One could not be quite as cheerful and secure here as one could at home
in the country; there was always a gnawing something in the background,
which kept one from wholly surrendering oneself. Most people had
wandered hither in search of fortune—poverty had destroyed their
faculty of surrendering to fate; they were weary of waiting and had
resolved to take matters into their own hands. And now here they were,
sunk in wretchedness. They could not stir from the spot; they only
labored and sunk deeper into the mire. But they continued to strive,
with the strength of their bodies, until that gave way, and it was all
over with them.
Pelle had often enough wondered to see how many poor people there were
in the town. Why did not they go ahead with might and main until they
were well off? They had all of them had intentions of that kind, but
nothing came of them. Why? They themselves did not understand why, but
bowed their heads as though under a curse. And if they raised them
again it was only to seek that consolation of the poor—alcohol, or to
attend the meetings of the home missions.
Pelle could not understand it either. He had an obscure sense of that
joyous madness which arises from poverty itself, like a dim but
wonderful dream of reaching the light. And he could not understand why
it failed; and yet he must always follow that impetus upward which
resided in him, and scramble up once more. Yet otherwise his knowledge
was wide; a patched-up window-pane, or a scurfy child’s head, marked an
entrance to that underworld which he had known so well from birth, so
that he could have found his way about it with bandaged eyes. He
attached no particular importance to it, but in this direction his
knowledge was continually extended; he “thee’d and thou’d” poor people
from the first moment, and knew the mournful history of every cottage.
And all he saw and heard was like a weary refrain—it spoke of the same
eternally unalterable longing and the same defeats. He reflected no
further about the matter, but it entered into his blood like an
oppression, purged his mind of presumption, and vitiated his tense
alertness. When he lay his head on his pillow and went to sleep the
endless pulsing of his blood in his ears became the tramping of weary
hordes who were for ever passing in their blind groping after the road
which should lead to light and happiness. His consciousness did not
grasp it, but it brooded oppressively over his days.
The middle-class society of the town was still, as far as he was
concerned, a foreign world. Most of the townsfolk were as poor as
church mice, but they concealed the fact skilfully, and seemed to have
no other desire than to preserve appearances. “Money!” said Master
Andres; “here there’s only one ten-kroner note among all the employers
in the town, and that goes from hand to hand. If it were to stop too
long with one of them all the rest of us would stop payment!” The want
of loose capital weighed on them oppressively, but they boasted of
Shipowner Monsen’s money—there were still rich people in the town! For
the rest, each kept himself going by means of his own earnings; one had
sent footwear to the West Indies, and another had made the bride-bed
for the burgomaster’s daughter; they maintained themselves as a caste
and looked down with contempt upon the people.
Pelle himself had honestly and honorably intended to follow the same
path; to keep smiles for those above him and harsh judgments for those
below him; in short, like Alfred, to wriggle his way upward. But in the
depths of his being his energies were working in another direction, and
they continually thrust him back where he belonged. His conflict with
the street-urchins stopped of itself, it was so aimless; Pelle went in
and out of their houses, and the boys, so soon as they were confirmed,
became his comrades.
The street boys sustained an implacable conflict with those who
attended the town school and the grammar-school. They called them pigs,
after the trough-like satchels which they carried on their backs. Pelle
found himself between a double fire, although he accepted the disdain
and the insult of those above him, as Lasse had taught him, as
something that was inherent in the nature of things. “Some are born to
command and some to obey,” as Lasse said.
But one day he came to blows with one of them. And having thrashed the
postmaster’s son until not a clean spot was left on him, he discovered
that he now had a crow to pluck with the sons of all the fine folks, or
else they would hold him up to ridicule. It was as though something was
redeemed at his hands when he managed to plant them in the face of one
of these lads, and there seemed to be a particular charm connected with
the act of rolling their fine clothes in the mire. When he had thrashed
a “pig” he was always in the rosiest of tempers, and he laughed to
think how Father Lasse would have crossed himself!
One day he met three grammar-school students, who fell upon him then
and there, beating him with their books; there was repayment in every
blow. Pelle got his back against the wall, and defended himself with
his belt, but could not manage the three of them; so he gave the
biggest of them a terrific kick in the lower part of the body and took
to his heels. The boy rolled on the ground and lay there shrieking;
Pelle could see, from the other end of the street, how the other two
were toiling to set him on his legs again. He himself had got off with
a black eye.
“Have you been fighting again, you devil’s imp?” said the young master.
No! Pelle had fallen and bruised himself.
In the evening he went round the harbor to see the steamer go out and
to say good-bye to Peter. He was in a bad temper; he was oppressed by a
foreboding of evil.
