Pelle stood on the floor of the basin, loading broken stone into the
tip-wagons. When a wagon was full he and his comrade pushed it up to
the head of the track, and came gliding back hanging to the empty
wagons. Now and again the others let fall their tools, and looked
across to where he stood; he was really working well for a cobbler! And
he had a fine grip when it came to lifting the stone. When he had to
load a great mass of rock into the wagon, he would lift it first to his
knee, then he would let out an oath and put his whole body into it; he
would wipe the sweat from his forehead and take a dram of brandy or a
drop of beer. He was as good as any of the other men!
He did not bother himself with ideas; two and two might make five for
all he cared; work and fatigue were enough for him. Hard work had made
his body supple and filled him with a sense of sheer animal well-being.
“Will my beer last out the afternoon to-day?” he would wonder; beyond
that nothing mattered. The future did not exist, nor yet the painful
feeling that it did not exist; there was no remorse in him for what he
had lost, or what he had neglected; hard work swallowed up everything
else. There was only this stone that had to be removed—and then the
next! This wagon which had to be filled— and then the next! If the
stone would not move at the first heave he clenched his teeth; he was
as though possessed by his work. “He’s still fresh to harness,” said
the others; “he’ll soon knock his horns off!” But Pelle wanted to show
his strength; that was his only ambition. His mate let him work away in
peace and did not fatigue himself. From time to time he praised Pelle,
in order to keep his steam up.
This work down at the harbor was the hardest and lowest kind of labor;
any one could get taken on for it without previous qualifications. Most
of Pelle’s comrades were men who had done with the world, who now let
themselves go as the stream carried them, and he felt at ease among
them. He stood on the solid ground, and no words had power to call the
dead past to life; it had power to haunt only an empty brain. An iron
curtain hung before the future; happiness lay here to his hand; the
day’s fatigue could straightway be banished by joyous drinking.
His free time he spent with his companions. They led an unsettled,
roving life; the rumor that extensive works were to be carried out had
enticed them hither. Most were unmarried; a few had wives and children
somewhere, but held their tongues about them, or no longer remembered
their existence, unless reminded by something outside themselves. They
had no proper lodgings, but slept in Carrier Köller’s forsaken barn,
which was close to the harbor. They never undressed, but slept in the
straw, and washed in a bucket of water that was seldom changed; their
usual diet consisted of stale bread, and eggs, which they grilled over
a fire made between two stones.
The life pleased Pelle, and he liked the society. On Sundays they ate
and drank alternately, all day long, and lay in the smoke-filled barn;
burrowing deep into the straw, they told stories, tragic stories of
youngest sons who seized an axe and killed their father and mother, and
all their brothers and sisters, because they thought they were being
cheated of their share of their inheritance! Of children who attended
confirmation class, and gave way to love, and had children themselves,
and were beheaded for what they did! And of wives who did not wish to
bring into the world the children it was their duty to bear, and whose
wombs were closed as punishment!
Since Pelle had begun to work here he had never been out to see Marie
Nielsen. “She’s making a fool of you,” said the others, to whom he had
spoken of Marie; “she’s playing the respectable so that you shall bite.
Women have always got second thoughts—it’s safest to be on the lookout.
They and these young widows would rather take two than one—they’re the
worst of all. A man must be a sturdy devil to be able to stand up
against them.”
But Pelle was a man, and would allow no woman to lead him by the nose.
Either you were good friends and no fuss about it, or nothing. He’d
tell her that on Saturday, and throw ten kroner on the table— then they
would sure enough be quits! And if she made difficulties she’d get one
over the mouth! He could not forgive her for using all her firing, and
having to pass Sunday in the street; the remembrance would not leave
him, and it burned like an angry spark. She wanted to make herself out
a martyr.
One day, about noon, Pelle was standing among the miners on the floor
of the basin; Emil and he had just come from the shed, where they had
swallowed a few mouthfuls of dinner. They had given up their midday
sleep in order to witness the firing of a big blast during the midday
pause when the harbor would be empty. The whole space was cleared, and
the people in the adjacent houses had opened their windows so that they
should not be shattered by the force of the explosion.
