Now Pelle and the youngest apprentice had to see to everything, for in
November Jens had finished his term and had left at once. He had not
the courage to go to Copenhagen to seek his fortune. So he rented a
room in the poor quarter of the town and settled there with his young
woman. They could not get married; he was only nineteen years of age.
When Pelle had business in the northern portion of the town he used to
look in on them. The table stood between the bed and the window, and
there sat Jens, working on repairs for the poor folk of the
neighborhood. When he had managed to get a job the girl would stand
bending over him, waiting intently until he had finished, so that she
could get something to eat. Then she would come back and cook something
right away at the stove, and Jens would sit there and watch her with
burning eyes until he had more work in hand. He had grown thin, and
sported a sparse pointed beard; a lack of nourishment was written in
both their faces. But they loved one another, and they helped one
another in everything, as awkwardly as two children who are playing at
“father and mother.” They had chosen the most dismal locality; the lane
fell steeply to the sea, and was full of refuse; mangy cats and dogs
ran about, dragging fish-offal up the steps of the houses and leaving
it lying there. Dirty children were grubbing about before every door.
One Sunday morning, when Pelle had run out there to see them, he heard
a shriek from one of the cottages, and the sound of chairs overturned.
Startled, he stood still. “That’s only one-eyed Johann beating his
wife,” said an eight-year-old girl; “he does that almost every day.”
Before the door, on a chair, sat an old man, staring imperturbably at a
little boy who continually circled round him.
Suddenly the child ran inward, laid his hands on the old man’s knee,
and said delightedly: “Father runs round the table—mother runs round
the table—father beats mother—mother runs round the table and—cries.”
He imitated the crying, laughed all over his little idiot’s face, and
dribbled. “Yes, yes,” was all the old man said. The child had no
eyebrows, and the forehead was hollow over the eyes. Gleefully he ran
round and round, stamping and imitating the uproar within. “Yes, yes,”
said the old man imperturbably, “yes, yes!”
At the window of one of the cottages sat a woman, gazing out
thoughtfully, her forehead leaning against the sash-bar. Pelle
recognized her; he greeted her cheerfully. She motioned him to the
door. Her bosom was still plump, but there was a shadow over her face.
“Hans!” she cried uncertainly, “here is Pelle, whose doing it was that
we found one another!”
The young workman replied from within the room: “Then he can clear out,
and I don’t care if he looks sharp about it!” He spoke threateningly.
In spite of the mild winter, Master Andres was almost always in bed
now. Pelle had to receive all instructions, and replace the master as
well as he could. There was no making of new boots now—only repairs.
Every moment the master would knock on the wall, in order to gossip a
little.
“To-morrow I shall get up,” he would say, and his eyes would shine;
“yes, that I shall, Pelle! Give me sunlight tomorrow, you devil’s imp!
This is the turning-point—now nature is turning round in me. When
that’s finished I shall be quite well! I can feel how it’s raging in my
blood—it’s war to the knife now—but the good sap is conquering! You
should see me when the business is well forward— this is nothing to
what it will be! And you won’t forget to borrow the list of the
lottery-drawings?”
He would not admit it to himself, but he was sinking. He no longer
cursed the clergy, and one day Jeppe silently went for the pastor. When
he had gone, Master Jeppe knocked on the wall.
“It’s really devilish queer,” he said, “for suppose there should be
anything in it? And then the pastor is so old, he ought rather to be
thinking of himself.” The master lay there and looked thoughtful; he
was staring up at the ceiling. He would lie all day like that; he did
not care about reading now. “Jens was really a good boy,” he would say
suddenly. “I could never endure him, but he really had a good
disposition. And do you believe that I shall ever be a man again?”
“Yes, when once the warm weather comes,” said Pelle.
From time to time the crazy Anker would come to ask after Master
Andres. Then the master would knock on the wall. “Let him come in,
then,” he said to Pelle. “I find myself so terribly wearisome.” Anker
had quite given up the marriage with the king’s eldest daughter, and
had now taken matters into his own hands. He was now working at a clock
which would _be_ the “new time” itself, and which would go in time with
the happiness of the people. He brought the wheels and spring and the
whole works with him, and explained them, while his gray eyes, fixed
out-of-doors, wandered from one object to another. They were never on
the thing he was exhibiting. He, like all the others, had a blind
confidence in the young master, and explained his invention in detail.
