Little Nikas had washed the blacking from his face and had put on his
best clothes; he wanted to go to the market with a bundle of washing,
which the butcher from Aaker was to take home to his mother, and Pelle
walked behind him, carrying the bundle. Little Nikas saluted many
friendly maidservants in the houses of the neighborhood, and Pelle
found it more amusing to walk beside him than to follow; two people who
are together ought to walk abreast. But every time he walked beside the
journeyman the latter pushed him into the gutter, and finally Pelle
fell over a curbstone; then he gave it up.
Up the street the crazy watchmaker was standing on the edge of his high
steps, swinging a weight; it was attached to the end of a long cord,
and he followed the swinging of the pendulum with his fingers, as
though he were timing the beats. This was very interesting, and Pelle
feared it would escape the journeyman.
“The watchmaker’s making an experiment,” he said cheerfully.
“Stop your jaw!” said the journeyman sharply. Then it occurred to Pelle
that he was not allowed to speak, so he closed his mouth tight.
He felt the bundle, in order to picture to himself what the contents
were like. His eyes swept all the windows and the side streets, and
every moment he carried his free hand to his mouth, as though he were
yawning, and introduced a crumb of black bread, which he had picked up
in the kitchen. His braces were broken, so he had continually to puff
out his belly; there were hundreds of things to look at, and the
coal-merchant’s dog to be kicked while, in all good faith, he snuffed
at a curbstone.
A funeral procession came toward them, and the journeyman passed it
with his head bared, so Pelle did the same. Eight at the back of the
procession came Tailor Bjerregrav with his crutch; he always followed
every funeral, and always walked light at the back because his method
of progression called for plenty of room. He would stand still and look
on the ground until the last of the other followers had gone a few
steps in advance, then he would set his crutch in front of him, swing
himself forward for a space, and then stand still again. Then he would
swing forward again on his lame legs, and again stand still and watch
the others, and again take a few paces, looking like a slowly wandering
pair of compasses which was tracing the path followed by the
procession.
But the funniest thing was that the tailor had forgotten to button up
the flap of his black mourning-breeches, so that it hung over his knees
like an apron. Pelle was not quite sure that the journeyman had noticed
this.
“Bjerregrav has forgotten—”
“Hold your jaw.” Little Nikas made a movement backward, and Pelle
ducked his head and pressed his hand tightly to his mouth.
Over in Staal Street there was a great uproar; an enormously fat woman
was standing there quarrelling with two seamen. She was in her nightcap
and petticoat, and Pelle knew her.
“That’s the Sow!” he began. “She’s a dreadful woman; up at Stone
Farm——”
_Smack!_ Little Nikas gave him such a box on the ear that he had to sit
down on the woodcarver’s steps. “One, two, three, four— that’s it; now
come on!” He counted ten steps forward and set off again. “But God help
you if you don’t keep your distance!”
Pelle kept his distance religiously, but he instantly discovered that
little Nikas, like old Jeppe, had too large a posterior. That certainly
came of sitting too much—and it twisted one’s loins. He protruded his
own buttocks as far as he could, smoothed down a crease in his jacket
over his hips, raised himself elegantly upon the balls of his feet and
marched proudly forward, one hand thrust into the breast of his coat.
If the journeyman scratched himself, Pelle did the same—and he swayed
his body in the same buoyant manner; his cheeks were burning, but he
was highly pleased with himself.
Directly he was his own master he went the round of the country
butchers, questioning them, in the hope of hearing some news of Lasse,
but no one could tell him anything. He went from cart to cart, asking
his questions. “Lasse Karlson?” said one. “Ah, he was cowherd up at
Stone Farm!” Then he called to another, asking him about Lasse —the old
cowherd at Stone Farm—and he again called to a third, and they all
gathered about the carts, in order to talk the matter over. There were
men here who travelled all over the island[1] in order to buy cattle;
they knew everything and everybody, but they could tell him nothing of
Lasse. “Then he’s not in the island,” said one, very decidedly. “You
must get another father, my lad!”