The steamer was swarming with people. Over the rail hung a swarm of
freshly-made journeymen of that year’s batch—the most courageous of
them; the others had already gone into other trades, had become postmen
or farm servants. “There is no employment for us in the shoe trade,”
they said dejectedly as they sank. As soon as their journeyman’s
test-work was done they took to their heels, and new apprentices were
taken all along the line. But these fellows here were crossing to the
capital; they wanted to go on working at their own trade. The hundreds
of apprentices of the little town were there, shouting “Hurrah!” every
other moment, for those departing were the heroes who were going forth
to conquer the land of promise for them all. “We are coming after you!”
they cried. “Find me a place, you! Find me a place!”
Emil stood by the harbor shed, with some waterside workers, looking on.
His time was long ago over. The eldest apprentice had not had the pluck
to leave the island; he was now a postman in Sudland and cobbled shoes
at night in order to live. Now Peter stood on the deck above, while
Jens and Pelle stood below and looked up at him admiringly. “Good-bye,
Pelle!” he cried. “Give Jeppe my best respects and tell him he can kiss
my bootsoles!”
Some of the masters were strolling to and fro on the quay, in order to
note that none of their apprentices were absconding from the town.
Jens foresaw the time when he himself would stand there penniless.
“Send me your address,” he said, “and find me something over there.”
“And me too,” said Pelle.
Peter spat. “There’s a bit of sour cabbage soup—take it home and give
it to Jeppe with my love and I wish him good appetite! But give my very
best respects to Master Andres. And when I write, then come
over—there’s nothing to be done in this hole.”
“Don’t let the Social Democrats eat you up!” cried some one from among
the spectators. The words “Social Democrat” were at this time in every
mouth, although no one knew what they meant; they were used as terms of
abuse.
“If they come to me with their damned rot they’ll get one on the
mouth!” said Peter, disdainfully. And then the steamer began to move;
the last cheers were given from the outer breakwater. Pelle could have
thrown himself into the sea; he was burning with desire to turn his
back on it all. And then he let himself drift with the crowd from the
harbor to the circus-ground. On the way he heard a few words of a
conversation which made his ears burn. Two townsmen were walking ahead
of him and were talking.
“They say he got such a kick that he brought up blood,” said the one.
“Yes, it’s terrible, the way that scum behaves! I hope they’ll arrest
the ruffian.”
Pelle crept along behind the tent until he came to the opening. There
he stood every evening, drinking everything in by his sense of smell.
He had no money to pay his way in; but he could catch a glimpse of a
whole host of magnificent things when the curtain was drawn up in order
to admit a late-comer. Albinus came and went at will—as always, when
jugglers were in the town. He was acquainted with them almost before he
had seen them. When he had seen some clever feat of strength or skill
he would come crawling out from under the canvas in order to show his
companions that he could do the same thing. Then he was absolutely in
his element; he would walk on his hands along the harbor railings and
let his body hang over the water.
Pelle wanted to go home and sleep on the day’s doings, but a happy pair
came up to him—a woman who was dancing as she walked, and a timid young
workman, whom she held firmly by the arm. “Here, Hans!” she said, “this
is Pelle, whose doing it is that we two belong to each other!”
Then she laughed aloud for sheer delight, and Hans, smiling, held out
his hand to Pelle. “I ought to thank you for it,” he said.
“Yes, it was that dance,” she said. “If my dancing-shoes hadn’t been
mended Hans would have run off with somebody else!” She seized Pelle’s
arm. And then they went on, very much pleased with one another, and
Pelle’s old merriment returned for a time. He too could perform all
sorts of feats of strength.
On the following day Pelle was hired by Baker Jörgensen to knead some
dough; the baker had received, at short notice, a large order for
ship’s biscuit for the _Three Sisters_.
“Keep moving properly!” he would cry every moment to the two boys, who
had pulled off their stockings and were now standing up in the great
kneading-trough, stamping away, with their hands gripping the battens
which were firmly nailed to the rafters. The wooden ceiling between the
rafters was black and greasy; a slimy paste of dust and dough and
condensed vapor was running down the walls. When the boys hung too
heavily on the battens the baker would cry: “Use your whole weight!
Down into the dough with you—then you’ll get a foot like a fine young
lady!”
Sören was pottering about alone, with hanging head as always; now and
again he sighed. Then old Jörgen would nudge Marie in the side, and
they would both laugh. They stood close together, and as they were
rolling out the dough their hands kept on meeting; they laughed and
jested together. But the young man saw nothing of this.
“Don’t you see?” whispered his mother, striking him sharply in the
ribs; her angry eyes were constantly fixed on the pair.
“Oh, leave me alone!” the son would say, moving a little away from her.