The clock would be so devised that it would show the time only when
every one in the land had what he wanted. “Then one can always see and
know if anybody is suffering need—there’ll be no excuse then! For the
time goes and goes, and they get nothing to eat; and one day their hour
comes, and they go hungry into the grave.” In his temples that
everlasting thing was beating which seemed to Pelle like the knocking
of a restless soul imprisoned there; and his eyes skipped from one
object to another with their vague, indescribable expression.
The master allowed himself to be quite carried away by Anker’s talk as
long as it lasted; but as soon as the watchmaker was on the other side
of the door he shook it all off. “It’s only the twaddle of a madman,”
he said, astonished at himself.
Then Anker repeated his visit, and had something else to show. It was a
cuckoo; every ten-thousandth year it would appear to the hour and cry
“Cuckoo!” The time would not be shown any longer—only the long, long
course of time—which never comes to an end—eternity. The master looked
at Anker bewildered. “Send him away, Pelle!” he whispered, wiping the
sweat from his forehead: “he makes me quite giddy; he’ll turn me crazy
with his nonsense!”
Pelle ought really to have spent Christmas at home, but the master
would not let him leave him. “Who will chat with me all that time and
look after everything?” he said. And Pelle himself was not so set on
going; it was no particular pleasure nowadays to go home. Karna was
ill, and Father Lasse had enough to do to keep her in good spirits. He
himself was valiant enough, but it did not escape Pelle that as time
went on he was sinking deeper into difficulties. He had not paid the
latest instalment due, and he had not done well with the winter
stone-breaking, which from year to year had helped him over the worst.
He had not sufficient strength for all that fell to his lot. But he was
plucky. “What does it matter if I’m a few hundred kroner in arrears
when I have improved the property to the tune of several thousand?” he
would say.
Pelle was obliged to admit the truth of that. “Raise a loan,” he
advised.
Lasse did try to do so. Every time he was in the town he went to the
lawyers and the savings-banks. But he could not raise a loan on the
land, as on paper it belonged to the commune, until, in a given number
of years, the whole of the sum to which Lasse had pledged himself
should be paid up. On Shrove Tuesday he was again in town, and then he
had lost his cheerful humor. “Now we know it, we had better give up at
once,” he said despondently, “for now Ole Jensen is haunting the
place—you know, he had the farm before me and hanged himself because he
couldn’t fulfill his engagements. Karna saw him last night.”
“Nonsense!” said Pelle. “Don’t believe such a thing!” But he could not
help believing in it just a little himself.
“You think so? But you see yourself that things are always getting more
difficult for us—and just now, too, when we have improved the whole
property so far, and ought to be enjoying the fruit of our labor. And
Karna can’t get well again,” he added despondently.
“Well, who knows?—perhaps it’s only superstition!” he cried at last. He
had courage for another attempt.
Master Andres was keeping his bed. But he was jolly enough there; the
more quickly he sank, the more boldly he talked. It was quite wonderful
to listen to his big words, and to see him lying there so wasted, ready
to take his departure when the time should come.
At the end of February the winter was so mild that people were already
beginning to look for the first heralds of spring; but then in one
night came the winter from the north, blustering southward on a mighty
ice-floe. Seen from the shore it looked as though all the vessels in
the world had hoisted new white sails, and were on the way to Bornholm,
to pay the island a visit, before they once again set out, after the
winter’s rest, on their distant voyages. But rejoicings over the
breaking-up of the ice were brief; in four-and- twenty hours the island
was hemmed in on every side by the ice-pack, so that there was not a
speck of open water to be seen.
And then the snow began. “We really thought it was time to begin work
on the land,” said the people; but they could put up with the
cold—there was still time enough. They proceeded to snowball one
another, and set their sledges in order; all through the winter there
had been no toboggan-slide. Soon the snow was up to one’s ankles, and
the slide was made. Now it might as well stop snowing. It might lie a
week or two, so that people might enjoy a few proper sleighing-parties.
