I
Out in the middle of the open, fertile country, where the plough was
busy turning up the soil round the numerous cheerful little houses,
stood a gloomy building that on every side turned bare walls toward the
smiling world. No panes of glass caught the ruddy glow of the morning
and evening sun and threw back its quivering reflection; three rows of
barred apertures drank in all the light of day with insatiable avidity.
They were always gaping greedily, and seen against the background of
blue spring sky, looked like holes leading into the everlasting
darkness. In its heavy gloom the mass of masonry towered above the many
smiling homes, but their peaceable inhabitants did not seem to feel
oppressed. They ploughed their fields right up to the bare walls, and
wherever the building was visible, eyes were turned toward it with an
expression that told of the feeling of security that its strong walls
gave.
Like a landmark the huge building towered above everything else. It
might very well have been a temple raised to God’s glory by a grateful
humanity, so imposing was it; but if so, it must have been in by-gone
ages, for no dwellings—even for the Almighty—are built nowadays in so
barbaric a style, as if the one object were to keep out light and air!
The massive walls were saturated with the dank darkness within, and the
centuries had weathered their surface and made on it luxuriant cultures
of fungus and mould, and yet they still seemed as if they could stand
for an eternity.
The building was no fortress, however, nor yet a temple whose dim
recesses were the abode of the unknown God. If you went up to the
great, heavy door, which was always closed you could read above the
arch the one word _Prison_ in large letters and below it a simple Latin
verse that with no little pretentiousness proclaimed:
“I am the threshold to all virtue and wisdom;
Justice flourishes solely for my sake.”
One day in the middle of spring, the little door in the prison gate
opened, and a tall man stepped out and looked about him with eyes
blinking at the light which fell upon his ashen-white face. His step
faltered and he had to lean for support against the wall; he looked as
if he were about to go back again, but he drew a deep breath and went
out on to the open ground.
The spring breeze made a playful assault upon him, tried to ruffle his
prison-clipped, slightly gray hair, which had been curly and fair when
last it had done so, and penetrated gently to his bare body like a
soft, cool hand. “Welcome, Pelle!” said the sun, as it peeped into his
distended pupils in which the darkness of the prison-cell still lay
brooding. Not a muscle of his face moved, however; it was as though
hewn out of stone. Only the pupils of his eyes contracted so violently
as to be almost painful, but he continued to look earnestly before him.
Whenever he saw any one, he stopped and gazed eagerly, perhaps in the
hope that it was some one coming to meet him.
As he turned into the King’s Road some one called to him. He turned
round in sudden, intense joy, but then his head dropped and he went on
without answering. It was only a tramp, who was standing half out of a
ditch in a field a little way off, beckoning to him. He came running
over the ploughed field, crying hoarsely: “Wait a little, can’t you?
Here have I been waiting for company all day, so you might as well wait
a little!”
He was a broad-shouldered, rather puffy-looking fellow, with a flat
back and the nape of his neck broad and straight and running right up
into his cap without forming any projection for the back of his head,
making one involuntarily think of the scaffold. The bone of his nose
had sunk into his purple face, giving a bull-dog mixture of brutality
and stupid curiosity to its expression.
“How long have you been in?” he asked, as he joined him, breathless.
There was a malicious look in his eyes.
“I went in when Pontius Pilate was a little boy, so you can reckon it
out for yourself,” said Pelle shortly.
“My goodness! That was a good spell! And what were you copped for?”
“Oh, there happened to be an empty place, so they took me and put me in
—so that it shouldn’t stand empty, you know!”
The tramp scowled at him. “You’re laying it on a little too thick! You
won’t get any one to believe that!” he said uncertainly. Suddenly he
put himself in front of Pelle, and pushed his bull-like forehead close
to the other’s face. “Now, I’ll just tell you something, my boy!” he
said. “I don’t want to touch any one the first day I’m out, but you’d
better take yourself and your confounded uppishness somewhere else; for
I’ve been lying here waiting for company all day.”
“I didn’t mean to offend any one,” said Pelle absently. He looked as if
he had not come back to earth, and appeared to have no intention of
doing anything.
“Oh, didn’t you! That’s fortunate for you, or I might have taken a
color-print of your doleful face, however unwillingly. By the way,
mother said I was to give you her love.”
“Are you Ferdinand?” asked Pelle, raising his head.
“Oh, don’t pretend!” said Ferdinand. “Being in gaol seems to have made
a swell of you!”
“I didn’t recognize you,” said Pelle earnestly, suddenly recalled to
the world around him.
“Oh, all right—if you say so. It must be the fault of my nose. I got it
bashed in the evening after I’d buried mother. I was to give you her
love, by the way.”
“Thank you!” said Pelle heartily. Old memories from the “Ark” filled
his mind and sent his blood coursing through his veins once more. “Is
it long since your mother died?” he asked sympathetically.
Ferdinand nodded. “It was a good thing, however,” he said, “for now
there’s no one I need go and have a bad conscience about. I’d made up
my mind that she deserved to have things comfortable in her old age,
and I was awfully careful; but all the same I was caught for a little
robbery and got eight months. That was just after you got in—but of
course you know that.”
“No! How could I know it?”
“Well, I telegraphed it over to you. I was just opposite you, in Wing
A, and when I’d reckoned out your cell, I bespoke the whole line one
evening, and knocked a message through to you. But there was a
sanctimonious parson at the corner of your passage, one of those moral
folk—oh, you didn’t even know that, then? Well, I’d always suspected
him of not passing my message on, though a chap like that’s had an
awful lot of learning put into him. Then when I came out I said to
myself that there must be an end to all this, for mother’d taken it
very much to heart, and was failing. I managed to get into one of the
streets where honest thieves live, and went about as a colporteur, and
it all went very well. It would have been horribly mean if she’d died
of hunger. And we had a jolly good time for six months, but then she
slipped away all the same, and I can just tell you that I’ve never been
in such low spirits as the day they put her underground in the
cemetery. Well, I said to myself, there lies mother smelling the weeds
from underneath, so you can just as well give it all up, for there’s
nothing more to trouble about now. And I went up to the office and
asked for a settlement, and they cheated me of fifty subscribers, the
rogues!