But she moved after him. “Go and put your arm round her waist— that’s
what she wants! Let her feel your hands on her hips! Why do you suppose
she sticks out her bosom like that? Let her feel your hands on her
hips! Push the old man aside!”
“Oh, leave me alone!” replied Sören, and he moved further away from her
again.
“You are tempting your father to sin—you know what he is! And she can’t
properly control herself any longer, now that she claims to have a word
in the matter. Are you going to put up with that? Go and take her round
the waist—strike her if you can’t put up with her, but make her feel
that you’re a man!”
“Well, are you working up there?” old Jörgen cried to the boys, turning
his laughing countenance from Marie. “Tread away! The dough will draw
all the rottenness out of your bodies! And you, Sören—get a move on
you!”
“Yes, get a move on—don’t stand there like an idiot!” continued his
mother.
“Oh, leave me alone! I’ve done nothing to anybody; leave me in peace!”
“Pah!” The old woman spat at him. “Are you a man? Letting another
handle your wife! There she is, obliged to take up with a gouty old man
like that! Pah, I say! But perhaps you are a woman after all? I did
once bring a girl into the world, only I always thought she was dead.
But perhaps you are she? Yes, make long ears at me!” she cried to the
two boys, “you’ve never seen anything like what’s going on here!
There’s a son for you, who leaves his father to do all the work by
himself!”
“Now then, what’s the matter with you?” cried old Jörgen jollily. “Is
mother turning the boys’ heads?” Marie broke into a loud laugh.
Jeppe came to fetch Pelle. “Now you’ll go to the Town Hall and get a
thrashing,” he said, as they entered the workshop. Pelle turned an
ashen gray.
“What have you been doing now?” asked Master Andres, looking sadly at
him.
“Yes, and to one of our customers, too!” said Jeppe. “You’ve deserved
that, haven’t you?”
“Can’t father get him let off the beating?” said Master Andres.
“I have proposed that Pelle should have a good flogging here in the
workshop, in the presence of the deputy and his son. But the deputy
says no. He wants justice to run its course.”
Pelle collapsed. He knew what it meant when a poor boy went to the town
hall and was branded for life. His brain sought desperately for some
way of escape. There was only one—death! He could secretly hide the
knee-strap under his blouse and go into the little house and hang
himself. He was conscious of a monotonous din; that was Jeppe,
admonishing him; but the words escaped him; his soul had already began
its journey toward death. As the noise ceased he rose silently.
“Well? What are you going out for?” asked Jeppe.
“I’m going to the yard.” He spoke like a sleepwalker.
“Perhaps you want to take the knee-strap out with you?”
Jeppe and the master exchanged a look of understanding. Then Master
Andres came over to him. “You wouldn’t be so silly?” he said, and
looked deep into Pelle’s eyes. Then he made himself tidy and went into
the town.
“Pelle, you devil’s imp,” he said, as he came home, “I’ve been running
from Herod to Pilate, and I’ve arranged matters so that you can get off
if you will ask for pardon. You must go to the grammar- school about
one o’clock. But think it over first, as to what you are going to say,
because the whole class will hear it.”
“I won’t ask for pardon.” It sounded like a cry.
The master looked at Pelle hesitatingly. “But that is no disgrace— if
one has done wrong.”
“I have not done wrong. They began it, and they have been making game
of me for a long time.”
“But you thrashed him, Pelle, and one mustn’t thrash fine folks like
that; they have got a doctor’s certificate that might be your ruin. Is
your father a friend of the magistrate’s? They can dishonor you for the
rest of your life. I think you ought to choose the lesser evil.”
No, Pelle could not do that. “So let them flog me instead!” he said
morosely.
“Then it will be about three o’clock at the town hall,” said the
master, shortly, and he turned red about the eyes.
Suddenly Pelle felt how obstinacy must pain the young master, who, lame
and sick as he was, had of his own accord gone running about the town
for him. “Yes, I’ll do it!” he said; “I’ll do it!”
“Yes, yes!” replied Master Andres quietly; “for your own sake as well.
And I believe you ought to be getting ready now.”
Pelle slunk away; it was not his intention to apologize, and he had
plenty of time. He walked as though asleep; everything was dead within
him. His thoughts were busy with all sorts of indifferent matters, as
though he sought to delay something by chattering; Crazy Anker went by
with his bag of sand on his back, his thin legs wobbling under him. “I
will help him to carry it,” thought Pelle dejectedly, as he went
onward; “I will help him to carry it.”
Alfred came strolling down the street; he was carrying his best
walking-stick and was wearing gloves, although it was in the midst of
working hours. “If he sees me now he’ll turn down the corner by the
coal-merchant’s,” thought Pelle bitterly. “Oughtn’t I to ask him to say
a good word for me? He is such an important person! And he still owes
me money for soling a pair of boots.”
