Pelle often thought with concern of the three orphans in the “Ark.”
They were learning nothing that would be of use to them in the future,
but had all they could do to make a living. The bad times had hit them
too, and little Karl in particular; people were stingy with their tips.
In these days they were never more than a day ahead of destitution, and
the slightest misfortune would have brought them face to face with it.
But they let nothing of this be seen—they were only a little quieter
and more solemn than usual. He had on several occasions made inquiries
as to obtaining help for them, but nothing could be done without
immediately tearing them asunder; all those who were in a position to
help them cried out against their little household, and separation was
the worst that could befall them.
When he went to see them Marie always had plenty to tell and to ask
him; he was still her particular confidant, and had to listen to all
her household cares and give her his advice. She was growing tall now,
and had a fresher look than of old; and Pelle’s presence always filled
her eyes with joy and brought the color to her cheeks. Father Lasse she
eulogized, in a voice full of emotion, as though he were a little
helpless child; but when she asked after Ellen a little malice
glittered in her eyes.
One morning, as he sat working at home, while Ellen was out with the
child, there was a knock at the door. He went out and opened it. In the
little letter-box some one had thrust a number of _The Working Man_,
with an invitation to take the paper regularly. He opened the paper
eagerly, as he sat down to his bench again; an extraordinary feeling of
distress caused him first of all to run through the “Accidents.”
He started up in his chair; there was a heading concerning a fourteen-
year-old boy who worked in a tinplate works and had had the fingers of
the right hand cut off. A premonition told him that this misfortune had
befallen the little “Family”; he quickly drew on a coat and ran over to
the “Ark.”
Marie met him anxiously. “Can you understand what has happened to
Peter? He never came home last night!” she said, in distress. “Lots of
boys roam about the streets all night, but Peter has never been like
that, and I kept his supper warm till midnight. I thought perhaps he’d
got into bad company.”
Pelle showed her _The Working Man_. In a little while the inmates of
the “Ark” would see the report and come rushing up with it. It was
better that he should prepare her beforehand. “But it’s by no means
certain,” he said, to cheer her. “Perhaps it isn’t he at all.”
Marie burst into tears. “Yes, of course it is! I’ve so often gone about
worrying when he’s been telling me about those sharp knives always
sliding between their fingers. And they can’t take proper care of
themselves; they must work quickly or they get the sack. Oh, poor dear
Peter!” She had sunk into her chair and now sat rocking to and fro with
her apron to her eyes, like an unhappy mother.
“Now be grown-up and sensible,” said Pelle, laying his hand on her
shoulder. “Perhaps it’s not so bad after all; the papers always
exaggerate. Now I’ll run out and see if I can trace him.”
“Go to the factory first, then,” said Marie, jumping to her feet, “for,
of course, they’ll know best. But you mustn’t in any case say where we
live—do you hear? Remember, we’ve not been to school, and he hasn’t
been notified to the pastor for confirmation. We could be punished if
they found that out.”
“I’ll take good care,” said Pelle, and he hurried away.
At the factory he received the information that Peter was lying in
hospital. He ran thither, and arrived just at the time for visitors.
Peter was sitting upright in bed, his hand in a sling; this gave him a
curiously crippled appearance. And on the boy’s face affliction had
already left those deep, ineradicable traces which so dismally
distinguish the invalided worker. The terrible burden of the
consequences of mutilation could already be read in his pondering,
childish gaze.
He cheered up when he saw Pelle, made an involuntary movement with his
right hand, and then, remembering, held out his left. “There—I must
give you my left fist now,” he said, with a dismal smile. “That’ll seem
queer to me for a bit. If I can do anything at all. Otherwise”—he made
a threatening movement of the head—“I tell you this—I’ll never be a
burden to Marie and Karl all my life. Take my word for it, I shall be
able to work again.”
“We shall soon find something for you,” said Pelle, “and there are kind
people, too. Perhaps some one will help you so that you can study.” He
himself did not know just where that idea came from; he certainly had
never seen such a case. The magical dreams of his childhood had been
responsible for a whole class of ideas, which were nourished by the
anecdotes of poor boys in the reading-books. He was confronted by the
impossible, and quite simply he reached out after the impossible.
Peter had no reading-books at his back. “Kind people!” he cried
scornfully—“they never have anything themselves, and I can’t even read
—how should I learn how to study? Karl can read; he taught himself from
the signs in the streets while he was running his errands; and he can
write as well. And Hanne has taught Marie a little. But all my life
I’ve only been in the factory.” He stared bitterly into space; it was
melancholy to see how changed his face was—it had quite fallen in.