“Of course I went to the police: I was stupid enough to do that at that
time. But they’re all a lot of rogues together. They thought it
wouldn’t do to believe a word that I said, and would have liked to put
me in prison at once; but for all they poked about they couldn’t find a
peg to hang their hat upon. ‘He’s managing to hide it well this time,
the sly fellow!’ they said, and let me go. But there soon was
something, for I settled the matter myself, and you may take your oath
my employers didn’t get the best of the arrangement. You see there are
two kinds of people—poor people who are only honest when they let
themselves be robbed, and all the others. Why the devil should one go
about like a shorn sheep and not rob back! Some day of course there’ll
be a bust-up, and then—‘three years, prisoner!’ I shall be in again
before long.”
“That depends upon yourself,” said Pelle slowly.
“Oh, well, of course you can do _something_; but the police are always
getting sharper, and the man isn’t born who won’t fall into the trap
sooner or later.”
“You should try and get some honest employment again. You’ve shown that
you can succeed.”
Ferdinand whistled. “In such a paltry way as that! Many thanks for the
good advice! You’d like me to look after a bloated aristocrat’s geese
and then sit on the steps and eat dry bread to the smell of the roast
bird, would you? No, thank you! And even if I did—what then? You may be
quite sure they’d keep a good watch on a fellow, if he tried an honest
job, and it wouldn’t be two days before the shadow was there. ‘What’s
this about Ferdinand? I hear things are not all square with him. I’m
sorry, for he’s really worked well; but he’d better look out for
another place.’ That’s what the decent ones would do; the others would
simply wait until his wages were due and take something off—because
he’d been in once. They could never be sure that he hadn’t stolen
something from them, could they? and it’s best to be careful! If you
make a fuss, you’re called a thief to your face. I’ve tried it, let me
tell you! And now you can try it yourself. You’ll be in again as soon
as ever the spring comes! The worst of it is that it gets more every
time; a fellow like me may get five years for stealing five krones
(five shillings). Isn’t that a shame? So it’s just as well to do
something to make it worth while. It wouldn’t matter if you could only
get a good hit at it all. It’s all one to me now that mother’s dead.
There’s a child crying, but it’s not for me. There isn’t a soul that
would shed a tear if I had to lay my head on the block. They’d come and
stare, that’s what they’d do—and I should get properly into the papers!
“Wicked? Of course I’m wicked! Sometimes I feel like one great sore,
and would like to let them hear all about it. There’s no such thing as
gentle hands. That’s only a lie, so I owe nothing to anybody. Several
times while I’ve been in there I’ve made up my mind to kill the warder,
just so as to have a hit at something; for he hadn’t done me any harm.
But then I thought after all it was stupid. I’d no objection to kick
the bucket; it would be a pleasant change anyhow to sitting in prison
all one’s life. But then you’d want to do something first that would
make a stir. That’s what I feel!”
They walked on at a good pace, their faces turned in the direction of
the smoky mist of the town far ahead, Ferdinand chewing his quid and
spitting incessantly. His hardened, bulldog face with its bloodshot
eyes was entirely without expression now that he was silent.
A peasant lad came toward them, singing at the top of his voice. He
must have been about twelve or fourteen years of age.
“What are you so happy about, boy?” asked Ferdinand, stopping him.
“I took a heifer into the town, and I got two krones (two shillings)
for the job,” answered the boy, smiling all over his face.
“You must have been up early then,” said Pelle.
“Yes, I left home at three last night. But now I’ve earned a day’s
wages, and can take it easy the rest of the day!” answered the boy,
throwing the two-krone piece into the air and catching it again.
“Take care you don’t lose it,” said Ferdinand, following the coin with
covetous eyes.
The boy laughed merrily.
“Let’s see whether it’s a good one. They’re a fearful lot of thieves on
the market in there.”
The boy handed him the coin. “Ah, yes, it’s one of those that you can
break in half and make two of,” said Ferdinand, doing a few juggling
tricks with it. “I suppose I may keep one?” His expression had become
lively and he winked maliciously at Pelle as he stood playing with the
coin so that it appeared to be two. “There you are; that’s yours,” he
said, pressing the piece of money firmly into the boy’s hand. “Take
good care of it, so that you don’t get a scolding from your mother.”
The boy opened his empty hand in wonderment. “Give me my two-krone!” he
said, smiling uncertainly.
“What the devil—I’ve given it you once!” said Ferdinand, pushing the
boy aside roughly and beginning to walk on.
The boy followed him and begged persistently for his money. Then he
began to cry.
“Give him his money!” said Pelle crossly. “It’s not amusing now.”
“Amusing?” exclaimed Ferdinand, stopping abruptly and gazing at him in
amazement. “Do you think I play for small sums? What do I care about
the boy! He may take himself off; I’m not his father.”
Pelle looked at him a moment without comprehending; then he took a
paper containing a few silver coins out of his waistcoat pocket, and
handed the boy two krones. The boy stood motionless with amazement for
a moment, but then, seizing the money, he darted away as quickly as he
could go.
Ferdinand went on, growling to himself and blinking his eyes. Suddenly
he stopped and exclaimed: “I’ll just tell you as a warning that if it
wasn’t you, and because I don’t want to have this day spoiled, I’d have
cracked your skull for you; for no one else would have played me that
trick. Do you understand?” And he stood still again and pushed his
heavy brow close to Pelle’s face.
Quick as thought, Pelle seized him by his collar and trousers, and
threw him forcibly onto a heap of stones. “That’s the second time
to-day that you’ve threatened to crack my skull,” he said in fury,
pounding Ferdinand’s head against the stones. For a few moments he held
him down firmly, but then released him and helped him to rise.
Ferdinand was crimson in the face, and stood swaying, ready to throw
himself upon Pelle, while his gaze wandered round in search of a
weapon. Then he hesitatingly drew the two-krone piece out of his
pocket, and handed it to Pelle in sign of subjection.
“You may keep it,” said Pelle condescendingly.
Ferdinand quickly pocketed it again, and began to brush the mud off his
clothes. “The skilly in there doesn’t seem to have weakened you much,”
he said, shaking himself good-naturedly as they went on. “You’ve still
got a confounded hard hand. But what I can’t understand is why you
should be so sorry for a hobbledehoy like that. He can take care of
himself without us.”
“Weren’t you once sorry too for a little fellow when some one wanted to
take his money away from him?”