The fuse was lit, and the men took shelter behind the caissons, and
stood there chatting while they waited for the explosion. The “Great
Power” was there too. He was always in the neighborhood; he would stand
and stare at the workers with his apathetic expression, without taking
part in anything. They took no notice of him, but let him move about as
he pleased. “Take better cover, Pelle,” said Emil; “it’s going off
directly!”
“Where are Olsen and Ström?” said some one suddenly. The men looked at
one another bewildered.
“They’ll be taking their midday sleep,” said Emil. “They’ve been
drinking something chronic this morning.”
“Where are they sleeping?” roared the foreman, and he sprang from his
cover. They all had a foreboding, but no one wanted to say. It flashed
across them that they must do something. But no one stirred. “Lord
Jesus!” said Bergendal, and he struck his fist against the stone wall.
“Lord Jesus!”
The “Great Power” sprang from his shelter and ran along the side of the
basin, taking long leaps from one mass of rock to the next, his mighty
wooden shoes clattering as he went. “He’s going to tear the fuse away!”
cried Bergendal. “He’ll never reach it—it must be burnt in!” There was
a sound as of a cry of distress, far above the heads of those who heard
it. They breathlessly followed the movements of the “Great Power”; they
had come completely out of shelter. In Pelle an irrational impulse
sprang into being. He made a leap forward, but was seized by the scruff
of the neck. “One is enough,” said Bergendal, and he threw him back.
Now the “Great Power” had reached the goal. His hand was stretched out
to seize the fuse. Suddenly he was hurled away from the fuse, as though
by an invisible hand, and was swept upward and backward through the
air, gently, like a human balloon, and fell on his back. Then the roar
of the explosion drowned everything.
When the last fragments had fallen the men ran forward. The “Great
Power” lay stretched upon his back, looking quietly up at the sky. The
corners of his mouth were a little bloody and the blood trickled from a
hole behind the ear. The two drunken men were scathless. They rose to
their feet, bewildered, a few paces beyond the site of the explosion.
The “Great Power” was borne into the shed, and while the doctor was
sent for Emil tore a strip from his blouse, and soaked it in brandy,
and laid it behind the ear.
The “Great Power” opened his eyes and looked about him. His glance was
so intelligent that every one knew that he had not long to live.
“It smells of brandy here,” he said. “Who will stand me a drop?” Emil
reached him the bottle, and he emptied it. “It tastes good,” he said
easily. “Now I haven’t touched brandy for I don’t know how long, but
what was the good? The poor man must drink brandy, or he’s good for
nothing; it is no joke being a poor man! There is no other salvation
for him; that you have seen by Ström and Olsen—drunken men never come
to any harm. Have they come to any harm?” He tried to raise his head.
Ström stepped forward. “Here we are,” he said, his voice stifled with
emotion. “But I’d give a good deal to have had us both blown to hell
instead of this happening. None of us has wished you any good!” He held
out his hand.
But the “Great Power” could not raise his; he lay there, staring up
through the holes in the thatched roof. “It has been hard enough,
certainly, to belong to the poor,” he said, “and it’s a good thing it’s
all over. But you owe me no thanks. Why should I leave you in the lurch
and take everything for myself—would that be like the ‘Great Power’? Of
course, the plan was mine! But could I have carried it out alone? No,
money does everything. You’ve fairly deserved it! The ‘Great Power’
doesn’t want to have more than any one else—where we have all done an
equal amount of work.” He raised his hand, painfully, and made a
magnanimous gesture.
“There—he believes he’s the engineer of the harbor works!” said Ström.
