from their own country-side, and
their accustomed way of life, and had chosen the town, as he himself
had done.
There was one man, a cottager, with a little green chest on his
wheelbarrow; this latter was broad in the beam, and it was neatly
adorned with flowers painted by his own hand. Beside him walked his
daughter; her cheeks were red, and her eyes were gazing into the
unknown future. The father was speaking to her, but she did not look as
though she heard him. “Yes—now you must take it on you to look out for
yourself; you must think about it, and not throw yourself away. The
town is quite a good place for those who go right ahead and think of
their own advantage, but it thinks nothing of who gets trodden
underfoot. So don’t be too trusting, for the people there are wonderful
clever in all sorts of tricks to take you in and trip you up. At the
same time you want to be soft-spoken and friendly.” She did not reply
to this; she was apparently more taken up with the problem of putting
down her feet in their new shoes so that the heels should not turn
over.
There was a stream of people coming up from the town too. All the
forenoon Pelle had been meeting Swedes who had come that morning in the
steamer, and were now looking for a job on the land. There were old
folk, worn out with labor, and little children; there were maidens as
pretty as yellow-haired Marie, and young laborers who had the strength
of the whole world in their loins and muscles. And this current of life
was setting hither to fill up the gaps left by the swarms that were
going away—but that did not concern Pelle. For seven years ago he had
felt everything that made their faces look so troubled now; what they
were just entering upon he had already put behind him. So there was no
good in looking back.
Presently the old man from Neuendorf came along the road. He was got up
quite like an American, with a portmanteau and a silk neckerchief, and
the inside pockets of his open coat were stuffed full of papers. At
last he had made up his mind, and was going out to his betrothed, who
had already been three years away.
“Hullo!” cried Pelle, “so you are going away?”
The man came over to Pelle and set his portmanteau down by the side of
the ditch.
“Well, yes; it’s time to be going,” he said. “Laura won’t wait for me
any longer. So the old people must see how they can get along without a
son; I’ve done everything for them now for three years. Provided they
can manage all by themselves—”
“They can do that all right,” said Pelle, with an experienced air. “And
they had to get help formerly. There is no future for young people at
home.” He had heard his elders say this. He struck at the grass with
his stick, assuming a superior air.
“No,” said the other, “and Laura refuses to be a cottager’s wife. Well,
good-bye!” He held out his hand to Pelle and tried to smile, but his
features had it their own way; nothing but a rather twisted expression
came over them. He stood there a minute, looking at his boots, his
thumb groping over his face as though he wanted to wipe the tormented
look away; then he picked up his portmanteau and went. He was evidently
not very comfortable.
“I’ll willingly take over the ticket and the bride,” shouted Pelle
merrily. He felt in the deuce of a good humor.
Everybody to-day was treading the road along which Pelle’s own young
blood had called him—every young fellow with a little pluck, every
good-looking wench. Not for a moment was the road free of traffic; it
was like a vast exodus, an army of people escaping from places where
everyone had the feeling that he was condemned to live and die on the
very spot where he was born; an army of people who had chosen the
excitement of the unknown. Those little brick houses which lay
scattered over the green, or stood drawn up in two straight rows where
the high-road ran into the town—those were the cottages of the peasant
folk who had renounced the outdoor life, and dressed themselves in
townified clothes, and had then adventured hither; and down on the
sea-front the houses stood all squeezed and heaped together round the
church, so close that there looked to be no room between them; there
were the crowds who had gone wandering, driven far afield by the
longing in their hearts—and then the sea had set a limit to their
journey.
Pelle had no intention of allowing anything whatever to set a limit to
his journeying. Perhaps, if he had no luck in the town, he would go to
sea. And then one day he would come to some coast that interested him,
and he would land, and go to the gold-diggings. Over there the girls
went mother-naked, with nothing but some blue tattoo-work to hide their
shame; but Pelle had his girl sitting at home, true to him, waiting for
his return. She was more beautiful even than Bodil and yellow-haired
Marie put together, and whole crowds followed her footsteps, but she
sat at home and was faithful, and she would sing the old love-song:
“I had a lad, but he went away
All over the false, false sea,
Three years they are gone, and now to-day
He writes no more to me!”
And while she sang the letter came to the door. But out of every letter
that his father Lasse received fell ten-kroner banknotes, and one day a
letter came with steamer-tickets for the two of them. The song would
not serve him any further, for in the song they perished during the
voyage, and the poor young man spent the rest of his days on the
sea-shore, gazing, through the shadow of insanity, upon every rising
sail. She and Lasse arrived safely—after all sorts of difficulties,
that went without saying—and Pelle stood on the shore and welcomed
them. He had dressed himself up like a savage, and he carried on as
though he meant to eat them before he made himself known.
_Houp la!_ Pelle jumped to his feet. Up the road there was a rattling
and a clanking as though a thousand scythes were clashing together: an
old cart with loose plank sides came slowly jolting along, drawn by the
two most miserable moorland horses he had ever seen. On the driver’s
seat was an old peasant, who was bobbing about as though he would every
moment fall in pieces, like all the rest of his equipment. Pelle did
not at first feel sure whether it was the cart itself or the two bags
of bones between the shafts that made such a frightful din whenever
they moved, but as the vehicle at last drew level with him, and the old
peasant drew up, he could not resist the invitation to get up and have
a lift. His shoulders were still aching from carrying his sack.