“Oh, that little fellow in the ‘Ark’ who was going to fetch the
medicine for his mother? That’s such a long time ago!”
“You got into difficulties with the police for his sake! It was the
first time you were at odds with the authorities, I think.”
“Well, the boy hadn’t done anything; I saw that myself. So I hobbled
the copper that was going to run him in. His mother was ill—and my old
’un was alive; and so I was a big idiot! You’ll see you won’t get far
with your weak pity. Do we owe any one anything, I should like to
know?”
“Yes, _I_ do,” said Pelle, suddenly raising his face toward the light.
“But I can’t say you’ve much to thank any one for.”
“What confounded nonsense!” exclaimed Ferdinand, staring at him. “Have
they been good to you, did you say? When they shut you up in prison
too, perhaps? You’re pretending to be good, eh? You stop that! You’ll
have to go farther into the country with it. So you think you deserved
your house-of-correction turn, while another was only suffering the
blackest injustice? Nonsense! They know well enough what they’re doing
when they get hold of me, but they might very well have let you off.
You got together fifty thousand men, but what did you all do, I should
like to know? You didn’t make as much disturbance as a mouse in a pair
of lady’s unmentionables. Well-to-do people are far more afraid of me
than of you and all your fellows together. Injustice! Oh, shut up and
don’t slobber! You give no quarter, and you don’t ask any either:
that’s all. And by the way, you might do me the favor to take back your
two-krone. _I_ don’t owe any one anything.”
“Well, borrow it, then,” said Pelle. “You can’t go to town quite
without money.”
“Do take it, won’t you?” begged Ferdinand. “It isn’t so easy for you to
get hold of any as for any one else, and it was a little too mean the
way I got it out of you. You’ve been saving it up in there, a halfpenny
a day, and perhaps gone without your quid, and I come and cheat you out
of it! No, confound it! And you gave mother a little into the bargain;
I’d almost forgotten it! Well, never mind the tin then! I know a place
where there’s a good stroke of business to be done.”
A little above Damhus Lake they turned into a side road that led
northward, in order to reach the town from the Nörrebro side. Far down
to the right a great cloud of smoke hung in the air. It was the
atmosphere of the city. As the east wind tore off fragments of it and
carried them out, Ferdinand lifted his bull-dog nose and sniffed the
air. “Wouldn’t I like to be sitting in the ‘Cupping-Glass’ before a
horse-steak with onions!” he said.
By this time the afternoon was well advanced. They broke sticks out of
a hedge and went on steadily, following ditches and dikes as best they
could. The plough was being driven over the fields, backward and
forward, turning up the black earth, while crows and sea-birds fought
in the fresh furrows. The ploughmen put the reins round their waist
each time they came to the end of their line, threw the plough over and
brought it into position for a new furrow, and while they let their
horses take breath, gazed afar at the two strange spring wayfarers.
There was such a foreign air about their clothes that they must be two
of that kind of people that go on foot from land to land, they thought;
and they called after them scraps of foreign sentences to show they
knew something about them. Ah, yes! They were men who could look about
them! Perhaps by to-morrow those two would be in a foreign country
again, while other folk never left the place they were once in!
They passed a white house standing in stately seclusion among old
trees, a high hawthorn hedge screening the garden from the road.
Ferdinand threw a hasty glance over the gate. The blinds were all down!
He began to be restless, and a little farther on he suddenly slipped in
behind a hedge and refused to go any farther. “I don’t care to show
myself in town empty-handed,” he said. “And besides evening’s the best
time to go in at full speed. Let’s wait here until it’s dark. I can
smell silver in that house we passed.”
“Come on now and let those fancies alone,” said Pelle earnestly. “A new
life begins from to-day. I’ll manage to help you to get honest work!”
Ferdinand broke into laughter. “Good gracious me! You help others! You
haven’t tried yet what it is to come home from prison! You’ll find it
hard enough to get anywhere yourself, my good fellow. New life, ha, ha!
No; just you stay here and we’ll do a little business together when it
gets dark. The house doesn’t look quite squint-eyed. Then this evening
we can go to the ‘Cupping-Glass’ and have a jolly good spree, and act
the home-coming American. Besides it’s not right to go home without
taking something for your family. Just you wait! You should see ‘Laura
with the Arm’ dance! She’s my cupboard-love, you know. She can dance
blindfold upon a table full of beer-mugs without spilling a drop. There
might be a little kiss for you too.—Hang it!—you don’t surely imagine
you’ll be made welcome anywhere else, do you? I can tell you there’s no
one who’ll stand beckoning you home.—Very well, then go to the devil,
you fool, and remember me to your monthly nurse! When you’re tired of
family life, you can ask for me at my address, the ‘Cupping-Glass’.”
His hoarse, hollow voice cut through the clear spring air as he shouted
the last words with his hand to his mouth.
Pelle went on quickly, as though anxious to leave something behind him.
He had had an insane hope of being received in some kind way or other
when he came out—comrades singing, perhaps, or a woman and two children
standing on the white highroad, waiting for him! And there had only
been Ferdinand to meet him! Well, it had been a damper, and now he
shook off the disappointment and set out at a good pace. The active
movement set his pulses beating. The sky had never before been so
bright as it was to-day; the sun shone right into his heart. There was
a smiling greeting in it all—in the wind that threw itself into his
very arms, in the fresh earth and in the running water in the ditches.
Welcome back again, Pelle!
How wide and fair the world looks when you’ve spent years within four
bare walls! Down in the south the clouds were like the breast of a
great bright bird, one of those that come a long way every year with
summer in the beat of their strong wings; and on all sides lay the
open, white roads, pointing onward with bright assurances.
For the fourth time he was setting out to conquer the world, and this
time it was in bitter earnest. There had always before proved to be
something more behind, but now he felt that what he should now set out
upon would be decisive; if he was victorious now, he would conquer
eternity. This time it must be either for weal or woe, and all that he
possessed he was now bringing into the field. He had never before been
so heavily equipped. Far off he could still make out the dome of the
prison, which stood there like a huge mill over the descent to the
nether world, and ground misery into crime in the name of humanity. It
sucked down every one who was exposed to life’s uncertainty; he had
himself hung in the funnel and felt how its whirling drew him down.