“He’s wandering. Wouldn’t a cold application do him good?” Emil took
the bucket in order to fetch fresh water. The “Great Power” lay with
closed eyes and a faint smile on his face; he was like a blind man who
is listening. “Do you understand,” he said, without opening his eyes,
“how we have labored and labored, and yet have been barely able to earn
our daily bread? The big people sat there and ate up everything that we
could produce; when we laid down our tools and wanted to still our
hunger there was nothing. They stole our thoughts, and if we had a
pretty sweetheart or a young daughter they could do with her too—they
didn’t disdain our cripple even. But now that’s done with, and we will
rejoice that we have lived to see it; it might have gone on for a long
time. Mother wouldn’t believe what I told her at all—that the bad days
would soon be over. But now just see! Don’t I get just as much for my
work as the doctor for his? Can’t I keep my wife and daughter neat and
have books and get myself a piano, just as he can? Isn’t it a great
thing to perform manual labor too? Karen has piano lessons now, just as
I’ve always wished, for she’s weakly and can’t stand any hard work. You
should just come home with me and hear her play—she does it so easily
too! Poor people’s children have talent too, it’s just that no one
notices it.”
“God, how he talks!” said Ström, crying. “It’s almost as if he had the
delirium.”
Pelle bent down over the “Great Power.” “Now you must be good and be
quiet,” he said, and laid something wet on his forehead. The blood was
trickling rapidly from behind his ear.
“Let him talk,” said Olsen. “He hasn’t spoken a word for months now; he
must feel the need to clear his mind this once. It’ll be long before he
speaks again, too!”
Now the “Great Power” was only weakly moving his lips. His life was
slowly bleeding away. “Have you got wet, little Karen?” he murmured.
“Ah, well, it’ll dry again! And now it’s all well with you, now you
can’t complain. Is it fine to be a young lady? Only tell me everything
you want. Why be modest? We’ve been that long enough! Gloves for the
work-worn fingers, yes, yes. But you must play something for me too.
Play that lovely song: ‘On the joyful journey through the lands of
earth….’ That about the Eternal Kingdom!”
Gently he began to hum it; he could no longer keep time by moving his
head, but he blinked his eyes in time; and now his humming broke out
into words.
Something irresistibly impelled the others to sing in concert with him;
perhaps the fact that it was a religious song. Pelle led them with his
clear young voice; and it was he who best knew the words by heart.
“Fair, fair is earth,
And glorious Heaven;
Fair is the spirit’s journey long;
Through all the lovely earthly kingdoms,
Go we to Paradise with song.”
The “Great Power” sang with increasing strength, as though he would
outsing Pelle. One of his feet was moving now, beating the time of the
song. He lay with closed eyes, blindly rocking his head in time with
the voices, like one who, at a drunken orgy, must put in his last word
before he slips under the table. The saliva was running from the
corners of his mouth.
“The years they come,
The years they go,
And down the road to death we throng,
But ever sound the strains from heaven—
The spirit’s joyful pilgrim song!”
The “Great Power” ceased; his head drooped to one side, and at the same
moment the others ceased to sing.
They sat in the straw and gazed at him—his last words still rang in
their ears, like a crazy dream, which mingled oddly with the victorious
notes of the hymn.
They were all sensible of the silent accusation of the dead, and in the
solemnity of the moment they judged and condemned themselves.
“Yes, who knows what we might come to!” said one ragged fellow,
thoughtfully chewing a length of straw.
“I shall never do any good,” said Emil dejectedly. “With me it’s always
been from bad to worse. I was apprenticed, and when I became a
journeyman they gave me the sack; I had wasted five years of my life
and couldn’t do a thing. Pelle—he’ll get on all right.”
Astonished, Pelle raised his head and gazed at Emil uncomprehendingly.
“What use is it if a poor devil tries to make his way up? He’ll always
be pushed down again!” said Olsen. “Just look at the ‘Great Power’;
could any one have had a better claim than he? No, the big folks don’t
allow us others to make our way up!”
“And have we allowed it ourselves?” muttered Ström. “We are always
uneasy if one of our own people wants to fly over our heads!”
“I don’t understand why all the poor folk don’t make a stand together
against the others,” said Bergendal. “We suffer the same wrongs. If we
all acted together, and had nothing to do with them that mean us harm,
for instance, then it would soon be seen that collective poverty is
what makes the wealth of the others. And I’ve heard that that’s what
they’re doing elsewhere.”