But the snow continued to flutter down, until it reached to the knee,
and then to the waist; and by the time people were going to bed it was
no longer possible to struggle through it. And those who did not need
to rise before daylight were very near not getting out of bed at all,
for in the night a snowstorm set in, and by the morning the snow
reached to the roofs and covered all the windows. One could hear the
storm raging about the chimneys, but down below it was warm enough. The
apprentices had to go through the living-room to reach the workshop.
The snow was deep there and had closed all outlets.
“What the devil is it?” said Master Andres, looking at Pelle in alarm.
“Is the world coming to an end?”
Was the world coming to an end? Well, it might have come to an end
already; they could not hear the smallest sound from without, to tell
them whether their fellow-men were living still, or were already dead.
They had to burn lamps all day long; but the coal was out in the snow,
so they must contrive to get to the shed. They all pushed against the
upper half-door of the kitchen, and succeeded in forcing it so far open
that Pelle could just creep through. But once out there it was
impossible to move. He disappeared in the mass of snow. They must dig a
path to the well and the coal-shed; as for food, they would have to
manage as best they could. At noon the sun came out, and so far the
snow melted on the south side of the house that the upper edge of the
window admitted a little daylight. A faint milky shimmer shone through
the snow. But there was no sign of life outside.
“I believe we shall starve, like the people who go to the North Pole,”
said the master, his eyes and mouth quite round with excitement. His
eyes were blazing like lamps; he was deep in the world’s fairy-tale.
During the evening they dug and bored halfway to Baker Jörgen’s. They
must at least secure their connection with the baker. Jeppe went in
with a light. “Look out that it doesn’t fall on you,” he said
warningly. The light glistened in the snow, and the boys proceeded to
amuse themselves. The young master lay in bed, and called out at every
sound that came to him from outside—so loudly that his cough was
terrible. He could not contain himself for curiosity. “I’ll go and see
the robbers’ path, too, by God!” he said, over and over again. Jeppe
scolded him, but he took no notice. He had his way, got into his
trousers and fur jacket, and had a counterpane thrown about him. But he
could not stand up, and with a despairing cry he fell back on the bed.
Pelle watched him until his heart burned within him. He took the master
on his arm, and supported him carefully until they entered the tunnel.
“You are strong; good Lord, you are strong!” The master held Pelle
convulsively, one arm about his neck, while he waved the other in the
air, as defiantly as the strong man in the circus. “Hip, hip!” He was
infected by Pelle’s strength. Cautiously he turned round in the
glittering vault; his eyes shone like crystals of ice. But the fever
was raging in his emaciated body. Pelle felt it like a devouring fire
through all his clothes.
Next day the tunnel was driven farther—as far as Baker Jörgen’s steps,
and their connection with the outer world was secure. At Jörgen’s great
things had happened in the course of the last four- and-twenty hours.
Marie had been so excited by the idea that the end of the world was
perhaps at hand that she had hastily brought the little Jörgen into it.
Old Jörgen was in the seventh heaven; he had to come over at once and
tell them about it. “He’s a regular devil, and he’s the very image of
me!”
“That I can well believe!” cried Master Andres, and laughed. “And is
Uncle pleased?”
But Jeppe took the announcement very coolly; the condition of his
brother’s household did not please him. “Is Sören delighted with the
youngster?” he asked cautiously.
“Sören?” The baker gave vent to a shout of laughter. “He can think of
nothing but the last judgment—he’s praying to the dear God!”
Later in the day the noise of shovels was heard. The workmen were
outside; they cleared one of the pavements so that one could just get
by; but the surface of the street was still on a level with the roofs.
Now one could get down to the harbor once more; it felt almost as
though one were breathing again after a choking-fit. As far as the eyes
could reach the ice extended, packed in high ridges and long ramparts
where the waves had battled. A storm was brewing. “God be thanked!”
said the old seamen, “now the ice will go!” But it did not move. And
then they understood that the whole sea was frozen; there could not be
one open spot as big as a soup-plate on which the storm could begin its
work. But it was a wonderful sight, to see the sea lying dead and
motionless as a rocky desert in the midst of this devastating storm.
And one day the first farmer came to town, with news of the country.
The farms inland were snowed up; men had to dig pathways into the open
fields, and lead the horses in one by one; but of accidents he knew
nothing.