But Pelle had been too well equipped. Hitherto he had successfully
converted everything into means of rising, and he took this in the same
way. His hair was no longer fair, but, on the other hand, his mind was
magically filled with a secret knowledge of the inner nature of things,
for he had sat at the root of all things, and by listening had drawn it
out of the solitude. He had been sitting moping in the dark mountain
like Prince Fortune, while Eternity sang to him of the great wonder.
The spirits of evil had carried him away into the mountains; that was
all. And now they had set him free again, believing that he had become
a troll like all his predecessors. But Pelle was not bewitched. He had
already consumed many things in his growth, and this was added to the
rest. What did a little confinement signify as compared with the slow
drip, drip, of centuries? Had he not been born with a caul, upon which
neither steel nor poison made any impression?
He sat down on an elevation, pulled off his cap, and let the cool
breeze play upon his forehead. It was full of rich promises; in its
vernal wandering over the earth it had gathered up all that could
improve and strengthen, and loaded him with it. Look around you, Pelle!
On all sides the soil was being prepared, the plough-teams nodded up
the gentle inclines and disappeared down the other side. A thin vapor
rose from the soil; it was the last of the cold evaporating in the
declining spring day. Some way down a few red cottages smilingly faced
the sunset, and still farther on lay the town with its eternal cloud of
smoke hanging over it.
What would his future be like down there? And how did matters stand?
Had the new made its way to the front, or would he once more have to
submit to an extortioner, get only the bare necessaries of life out of
his work, and see the rest disappear into some one else’s pocket? A
number of new factories had grown up, and now formed quite a belt about
the city, with their hundreds of giant chimneys stretching up into the
sky. But something must be going on, since they were not smoking. Was
it a wages conflict?
He was now going to lay plans for his life, build it up again upon the
deep foundation that had been laid in his solitude; and yet he knew
absolutely nothing of the conditions down in the town! Well, he had
friends in thousands; the town was simply lying waiting to receive him
with open arms, more fond of him than ever because of all he had
suffered. With all his ignorance he had been able to lead them on a
little way; the development had chosen him as its blind instrument, and
it had been successful; but now he was going to lead them right into
the land, for now he felt the burden of life within him.
Hullo! if he wasn’t building castles in the air just as in the old
days, and forgetting all that the prison cell had taught him so
bitterly! The others’ good indeed! He had been busily concerned for the
homes of others, and had not even succeeded in building his own! What
humbug! Down there were three neglected beings who would bring
accusations against him, and what was the use of his sheltering himself
behind the welfare of the many? What was the good of receiving praise
from tens of thousands and being called benefactor by the whole world,
if those three whose welfare had been entrusted to him accused him of
having failed them? He had often enough tried to stifle their accusing
voices, but in there it was not possible to stifle anything into
silence.
Pelle still had no doubt that he was chosen to accomplish something for
the masses, but it had become of such secondary importance when he
recollected that he had neglected his share of that which was the duty
of every one. He had mistaken small for great, and believed that when
he accomplished something that no one else could do, he might in return
pay less attention to ordinary every-day duties; but the fates ordained
that the burden of life should be laid just where every one could help.
And now he was coming back like a poor beggar, who had conquered
everything except the actual, and therefore possessed nothing, and had
to beg for mercy. Branded as a criminal, he must now begin at the
beginning, and accomplish that which he had not been able to do in the
days of his power. It would be difficult to build his home under these
circumstances, and who was there to help him? Those three who could
have spoken for him he had left to their own devices as punishment for
an offence which in reality was his own.
He had never before set out in such a poverty-stricken state. He did
not even come like one who had something to forgive: his prison-cell
had left him nothing. He had had time enough there to go carefully over
the whole matter, and everything about Ellen that he had before been
too much occupied to notice or had felt like a silent opposition to his
projects, now stood out clearly, and formed itself, against his will,
into the picture of a woman who never thought of herself, but only of
the care of her little world and how she could sacrifice herself. He
could not afford to give up any of his right here, and marshalled all
his accusations against her, bringing forward laws and morals; but it
all failed completely to shake the image, and only emphasized yet more
the strength of her nature. She had sacrificed _everything_ for him and
the children, her one desire being to see them happy. Each of his
attacks only washed away a fresh layer of obstructing mire, and made
the sacrifice in her action stand out more clearly. It was because she
was so unsensual and chaste that she could act as she had done. Alas!
she had had to pay dearly for _his_ remissness; it was the mother who,
in their extreme want, gave her own body to nourish her offspring.
Pelle would not yield, but fought fiercely against conviction. He had
been robbed of freedom and the right to be a human being like others,
and now solitude was about to take from him all that remained to
sustain him. Even if everything joined together against him, he was not
wrong, he _would_ not be wrong. It was he who had brought the great
conflict to an end at the cost of his own—and he had found Ellen to be
a prostitute! His thoughts clung to this word, and shouted it hoarsely,
unceasingly—prostitute! prostitute! He did not connect it with
anything, but only wanted to drown the clamor of accusations on all
sides which were making him still more naked and miserable.
At first letters now and then came to him, probably from old
companions- in-arms, perhaps too from Ellen: he did not know, for he
refused to take them. He hated Ellen because she was the stronger,
hated in impotent defiance everything and everybody. Neither she nor
any one else should have the satisfaction of being any comfort to him;
since he had been shut up as an unclean person, he had better keep
himself quite apart from them. He would make his punishment still more
hard, and purposely increased his forlornness, kept out of his thoughts
everything that was near and dear to him, and dragged the painful
things into the foreground. Ellen had of course forgotten him for some
one else, and had perhaps turned the children’s thoughts from him; they
would certainly be forbidden to mention the word “father.” He could
distinctly see them all three sitting happily round the lamp; and when
some turn in the conversation threatened to lead it to the subject of
himself, a coldness and stillness as of death suddenly fell upon them.
He mercilessly filled his existence with icy acknowledgment on all
points, and believed he revenged himself by breathing in the deadly
cold.
After a prolonged period of this he was attacked with frenzy, dashed
himself blindly against the walls, and shouted that he wanted to get
out. To quiet him he was put into a strait-waistcoat and removed to a
pitch-dark cell. On the whole he was one of the so-called defiant
prisoners, who meant to kick against the pricks, and he was treated
accordingly.