“But we shall never in this life be unanimous about anything whatever,”
said an old stonemason sadly. “If one of the gentlemen only scratches
our neck a bit, then we all grovel at his feet, and let ourselves be
set on to one of our own chaps. If we were all like the ‘Great Power,’
then things might have turned out different.”
They were silent again; they sat there and gazed at the dead man; there
was something apologetic in the bearing of each and all.
“Yes, that comes late!” said Ström, with a sigh. Then he felt in the
straw and pulled out a bottle.
Some of the men still sat there, trying to put into words something
that ought perhaps to be said; but then came the doctor, and they drew
in their horns. They picked up their beer-cans and went out to their
work.
Silently Pelle gathered his possessions together and went to the
foreman. He asked for his wages.
“That’s sudden,” said the foreman. “You were getting on so well just
now. What do you want to do now?”
“I just want my wages,” rejoined Pelle. What more he wanted, he himself
did not know. And then he went home and put his room in order. It was
like a pigsty; he could not understand how he could have endured such
untidiness. In the meantime he thought listlessly of some way of
escape. It had been very convenient to belong to the dregs of society,
and to know that he could not sink any deeper; but perhaps there were
still other possibilities. Emil had said a stupid thing—what did he
mean by it? “Pelle, he’ll get on all right!” Well, what did Emil know
of the misery of others? He had enough of his own.
He went down into the street in order to buy a little milk; then he
would go back and sleep. He felt a longing to deaden all the thoughts
that once more began to seethe in his head.
Down in the street he ran into the arms of Sort, the wandering
shoemaker. “Now we’ve got you!” cried Sort. “I was just coming here and
wondering how best I could get to speak with you. I wanted to tell you
that I begin my travelling to-morrow. Will you come with me? It is a
splendid life, to be making the round of the farms now in the
spring-time; and you’ll go to the dogs if you stay here. Now you know
all about it and you can decide. I start at six o’clock! I can’t put it
off any later!”
Sort had observed Pelle that evening at the prayer-meeting, and on
several occasions had spoken to him in the hope of arousing him. “He
can put off his travels for a fortnight as far as I’m concerned!”
thought Pelle, with a touch of self-esteem. He wouldn’t go! To go
begging for work from farm to farm! Pelle had learned his craft in the
workshop, and looked down with contempt upon the travelling cobbler,
who lives from hand to mouth and goes from place to place like a
beggar, working with leather and waxed-ends provided on the spot, and
eating out of the same bowl as the farm servants. So much pride of
craft was still left in Pelle. Since his apprentice days, he had been
accustomed to regard Sort as a pitiful survival from the past, a
species properly belonging to the days of serfdom.
“You’ll go to the dogs!” Sort had said. And all Marie Melsen’s covert
allusions had meant the same thing. But what then? Perhaps he had
already gone to the dogs! Suppose there was no other escape than this!
But now he would sleep, and think no more of all these things.
He drank his bottle of milk and ate some bread with it, and went to
bed. He heard the church clock striking—it was midnight, and glorious
weather. But Pelle wanted to sleep—only to sleep! His heart was like
lead.
He awoke early next morning and was out of bed with one leap. The sun
filled his room, and he himself was filled with a sense of health and
well-being. Quickly he slipped into his clothes—there was still so much
that he wanted to do! He threw up the window, and drank in the spring
morning in a breath that filled his body with a sense of profound joy.
Out at sea the boats were approaching the harbor; the morning sun fell
on the slack sails, and made them glow; every boat was laboring heavily
forward with the aid of its tiller. He had slept like a stone, from the
moment of lying down until now. Sleep lay like a gulf between yesterday
and to-day. Whistling a tune to himself, he packed his belongings and
set out upon his way, a little bundle under his arm. He took the
direction of the church, in order to see the time. It was still not
much past five. Then he made for the outermost suburb with vigorous
steps, as joyful as though he were treading the road to happiness.