[1] Bornholm
Pelle did not feel inclined for chaff, so he slipped away. Besides, he
must go back and get to work; the young master, who was busily going
from cart to cart, ordering meat, had called to him. They hung together
like the halves of a pea-pod when it was a question of keeping the
apprentices on the curb, although otherwise they were jealous enough of
one another.
Bjerregrav’s crutch stood behind the door, and he himself sat in stiff
funereal state by the window; he held a folded white handkerchief in
his folded hands, and was diligently mopping his eyes.
“Was he perhaps a relation of yours?” said the young master slyly.
“No; but it is so sad for those who are left—a wife and children. There
is always some one to mourn and regret the dead. Man’s life is a
strange thing, Andres.”
“Ah, and potatoes are bad this year, Bjerregrav!”
Neighbor Jörgen filled up the whole doorway. “Lord, here we have that
blessed Bjerregrav!” he shouted; “and in state, too! What’s on to-day
then—going courting, are you?”
“I’ve been following!” answered Bjerregrav, in a hushed voice.
The big baker made an involuntary movement; he did not like being
unexpectedly reminded of death. “You, Bjerregrav, you ought to be a
hearse-driver; then at least you wouldn’t work to no purpose!”
“It isn’t to no purpose when they are dead,” stammered Bjerregrav. “I
am not so poor that I need much, and there is no one who stands near to
me. No living person loses anything because I follow those who die. And
then I know them all, and I’ve followed them all in thought since they
were born,” he added apologetically.
“If only you got invited to the funeral feast and got something of all
the good things they have to eat,” continued the baker, “I could
understand it better.”
“The poor widow, who sits there with her four little ones and doesn’t
know how she’s to feed them—to take food from her—no, I couldn’t do it!
She’s had to borrow three hundred kroner so that her man could have a
respectable funeral party.”
“That ought to be forbidden by law,” said Master Andres; “any one with
little children hasn’t the right to throw away money on the dead.”
“She is giving her husband the last honors,” said Jeppe reprovingly.
“That is the duty of every good wife.”
“Of course,” rejoined Master Andres. “God knows, something must be
done. It’s like the performances on the other side of the earth, where
the widow throws herself on the funeral pyre when the husband dies, and
has to be burned to death.”
Baker Jörgen scratched his thighs and grimaced. “You are trying to get
us to swallow one of your stinking lies, Andres. You’d never get a
woman to do that, if I know anything of womankind.”
But Bjerregrav knew that the shoemaker was not lying, and fluttered his
thin hands in the air, as though he were trying to keep something
invisible from touching his body. “God be thanked that we came into the
world on this island here,” he said, in a low voice. “Here only
ordinary things happen, however wrongheaded they may be.”
“What puzzles me is where she got all that money!” said the baker.
“She’s borrowed it, of course,” said Bjerregrav, in a tone of voice
that made it clear that he wanted to terminate the conversation.
Jeppe retorted contemptuously, “Who’s going to lend a poor mate’s widow
three hundred kroner? He might as well throw it into the sea right
away.”
But Baker Jörgen gave Bjerregrav a great smack on the back. “You’ve
given her the money, it’s you has done it; nobody else would he such a
silly sheep!” he said threateningly.
“You let me be!” stammered Bjerregrav. “I’ve done nothing to you! And
she has had one happy day in the midst of all her sorrow.” His hands
were trembling.
“You’re a goat!” said Jeppe shortly.
“What is Bjerregrav really thinking about when he stands like this
looking down into the grave?” asked the young master, in order to
divert the conversation.
“I am thinking: Now you are lying there, where you are better off than
here,” said the old tailor simply.
“Yes, because Bjerregrav follows only poor people,” said Jeppe, rather
contemptuously.
“I can’t help it, but I’m always thinking,” continued Master Andres;
“just supposing it were all a take-in! Suppose he follows them and
enjoys the whole thing—and then there’s nothing! That’s why I never
like to see a funeral.”