“So you are going to town, after all?” said old Klaus, pointing to his
goods and chattels.
To town, yes indeed! Something seemed to grip hold of Pelle’s bursting
heart, and before he was aware of it he had delivered himself and his
whole future into the old peasant’s hands.
“Yes, yes—yes indeed—why, naturally!” said Klaus, nodding as Pelle came
forward. “Yes, of course! A man can’t do less. And what’s your idea
about what you are going to be in the long run—councillor or king?” He
looked up slowly. “Yes, goin’ to town; well, well, they all, take the
road they feel something calling them to take…. Directly a young
greyhound feels the marrow in his bones, or has got a shilling in his
pocket, he’s got to go to town and leave it there. And what do you
think comes back out the town? Just manure and nothing else! What else
have I ever in my life been able to pick up there? And now I’m
sixty-five. But what’s the good of talking? No more than if a man was
to stick his tail out and blow against a gale. It comes over them just
like the May-gripes takes the young calves— heigh-ho! and away they go,
goin’ to do something big. Afterward, then old Klaus Hermann can come
and clean up after them! They’ve no situation there, and no kinsfolk
what could put them up—but they always expect something big. Why, down
in the town there are beds made up in the streets, and the gutters are
running over with food and money! But what do you mean to do? Let’s
hear it now.”
Pelle turned crimson. He had not yet succeeded in making a beginning,
and already he had been caught behaving like a blockhead.
“Well, well, well,” said Klaus, in a good-humored tone, “you are no
bigger fool than all the rest. But if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go
to shoemaker Jeppe Kofod as apprentice; I am going straight to his
place to fetch manure, and I know he’s looking for an apprentice. Then
you needn’t go floundering about uncertain-like, and you can drive
right up to the door like the quality.”
Pelle winced all over. Never in his life had it entered his head that
he could ever become a shoemaker. Even back there on the land, where
people looked up to the handicrafts, they used always to say, if a boy
had not turned out quite right: “Well, we can always make a cobbler or
a tailor of him!” But Pelle was no cripple, that he must lead a
sedentary life indoors in order to get on at all; he was strong and
well-made. What he would be—well, that certainly lay in the hands of
fortune; but he felt very strongly that it ought to be something
active, something that needed courage and energy. And in any case he
was quite sure as to what he did not want to be. But as they jolted
through the town, and Pelle—so as to be beforehand with the great
world—kept on taking off his cap to everybody, although no one returned
his greeting, his spirits began to sink, and a sense of his own
insignificance possessed him. The miserable cart, at which all the
little town boys laughed and pointed with their fingers, had a great
deal to do with this feeling.
“Take off your cap to a pack like that!” grumbled Klaus; “why, only
look how puffed up they behave, and yet everything they’ve got they’ve
stolen from us others. Or what do you suppose—can you see if they’ve
got their summer seeds in the earth yet?” And he glared contemptuously
down the street.
No, there was nothing growing on the stone pavements, and all these
little houses, which stood so close that now and then they seemed to
Pelle as if they must be squeezed out of the row—these gradually took
his breath away. Here were thousands and thousands of people, if that
made any difference; and all his blind confidence wavered at the
question: where did all their food come from? For here he was once more
at home in his needy, familiar world, where no amount of smoke will
enable one to buy a pair of socks. All at once he felt thoroughly
humble, and he decided that it would be all he could do here to hold
his own, and find his daily bread among all these stones, for here
people did not raise it naturally from the soil, but got it—well, how
_did_ they get it?
The streets were full of servants. The girls stood about in groups,
their arms round one another’s waists, staring with burning eyes at the
cotton-stuffs displayed in the shops; they rocked themselves gently to
and fro as though they were dreaming. A ’prentice boy of about Pelle’s
age, with a red, spotty face, was walking down the middle of the
street, eating a great wheaten roll which he held with both hands; his
ears were full of scabs and his hands swollen with the cold. Farm
laborers went by, carrying red bundles in their hands, their overcoats
flapping against their calves; they would stop suddenly at a turning,
look cautiously round, and then hurry down a side street. In front of
the shops the salesmen were walking up and down, bareheaded, and if any
one stopped in front of their windows they would beg them, in the
politest manner, to step nearer, and would secretly wink at one another
across the street.
“The shopkeepers have arranged their things very neatly to-day,” said
Pelle.
Klaus nodded. “Yes, yes; to-day they’ve brought out everything they
couldn’t get rid of sooner. To-day the block-heads have come to
market—the easy purses. Those”—and he pointed to a side street, “those
are the publicans. They are looking this way so longingly, but the
procession don’t come as far as them. But you wait till this evening,
and then take a turn along here, and ask the different people how much
they’ve got left of their year’s wages. Yes, the town’s a fine
place—the very deuce of a fine place!” And he spat disgustedly.
Pelle had quite lost all his blind courage. He saw not a single person
doing anything by which he himself might earn his bread. And gladly as
he would have belonged to this new world, yet he could not venture into
anything where, perhaps without knowing it, he would be an associate of
people who would tear the rags off his old comrades’ backs. All the
courage had gone out of him, and with a miserable feeling that even his
only riches, his hands, were here useless, he sat irresolute, and
allowed himself to be driven, rattling and jangling, to Master Jeppe
Kofod’s workshop.