But one night when he lay groaning after a punishment, and saw the
angry face of God in the darkness, he suddenly became silent. “Are you
a human being?” it said, “and cannot even bear a little suffering?”
Pelle was startled. He had never known that there was anything
particularly human in suffering. But from that night he behaved
quietly, with a listening expression, as if he heard something through
the walls. “Now he’s become quiet,” said the gaoler, who was looking at
him through the peep-hole. “It won’t be long before he’s an idiot!”
But Pelle had only come out on the other side; he was staring bravely
into the darkness to see God’s face once more, but in a gentler guise.
The first thing he saw was Ellen again, sitting there beautiful,
exculpated, made more desirable by all his accusations. How great and
fateful all petty things became here! What was the good of defending
himself? She was his fate, and he would have to surrender
unconditionally. He still did not comprehend her, but he had a
consciousness of greater laws for life, laws that raised _her_ and made
him small. She and hers passed undefiled through places where he stuck
fast in the surface mire.
She seemed to him to grow in here, and led his thoughts behind the
surface, where they had never been before. Her unfailing mother-love
was like a beating pulse that rose from the invisible and revealed
hidden mystical forces—the perceptible rhythm of a great heart which
beat in concealment behind everything. Her care resembled that of God
Himself; she was nearer to the springs of life than he.
The springs of life! Through her the expression for the first time
acquired a meaning for him. It was on the whole as if she re-created
him, and by occupying himself with her ever enigmatical nature, his
thoughts were turned further and further inward. He suspected the
presence of strong currents which bore the whole thing; and sometimes
in the silence of his cell he seemed to hear his existence flowing,
flowing like a broad stream, and emptying itself out there where his
thoughts had never ventured to roam. What became of the days and the
years with all that they had held? The ever present Ellen, who had
never herself given a thought to the unseen, brought Pelle face to face
with infinity.
While all this was going on within him, they sang one Sunday during the
prison service Grundtvig’s hymn, “The former days have passed away.”
The hymn expressed all that he had himself vaguely thought, and touched
him deeply; the verses came to him in his narrow pen like waves from a
mighty ocean, which rolled ages in to the shore in monotonous power. He
suddenly and strongly realized the passage of generations of human
beings over the earth, and boldly grasped what he had until now only
dimly suspected, namely, his own connection with them all, both those
who were living then and all those who had gone before. How small his
own idea of union had been when measured by this immense community of
souls, and what a responsibility was connected with each one! He
understood now how fatal it was to act recklessly, then break off and
leave everything. In reality you could never leave anything; the very
smallest thing you shirked would be waiting for you as your fate at the
next milestone. And who, indeed, was able to overlook an action? You
had to be lenient continually, and at last it would turn out that you
had been lenient to yourself.
Pelle was taking in wisdom, and his own heart confirmed it. The thought
of Ellen filled his mind more and more; he had lost her, and yet he
could not get beyond her. Did she still love him? This question pursued
him day and night with ever increasing vehemence, until even his life
seemed to depend upon it. He felt, as he gazed questioningly into his
solitude, that he would be worthless if he did not win her back. New
worlds grew up before him; he could dimly discern the great connection
between things, and thought he could see how deep down the roots of
life stretched, drawing nourishment from the very darkness in which he
dwelt. But to this he received no answer.
He never dreamt of writing to her. God had His own way of dealing with
the soul, a way with which one did not interfere. It would have to come
like all the rest, and he lulled himself with the foolish hope that
Ellen would come and visit him, for he was now in the right mood to
receive her. On Sundays he listened eagerly to the heavy clang of the
gate. It meant visitors to the prisoners; and when the gaoler came
along the corridor rattling his keys, Pelle’s heart beat suffocatingly.
This repeated itself Sunday after Sunday, and then he gave up hope and
resigned himself to his fate.
After a long time, however, fortune favored him and brought him a
greeting.
Pelle took no personal part in the knocking that every evening after
the lights were out sounded through the immense building as if a
thousand death-ticks were at work. He had enough of his own to think
about, and only knocked those messages on that had to pass through his
cell. One day, however, a new prisoner was placed in the cell next to
his, and woke him. He was a regular frequenter of the establishment,
and immediately set about proclaiming his arrival in all directions. It
was Druk-Valde, “Widow” Rasmussen’s idler of a sweetheart, who used to
stand all the winter through in the gateway in Chapel Road, and spit
over the toes of his well-polished shoes.
Yes, Valde knew Pelle’s family well; his sweetheart had looked after
the children when Ellen, during the great conflict, began to go out to
work. Ellen had been very successful, and still held her head high. She
sewed uppers and had a couple of apprentices to help her, and she was
really doing pretty well. She did not associate with any one, not even
with her relatives, for she never left her children.
Druk-Valde had to go to the wall every evening; the most insignificant
detail was of the greatest importance. Pelle could see Ellen as if she
were standing in the darkness before him, pale, always clad in black,
always serious. She had broken with her parents; she had sacrificed
everything for his sake! She even talked about him so that the children
should not have forgotten him by the time he came back. “The little
beggars think you’re travelling,” said Valde.
So everything was all right! It was like sunshine in his heart to know
that she was waiting faithfully for him although he had cast her off.
All the ice must melt and disappear; he was a rich man in spite of
everything.
Did she bear his name? he asked eagerly. It would be like her—intrepid
as she was—defiantly to write “Pelle” in large letters on the door-
plate.
Yes, of course! There was no such thing as hiding there! Lasse Frederik
and his sister were big now, and little Boy Comfort was a huge fellow
for his age—a regular little fatty. To see him sitting in his
perambulator, when they wheeled him out on Sundays, was a sight for
gods!
Pelle stood in the darkness as though stunned. Boy Comfort, a little
fellow sitting in a perambulator! And it was not an adopted child
either; Druk-Valde so evidently took it to be his. Ellen! Ellen!
He went no more to the wall. Druk-Valde knocked in vain, and his six
months came to an end without Pelle noticing it. This time he made no
disturbance, but shrank under a feeling of being accursed. Providence
must be hostile to him, since the same blow had been aimed at him
twice. In the daytime he sought relief in hard work and reading; at
night he lay on his dirty, mouldy-smelling mattress and wept. He no
longer tried to overthrow his conception of Ellen, for he knew it was
hopeless: she still tragically overshadowed everything. She was his
fate and still filled his thoughts, but not brightly; there was indeed
nothing bright or great about it now, only imperative necessity.