All activities came to a standstill. No one could do any work, and
everything had to be used sparingly—especially coals and oil, both of
which threatened to give out. The merchants had issued warnings as
early as the beginning of the second week. Then the people began to
take to all sorts of aimless doings; they built wonderful things with
the snow, or wandered over the ice from town to town. And one day a
dozen men made ready to go with the ice-boat to Sweden, to fetch the
post; people could no longer do without news from the outside world. On
Christiansö they had hoisted the flag of distress; provisions were
collected in small quantities, here, there, and everywhere, and
preparations were made for sending an expedition thither.
And then came the famine; it grew out of the frozen earth, and became
the only subject of conversation. But only those who were well provided
for spoke of it; those who suffered from want were silent. People
appealed to organized charity; there was Bjerregrav’s five thousand
kroner in the bank. But no, they were not there. Ship-owner Monsen
declared that Bjerregrav had recalled the money during his lifetime.
There was no statement in his will to the contrary. The people knew
nothing positively; but the matter gave plenty of occasion for
discussion. However things might be, Monsen was the great man, now as
always—and he gave a thousand kroner out of his own pocket for the help
of the needy.
Many eyes gazed out over the sea, but the men with the ice-boat did not
come back; the mysterious “over yonder” had swallowed them. It was as
though the world had sunk into the sea; as if, behind the rugged
ice-field which reached to the horizon, there now lay nothing but the
abyss.
The “Saints” were the only people who were busy; they held overcrowded
meetings, and spoke about the end of the world. All else lay as though
dead. Under these conditions, who would worry himself about the future?
In the workshop they sat in caps and overcoats and froze; the little
coal that still remained had to be saved for the master. Pelle was in
his room every moment. The master did not speak much now; he lay there
and tossed to and fro, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling; but as soon
as Pelle had left him he knocked for him again. “How are things going
now?” he would ask wearily. “Run down to the harbor and see whether the
ice isn’t near breaking—it is so very cold; at this rate the whole
earth will become a lump of ice. This evening they will certainly hold
another meeting about the last judgment. Run and hear what they think
about it.”
Pelle went, and returned with the desired information, but when he had
done so the master had usually forgotten all about the matter. From
time to time Pelle would announce that there seemed to be a bluish
shimmer on the sea, far beyond the ice. Then the master’s eyes would
light up. But he was always cast down again by the next announcement.
“The sea will eat up the ice yet—you’ll see,” said Master Andres, as
though from a great distance. “But perhaps it cannot digest so much.
Then the cold will get the upper hand, and we shall all be done for!”
But one morning the ice-field drove out seaward, and a hundred men got
ready to clear the channel of ice by means of dynamite. Three weeks had
gone by since any post had been received from the outer world, and the
steamer went out in order to fetch news from Sweden. It was caught by
the ice out in the offing, and driven toward the south; from the harbor
they could see it for days, drifting about in the ice-pack, now to the
north and now to the south.
At last the heavy bonds were broken. But it was difficult alike for the
earth and for mankind to resume the normal activities of life.
Everybody’s health had suffered. The young master could not stand the
change from the bitter frost to the thaw; when his cough did not
torment him he lay quite still. “Oh, I suffer so dreadfully, Pelle!” he
complained, whispering. “I have no pain—but I suffer, Pelle.”
But then one morning he was in a good humor. “Now I am past the
turning-point,” he said, in a weak but cheerful voice; “now you’ll just
see how quickly I shall get well. What day is it really to-day?
Thursday? Death and the devil! then I must renew my lottery ticket! I
am so light I was flying through the air all night long, and if I only
shut my eyes I am flying again. That is the force in the new blood—by
summer I shall be quite well. Then I shall go out and see the world!
But one never—deuce take it!—gets to see the best—the stars and space
and all that! So man must learn to fly. But I was there last night.”
Then the cough overpowered him again. Pelle had to lift him up; at
every spasm there was a wet, slapping sound in his chest. He put one
hand on Pelle’s shoulder and leaned his forehead against the boy’s
body. Suddenly the cough ceased; and the white, bony hand convulsively
clutched Pelle’s shoulder. “Pelle, Pelle!” moaned the master, and he
gazed at him, a horrible anxiety in his dying eyes.
“What does he see now?” thought Pelle, shuddering; and he laid him back
on his pillow.