“Ah, you see, that’s the question—supposing there’s nothing.” Baker
Jörgen turned his thick body. “Here we go about imagining a whole lot
of things; but what if it’s all just lies?”
“That’s the mind of an unbeliever!” said Jeppe, and stamped violently
on the floor.
“God preserve my mind from unbelief!” retorted brother Jörgen, and he
stroked his face gravely. “But a man can’t very well help thinking. And
what does a man see round about him? Sickness and death and halleluiah!
We live, and we live, I tell you, Brother Jeppe—and we live in order to
live! But, good heavens! all the poor things that aren’t born yet!”
He sank into thought again, as was usual with him when he thought of
Little Jörgen, who refused to come into the world and assume his name
and likeness, and carry on after him…. There lay his belief; there was
nothing to be done about it. And the others began to speak in hushed
voices, in order not to disturb his memories.
Pelle, who concerned himself with everything in heaven and earth, had
been absorbing every word that was spoken with his protruding ears, but
when the conversation turned upon death he yawned. He himself had never
been seriously ill, and since Mother Bengta died, death had never
encroached upon his world. And that was lucky for him, as it would have
been a case of all or nothing, for he had only Father Lasse. For Pelle
the cruel hands of death hardly existed, and he could not understand
how people could lay themselves down with their noses in the air; there
was so much to observe here below—the town alone kept one busy.
On the very first evening he had run out to look for the other boys,
just where the crowd was thickest. There was no use in waiting; Pelle
was accustomed to take the bull by the horns, and he longed to be taken
into favor.
“What sort of brat is that?” they said, flocking round him.
“I’m Pelle,” he said, standing confidently in the midst of the group,
and looking at them all. “I have been at Stone Farm since I was eight,
and that is the biggest farm in the north country.” He had put his
hands in his pockets, and spat coolly in front of him, for that was
nothing to what he had in reserve.
“Oh, so you’re a farmer chap, then!” said one, and the others laughed.
Rud was among them.
“Yes,” said Pelle; “and I’ve done a bit of ploughing, and mowing fodder
for the calves.”
They winked at one another. “Are you really a farmer chap?”
“Yes, truly,” replied Pelle, perplexed; they had spoken the word in a
tone which he now remarked.
They all burst out laughing: “He confesses it himself. And he comes
from the biggest farm in the country. Then he’s the biggest farmer in
the country!”
“No, the farmer was called Kongstrup,” said Pelle emphatically. “I was
only the herd-boy.”
They roared with laughter. “He doesn’t see it now! Why, Lord, that’s
the biggest farmer’s lout!”
Pelle had not yet lost his head, for he had heavier ammunition, and now
he was about to play a trump. “And there at the farm there was a man
called Erik, who was so strong that he could thrash three men, but the
bailiff was stronger still; and he gave Erik such a blow that he lost
his senses.”
“Oh, indeed! How did he manage that? Can you hit a farmer chap so that
he loses his senses? Who was it hit you like that?” The questions
rained upon him.
Pelle pushed the boy who had asked the last question, and fixed his
eyes upon his. But the rascal let fly at him again. “Take care of your
best clothes,” he said, laughing. “Don’t crumple your cuffs!”
Pelle had put on a clean blue shirt, of which the neckband and
wristbands had to serve as collar and cuffs. He knew well enough that
he was clean and neat, and now they were being smart at his expense on
that very account.
“And what sort of a pair of Elbe barges has he got on? Good Lord! Why,
they’d fill half the harbor!” This was in reference to Kongstrup’s
shoes. Pelle had debated with himself as to whether he should wear them
on a week-day. “When did you celebrate hiring-day?” asked a third. This
was in reference to his fat red cheeks.
Now he was ready to jump out of his skin, and cast his eyes around to
see if there was nothing with which he could lay about him, for this
would infallibly end in an attack upon the whole party. Pelle already
had them all against him.
But just then a long, thin lad came forward. “Have you a pretty
sister?” he asked.