And then his work! For a man there was always work to fall back upon,
when happiness failed him. Pelle set to work in earnest, and the man
who was at the head of the prison shoemaking department liked to have
him, for he did much more than was required of him. In his leisure
hours he read diligently, and entered with zest into the prison
school-work, taking up especially history and languages. The prison
chaplain and the teachers took an interest in him, and procured books
for him which were generally unobtainable by the prisoners.
When he was thoroughly tired out he allowed his mind to seek rest in
thoughts of his home. His weariness cast a conciliatory light over
everything, and he would lie upon his pallet and in imagination spend
happy hours with his children, including that young cuckoo who always
looked at him with such a strangely mocking expression. To Ellen alone
he did not get near. She had never been so beautiful as now in her
unapproachableness, but she received all his assurances in mysterious
silence, only gazing at him with her unfathomable eyes. He had forsaken
her and the home; he knew that; but had he not also made reparation? It
was _her_ child he held on his knee, and he meant to build the home up
again. He had had enough of an outlaw’s life, and needed a heart upon
which to rest his weary head.
All this was dreaming, but now he was on his way down to begin from the
beginning. He did not feel very courageous; the uncertainty held so
many possibilities. Were the children and Ellen well, and was she still
waiting for him? And his comrades? How would his fate shape itself?
Pelle was so little accustomed to being in the fresh air that it
affected him powerfully, and, much against his will, he fell asleep as
he leaned back upon the bank. The longing to reach the end of his
journey made him dream that he was still walking on and making his
entry into the city; but he did not recognize it, everything was so
changed. People were walking about in their best clothes, either going
to the wood or to hear lectures.
“Who is doing the work, then?” he asked of a man whom he met.
“Work!” exclaimed the man in surprise. “Why, the machines, of course!
We each have three hours at them in the day, but it’ll soon be changed
to two, for the machines are getting more and more clever. It’s
splendid to live and to know that there are no slaves but those
inanimate machines; and for that we have to thank a man called Pelle.”
“Why, that’s me!” exclaimed Pelle, laughing with pleasure.
“You! What absurdity! Why, you’re a young man, and all this happened
many years ago.”
“It is me, all the same! Don’t you see that my hair is gray and my
forehead lined? I got like that in fighting for you. Don’t you
recognize me?” But people only laughed at him, and he had to go on.
“I’ll go to Ellen!” he thought, disheartened. “She’ll speak up for me!”
And while the thought was in his mind, he found himself in her parlor.
“Sit down!” she said kindly. “My husband’ll be here directly.”
“Why, I’m your husband!” he exclaimed, hardly able to keep back his
tears; but she looked at him coldly and without recognition, and moved
toward the door.
“I’m Pelle!” he said, holding out his hand beseechingly. “Don’t you
know me?”
Ellen opened her lips to cry out, and at that moment the husband
appeared threateningly in the doorway. From behind him Lasse Frederik
and Sister peeped out in alarm, and Pelle saw with a certain amount of
satisfaction that there were only the two. The terrible thing, however,
was that the man was himself, the true Pelle with the good, fair
moustache, the lock of hair on his forehead and the go-ahead
expression. When he discovered this, it all collapsed and he sank down
in despair.
Pelle awoke with a start, bathed in perspiration, and saw with
thankfulness the fields and the bright atmosphere: he was at any rate
still alive! He rose and walked on with heavy steps while the spring
breeze cooled his brow.
His road led him to Nörrebro. The sun was setting behind him; it must
be about the time for leaving off work, and yet no hooter sounded from
the numerous factories, no stream of begrimed human beings poured out
of the side streets. In the little tea-gardens in the Frederikssund
Road sat workmen’s families with perambulator and provision-basket;
they were dressed in their best and were enjoying the spring day. Was
there after all something in his dream? If so, it would be splendid to
come back! He asked people what was going on, and was told that it was
the elections. “We’re going to take the city to-day!” they said,
laughing triumphantly.
From the square he turned into the churchyard, and went down the somber
avenue of poplars to Chapel Road. Opposite the end of the avenue he saw
the two little windows in the second floor; and in his passionate
longing he seemed to see Ellen standing there and beckoning. He ran
now, and took the stairs three or four at a time.
Just as he was about to pull the bell-cord, he heard strange voices
within, and paused as though paralyzed. The door looked cold and as if
it had nothing to do with him; and there was no door-plate. He went
slowly down the stairs and asked in the greengrocer’s cellar below
whether a woman who sewed uppers did not live on the second floor to
the left. She had been forsaken by her husband and had two children—
_three_, he corrected himself humbly; what had become of them?
The deputy-landlord was a new man and could give him no information; so
he went up into the house again, and asked from door to door but
without any result. Poor people do not generally live long in one
place.
Pelle wandered about the streets at haphazard. He could think of no way
of getting Ellen’s address, and gave it up disheartened; in his forlorn
condition he had the impression that people avoided him, and it
discouraged him. His soul was sick with longing for a kind word and a
caress, and there was no one to give them. No eyes brightened at seeing
him out again, and he hunted in vain in house after house for some one
who would sympathize with him. A sudden feeling of hatred arose in him,
an evil desire to hit out at everything and go recklessly on.
Twilight was coming on. Below the churchyard wall some newspaper-boys
were playing “touch last” on their bicycles. They managed their
machines like circus-riders, and resembled little gauchos, throwing
them back and running upon the back wheel only, and bounding over
obstacles. They had strapped their bags on their backs, and their blue
cap-bands flapped about their ears like pennons.
Pelle seated himself upon a bench, and absently followed their reckless
play, while his thoughts went back to his own careless boyhood. A boy
of ten or twelve took the lead in breakneck tricks, shouting and
commanding; he was the chief of the band, and maintained the leadership
with a high hand. His face, with its snub nose, beamed with lively
impudence, and his cap rested upon two exceptionally prominent ears.
The boys began to make of the stranger a target for their exuberant
spirits. In dashing past him they pretended to lose control of their
machine, so that it almost went over his foot; and at last the leader
suddenly snatched off his cap. Pelle quietly picked it up, but when the
boy came circling back with measured strokes as though pondering some
fresh piece of mischief he sprang up and seized him by the collar.