“Don’t worry now,” said Pelle confidently: “we shall soon find
something.”
“Only spare me the poor-relief! Don’t you go begging for me—that’s
all!” said Peter angrily. “And, Pelle,” he whispered, so that no one in
the room should hear, “it really isn’t nice here. Last night an old man
lay there and died—close to me. He died of cancer, and they didn’t even
put a screen round him. All the time he lay there and stared at me! But
in a few days I shall be able to go out. Then there’ll be something to
be paid—otherwise the business will come before the Poor Law guardians,
and then they’ll begin to snuff around—and I’ve told them fibs, Pelle!
Can’t you come and get me out? Marie has money for the house-rent by
her—you can take that.”
Pelle promised, and hurried back to his work. Ellen was at home; she
was moving about and seemed astonished. Pelle confided the whole affair
to her. “Such a splendid fellow he is,” he said, almost crying. “A
little too solemn with all his work—and now he’s a cripple! Only a
child, and an invalided worker already—it’s horrible to think of!”
Ellen went up to him and pulled his head against her shoulder;
soothingly she stroked his hair. “We must do something for him, Ellen,”
he said dully.
“You are so good, Pelle. You’d like to help everybody; but what can we
do? We’ve paid away all our savings over my lying-in.”
“We must sell or pawn some of our things.”
She looked at him horrified. “Pelle, our dear home! And there’s nothing
here but just what is absolutely necessary. And you who love our poor
little belongings so! But if you mean that, why, of course! Only you
are doing something for him already in sacrificing your time.”
After that he was silent. She several times referred to the matter
again, as something that must be well deliberated, but he did not
reply. Her conversation hurt him—whether he replied to it or was
silent.
In the afternoon he invented an errand in the city, and made his way to
the factory. He made for the counting-house, and succeeded in seeing
the manufacturer himself. The latter was quite upset by the occurrence,
but pleaded in vindication that the accident was entirely the result of
negligence. He advised Pelle to make a collection among the workers in
the factory, and he opened it himself with a contribution of twenty
kroner. He also held out the prospect that Peter, who was a reliable
lad, might take a place as messenger and collector when he was well
again.
Peter was much liked by his comrades; a nice little sum was collected.
Pelle paid his hospital dues, and there was so much left that he would
be able to stay at home and rest with an easy mind until his hand was
healed and he could take the place of messenger at the factory. The
young invalid was in high spirits, knowing that his living was assured;
he passed the time in lounging about the town, wherever there was music
to be heard, in order to learn fresh tunes. “This is the first holiday
I’ve had since I went to the factory,” he told Pelle.
He did not get the place as messenger—some one stole a march on him;
but he received permission to go back to his old work! With the remains
of his right hand he could hold the sheet of tin-plate on the table,
while the left hand had to accustom itself to moving among the
threatening knives. This only demanded time and a little extra
watchfulness.
This accident was branded on Pelle’s soul, and it aroused his
slumbering resentment. Chance had given him the three orphans in the
place of brothers and sisters, and he felt Peter’s fate as keenly as if
it had been his own. It was a scandal that young children should be
forced to earn their living by work that endangered their lives, in
order to keep the detested Poor Law guardians at bay. What sort of a
social order was this? He felt a suffocating desire to strike out, to
attack it.
The burden of Due’s fate, aggravated by this fresh misfortune, was once
more visible in his face; Ellen’s gentle hand, could not smooth it
away. “Don’t look so angry, now—you frighten the child so!” she would
say, reaching him the boy. And Pelle would try to smile; but it was
only a grim sort of smile.
He did not feel that it was necessary to allow Ellen to look into his
bleeding soul; he conversed with her about indifferent things. At other
times he sat gazing into the distance, peering watchfully at every
sign; he was once more full of the feeling that he was appointed to
some particular purpose. He was certain that tidings of some kind were
on the way to him.
And then Shoemaker Petersen died, and he was again asked to take over
the management of the Union.
“What do you say to that?” he asked Ellen, although his mind was
irrevocably made up.
“You must know that yourself,” she replied reservedly. “But if it gives
you pleasure, why, of course!”
“I am not doing it to please myself,” said Pelle gloomily. “I am not a
woman!”
He regretted his words, and went over to Ellen and kissed her. She had
tears in her eyes, and looked at him in astonishment.