“I have no sisters at all,” answered Pelle shortly.
“That’s a shame. Well, can you play hide-and-seek?”
Of course Pelle could!
“Well, then, play!” The thin boy pushed Pelle’s cap over his eyes, and
turned him with his face against the plank fence. “Count to a
hundred—and no cheating, I tell you!”
No, Pelle would not cheat—he would neither look nor count short— so
much depended on this beginning. But he solemnly promised himself to
use his legs to some purpose; they should all be caught, one after
another! He finished his counting and took his cap from his eyes. No
one was to be seen. “Say ‘peep’!” he cried; but no one answered. For
half an hour Pelle searched among timbers and warehouses, and at last
he slipped away home and to bed. But he dreamed, that night, that he
caught them all, and they elected him as their leader for all future
time.
The town did not meet him with open arms, into which he could fall,
with his childlike confidence, and be carried up the ladder. Here,
apparently, one did not talk about the heroic deeds which elsewhere
gave a man foothold; here such things merely aroused scornful laughter.
He tried it again and again, always with something new, but the answer
was always the same—“Farmer!” His whole little person was overflowing
with good-will, and he became deplorably dejected.
Pelle soon perceived that his whole store of ammunition was crumbling
between his hands, and any respect he had won at home, on the farm or
in the village, by his courage and good nature, went for nothing here.
Here other qualities counted; there was a different jargon, the clothes
were different, and people went about things in a different way.
Everything he had valued was turned to ridicule, even down to his
pretty cap with its ear-flaps and its ribbon adorned with
representations of harvest implements. He had come to town so calmly
confident in himself—to make the painful discovery that he was a
laughable object! Every time he tried to make one of a party, he was
pushed to one side; he had no right to speak to others; he must take
the hindmost rank!
Nothing remained to him but to sound the retreat all along the line
until he had reached the lowest place of all. And hard as this was for
a smart youngster who was burning to set his mark on everything, Pelle
did it, and confidently prepared to scramble up again. However sore his
defeat, he always retained an obstinate feeling of his own worth, which
no one could take away from him. He was persuaded that the trouble lay
not with himself but with all sorts of things about him, and he set
himself restlessly to find out the new values and to conduct a war of
elimination against himself. After every defeat he took himself
unweariedly to task, and the next evening he would go forth once more,
enriched by so many experiences, and would suffer defeat at a new
point. He wanted to conquer—but what must he not sacrifice first? He
knew of nothing more splendid than to march resoundingly through the
streets, his legs thrust into Lasse’s old boots—this was the essence of
manliness. But he was man enough to abstain from so doing—for here such
conduct would be regarded as boorish. It was harder for him to suppress
his past; it was so inseparable from Father Lasse that he was obsessed
by a sense of unfaithfulness. But there was no alternative; if he
wanted to get on he must adapt himself in everything, in prejudices and
opinions alike. But he promised himself to flout the lot of them so
soon as he felt sufficiently high-spirited.
What distressed him most was the fact that his handicraft was so little
regarded. However accomplished he might become, the cobbler was, and
remained, a poor creature with a pitchy snout and a big behind!
Personal performance counted for nothing; it was obvious that he must
as soon as possible escape into some other walk of life.
But at least he was in the town, and as one of its inhabitants— there
was no getting over that. And the town seemed still as great and as
splendid, although it had lost the look of enchantment it once had,
when Lasse and he had passed through it on their way to the country.
Most of the people wore their Sunday clothes, and many sat still and
earned lots of money, but no one knew how. All roads came hither, and
the town swallowed everything: pigs and corn and men—everything sooner
or later found its harbor here! The Sow lived here with Rud, who was
now apprenticed to a painter, and the twins were here! And one day
Pelle saw a tall boy leaning against a door and bellowing at the top of
his voice, his arms over his face, while a couple of smaller boys were
thrashing him; it was Howling Peter, who was cook’s boy on a vessel.
Everything flowed into the town!
But Father Lasse—he was not here!