“Now you shall have a thrashing, you scamp!” he said, lifting him off
his bicycle. “But it’ll be just as well if you get it from your
parents. What’s your father’s name?”
“He hasn’t got a father!” cried the other boys, flocking round them
threateningly. “Let him go!”
The boy opened his lips to give vent to a torrent of bad language, but
stopped suddenly and gazed in terror at Pelle, struggling like a mad
thing to get away. Pelle let him go in surprise, and saw him mount his
bicycle and disappear howling. His companions dashed after him like a
flight of swallows. “Wait a little, Lasse Frederik!” they cried. Pelle
stood a little while gazing after them, and then with bent head walked
slowly into Nörrebro Street.
It was strange to be walking again in this street, which had played so
great a part in his life. The traffic was heavier here than in other
places, and the stone paving made it more so. A peculiar adamantine
self-dependence was characteristic of this district where every step
was weighted with the weight of labor.
The shops were the same, and he also recognized several of the
shopkeepers. He tried to feel at home in the crowd, and looked into
people’s faces, wondering whether any one would recognize him. He both
wished and feared it, but they hurried past, only now and then one of
them would wonder a little at his strange appearance. He himself knew
most of them as well as if it had been yesterday he had had to do with
those thousands, for the intermediate years had not thrust new faces in
between him and the old ones. Now and again he met one of his men
walking on the pavement with his wife on his arm, while others were
standing on the electric tramcars as drivers and conductors. Weaklings
and steady fellows—they were his army. He could name them by name and
was acquainted with their family circumstances. Well, a good deal of
water had run under the bridge since then!
He went into a little inn for travelling artisans, and engaged a room.
“It’s easy to see that you’ve been away from this country for a day or
two,” said the landlord. “Have you been far?”
Oh, yes, Pelle had seen something of the world. And here at home there
had been a good many changes. How did the Movement get on?
“Capitally! Yes, awfully well! Our party has made tremendous progress;
to-day we shall take the town!”
“That’ll make a difference in things, I suppose?”
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t say that for certain. Unemployment increases
every year, and it’s all the same who represents the town and sits in
parliament. But we’ve got on very well as far as prices go.”
“Tell me—there was a man in the Movement a few years ago called Pelle;
what’s become of him?”
The landlord scratched his parting. “Pelle! Pelle! Yes, of course. What
in the world was there about him? Didn’t he make false coins, or rob a
till? If I remember right, he ended by going to prison. Well, well,
there are bad characters in every movement.”
A couple of workmen, who were sitting at a table eating fried liver,
joined in the conversation. “He came a good deal to the front five or
six years ago,” said one of them with his mouth full. “But there wasn’t
much in him; he had too much imagination.”
“He had the gift of the gab, anyhow,” said the other. “I still
distinctly remember him at the great lock-out. He could make you think
you were no end of a fine fellow, he could! Well, that’s all past and
gone! Your health, comrade!”
Pelle rose quietly and went out. He was forgotten; nobody remembered
anything about him, in spite of all that he had fought for and
suffered. Much must have passed over their heads since then, and him
they had simply forgotten.
He did not know what to do with himself, more homeless here in this
street, which should have been his own, than in any other place. It was
black with people, but he was not carried with the stream; he resembled
something that has been washed up to one side and left lying.
They were all in their best clothes. The workmen came in crowds on
their way either from or to the polling-booths, and some were collected
and accompanied thither by eager comrades. One man would shout to
another across the road through his hollowed hand: “Hi, Petersen! I
suppose you’ve voted?” Everywhere there was excitement and good humor:
the city was to be taken!
Pelle went with the stream over Queen Louise’s Bridge and farther into
the city. Here the feeling was different, opinions were divided, people
exchanged sharp words. Outside the newspaper-offices stood dense crowds
impeding the wheel-traffic as they waited patiently for the results
that were shown in the windows. Every time a contested district came
in, a wave of movement passed through the crowd, followed by a mighty
roar if a victory was recorded. All was comparatively quiet; people
stood outside the offices of the papers that bore the color of their
party. Only the quarrelsome men gathered about their opponents and had
their hats bashed in. Within the offices the members of the staff were
passing busily backward and forward, hanging up the results and
correcting them.
All the _cafés_ and restaurants were full of customers. The telephone
rang incessantly, and messengers kept coming with lists from the
telegram bureaus; men fought over the results in front of the great
blackboard and chances were discussed at the tables and much political
nonsense was talked.
Pelle had never seen the city so excited, not even during the great
lock-out. Class faced class with clenched fists, the workmen even more
eager than the upper class: they had become out-and-out politicians. He
could see that the Movement had shifted its center of gravity over
this. What was necessary was to gain seats; to-day they expected to get
the upper hand in the city and a firm footing out in the country.
Several of the old leaders were already in parliament and brought
forward their practical experience in the debate; their aim now was
nothing less than to usurp the political power. This was bold enough:
they must have been successful, after all. He still possessed his old
quickness of hearing as regards the general feeling, and perceived a
change in the public tone. It had become broader, more democratic. Even
the upper classes submitted to the ballot now, and condescended to
fight for a majority of votes.
Pelle could see no place for himself, however, in this conflict. “Hi,
you there! I suppose you’ve voted?” men shouted to him as they passed.
Voted! He had not even the right to vote! In the battle that was now
being fought, their old leader was not even allowed to take part as an
ordinary soldier.
Out of the road! They marched in small bands on their way to the
polling-booths or the Assembly Rooms, taking up the whole pavement, and
Pelle readily moved out of their way. This time he did not come like a
king’s son for whom the whole world stood waiting.
He was of the scum of the earth, neither more nor less, one who had
been thrown aside and forgotten. If he succeeded in recalling himself
to their remembrance, it would only be the bringing up of the story of
a criminal. There was the house where the Stolpes lived. Perhaps they
knew where Ellen was. But what did it matter to him? He had not
forgotten Lasse Frederik’s terror-stricken face. And there was the
corner house where Morten had managed the business. Ah, it was long
since their ways had parted! Morten had in reality always envied him;
he had not been able to bear his tremendous success. Now he would be
able to crow over him!