But Alfred made straight for him. “Have you seen anything of Albinus?
He has disappeared!” he said; and his pretty face seemed somehow
unusually moved. He stood there chewing at his moustache, just as fine
folk do when they are musing over something.
“I’ve got to go to the town hall,” said Pelle.
“Yes, I know—you’ve got to be flogged. But don’t you know anything of
Albinus?” Alfred had drawn him into the coal-merchant’s doorway, in
order not to be seen in his company.
“Yes, Albinus, Albinus—” Something was dawning in Pelle’s mind. “Wait a
minute—he—he—I’m sure he has run away with the circus. At least, I
believe he has!” Whereat Alfred turned about and ran— ran in his best
clothes!
Of course Albinus had run away with the circus. Pelle could understand
the whole affair perfectly well. The evening before he had slipped on
board Ole Hansen’s yacht, which during the night was to have taken the
trick-rider across to Sweden, and now he would live a glorious life and
do what he liked. To run away—that was the only clear opening in life.
Before Pelle knew it, he was down by the harbor, staring at a ship
which was on the point of sailing. He followed up his inspiration, and
went about inquiring after a vacancy on board some vessel, but there
was none.
He sat down by the waterside, and played with a chip of wood. It
represented a three-master, and Pelle gave it a cargo; but every time
it should have gone to sea it canted over, and he had to begin the
loading all over again. All round him carpenters and stone- cutters
were working on the preparations for the new harbor; and behind them, a
little apart, stood the “Great Power,” at work, while, as usual, a
handful of people were loitering near him; they stood there staring, in
uneasy expectation that something would happen. Pelle himself had a
feeling of something ominous as he sat there and plashed in the water
to drive his ship out to sea; he would have accepted it as a
manifestation of the most sacred principle of life had Jörgensen begun
to rage before his eyes.
But the stone-cutter only laid down his hammer, in order to take his
brandy-bottle from under the stone and swallow a mouthful; with that
exception, he stood there bowed over the granite as peacefully as
though there were no other powers in the world save it and him. He did
not see the onlookers who watched him in gaping expectation, their feet
full of agility, ready to take to flight at his slightest movement.
He struck so that the air moaned, and when he raised himself again his
glance swept over them. Gradually Pelle had concentrated all his
expectations upon this one man, who endured the hatred of the town
without moving an eyelash, and was a haunting presence in every mind.
In the boy’s imagination he was like a loaded mine; one stood there not
knowing whether or not it was ignited, and in a moment the whole might
leap into the air. He was a volcano, and the town existed from day to
day by his mercy. And from time to time Pelle allowed him to shake
himself a little—just enough to make the town rock.
But now, moreover, there was a secret between them; the “Great Power”
had been punished too for beating the rich folks. Pelle was not slow in
deducing the consequences—was there not already a townsman standing and
watching him at play? He too was the terror of the people. Perhaps he
would join himself to the “Great Power”; there would be little left of
the town then! In the daytime they would lie hidden among the cliffs,
but at night they came down and plundered the town.
They fell upon all who had earned their living as bloodsuckers; people
hid themselves in their cellars and garrets when they heard that Pelle
and the “Great Power” were on the march. They hanged the rich shipowner
Monsen to the church steeple, and he dangled there a terror and a
warning to all. But the poor folk came to them as trustingly as lambs
and ate out of their hands. They received all they desired; so poverty
was banished from the world, and Pelle could proceed upon his radiant,
onward way without a feeling of betrayal.
His glance fell upon the clock on the harbor guard-house; it was nearly
three. He sprang up and looked irresolutely about him; he gazed out
over the sea and down into the deep water of the harbor, looking for
help. Manna and her sisters—they would disdainfully turn their backs
upon the dishonored Pelle; they would no longer look at him. And the
people would point their fingers at him, or merely look at him, and
think: “Ha, there goes the boy who was flogged at the town hall!”
Wherever he went in the world it would follow him like a shadow, that
he had been flogged as a child; such a thing clings visibly to a man.
He knew men and maids and old white-headed men who had come to Stone
Farm from places where no one else had ever been. They might come as
absolute strangers, but there was something in their past which in
spite of all rose up behind them and went whispering from mouth to
mouth.
He roamed about, desperately in his helplessness, and in the course of
his wanderings came to stone-cutter Jörgensen.
“Well,” said the “Great Power,” as he laid down his hammer, “you’ve
quarrelled nicely with the big townsfolk! Do you think you can keep a
stiff upper-lip?” Then he reached for his hammer again. But Pelle took
his bearings and ran despondently to the town-hall.