Anger and bitterness filled his heart, and his head was confused, and
his thoughts, bred of malice, were like clumsy faultfinders. For years
the need of associating with human beings had been accumulating within
him; and now the whole thing gave way like an avalanche. He could
easily pick a quarrel with some one, just to make himself less a matter
of indifference to the rest of the world. Why shouldn’t he go to the
“Cupping-Glass”? He would be expected there at any rate.
Outside Griffenfeldt Street there was a crowd. A number of people had
gathered round a coal-heaver, who was belaboring a lamp-post with the
toes of his wooden shoes, at the same time using abusive language. He
had run against it and had a bruise on his forehead. People were
amusing themselves at his expense.
As the light from the lamp fell upon the coal-blackened face of the
drunken man, Pelle recognized him. It was Merry Jacob. He pushed his
way angrily through the crowd and took him by the shoulder. “What’s the
matter with you, Jacob? Have you become a drunkard?” he said hotly.
“How’s that?”
“It’s got no business to get in the way of an organized workman,” Jacob
said indistinctly, kicking the air to the great delight of the
onlookers, who encouraged him to continue. “I’m a member of my
organization, and don’t owe anything; you can see for yourselves!” He
pulled out of his breast-pocket a little book in a black leather cover,
and turned over its pages. “Just look for yourselves! Member’s
subscription paid, isn’t it? Strike subscription paid, isn’t it? Shown
on entrance, isn’t it? Just you shut up! Take it and pass it round; we
must have our papers in order. You’re supporting the election fund, I
suppose? Go up and vote, confound you! The man who won’t give his mite
is a poor pal. Who says thief? There’s no one here that steals. I’m an
honest, organized—” He suddenly began to weep, and the saliva dropped
from the corners of his mouth onto his coat, while he made fearful
grimaces.
Pelle managed to get him into a courtyard, and washed his wound at the
pump. The cold water made him shiver, and his head lolled weakly. “Such
a snotty blackleg!” he murmured. “I’ll get the chairman to give him a
doing in the paper.”
Suddenly he recognized Pelle. He started, and consciousness struggled
to obtain control over his dulled senses. “Why, is that you, master?”
he asked shamefacedly, seizing Pelle’s hand. “So you’ve come back! I
suppose you think me a beast, but what can I do?”
“Just come along!” said Pelle sharply, anxious to get away from the
crowd of spectators.
They went down Meinung Street, Jacob staggering along in silence, and
looking askance at his former leader. He walked a little awkwardly, but
it came from his work; the meeting with Pelle had made him almost
sober. “I’m sure you think I’m a beast,” he said again at last in a
pitiful voice. “But you see there’s no one to keep me straight.”
“It’s the fault of the brandy,” said Pelle shortly.
“Well, you may be right, but a fellow needs a kind word now and then,
and you have to take it where you can get it. Your pals look down upon
you and chuck you out of their set.”
“What’s the matter, then?” asked Pelle.
“What’s the matter? Six times five’s the matter, because I wouldn’t let
my old father starve during the lockout. We had a jolly good time then.
I was a good son! Didn’t mind the fat purses of the bigwigs and a
little bread and water—and the devil and his standpipe! But now they’re
singing another tune: That man! Why, he’s been punished for theft! End
of him. No one asks why; they’ve become big men, you see. In olden days
I was always called Merry Jacob, and the fellows liked to be in my
shift. Do you know what they call me now? Thieving Jacob. Well, they
don’t say it right out, for if they did, some one ’ud crack their heads
for them; but that is my name. Well, I say to myself, perhaps you saw
everything topsy-turvy in those days; perhaps, after all, you’re
nothing but a thief. And then I have to drink to become an honest man
again.”
“And get in rages with the lamp-posts! Don’t you think you’d do better
to hit out at those who wrong you?”
Jacob was silent and hung his head; the once strong, bold fellow had
become like a dog that any one might kick. If it were so dreadful to
bear six times five among one’s own people, what could Pelle say? “How
is your brother?” he asked, in order to divert Jacob’s thoughts to
something brighter. “He was a splendid fellow.”
“He hung himself,” answered Jacob gloomily. “He couldn’t stand it any
longer. We broke into a house together, so as to be equal about it; and
the grocer owed the old man money—he’d worked for it—and they meant to
cheat him out of it. So the two old things were starving, and had no
fire either; and we got them what they’d a right to, and it was so
splendidly done too. But afterward when there was a row at the works,
agitation and election fuss and all that kind of thing, they just went
and left him and me out. We weren’t the right sort, you see; we hadn’t
the right to vote. He couldn’t get even with the business in any other
way than by putting a rope over the lamp-hook in the ceiling. I’ve
looked at the matter myself all round, you see, but I can’t make
anything of it.” He walked on a little without speaking, and then said:
“Would you hit out properly now? There’s need of a kind word.”
Pelle did not answer; it was all too sad. He did not even hear the
question.
“It was chiefly what you said that made me believe in a better time
coming,” Jacob continued persistently, “or perhaps my brother and me
would have done differently and things might have gone better with both
of us. Well, I suppose you believed it yourself, but what do you think
now? Do you still believe in that about the better time? For I should
like to be an honest man again.”
Of course Pelle still believed in it.
“For there aren’t many who’d give a brass farthing for that story now;
but if _you_ say so—I’ve got faith in you all the same. Others wouldn’t
have the brains to think of anything for themselves, and it was like
the cork going off, so to speak, for us poor people when you went away;
everything went flat. If anything happens, it doesn’t do for a poor
devil to look on; and every time any one wants to complain, he gets a
voting-paper pushed into his hand and they say: Go and vote and things
will be altered! But confound it, that can’t rouse a fellow who’s not
learnt anything from the time he was small. They’d taken a lot of
trouble about me now—whitewashing me so that I could use my right to
vote; but they can’t make me so that no one looks down on me. And so I
say, Thank you for nothing! But if you still believe in it, so will I,
for I’ve got faith in you. Here’s my hand on it!”
Jacob was the same simple, good-hearted fellow that he had been in
former days when he lived in the attic in the “Ark.” There might very
well have been a little more evil in him. But his words warmed Pelle’s
heart. Here was some one who needed him, and who still believed in him
although he had been maimed in the fight. He was the first of the
disabled ones, and Pelle was prepared to meet with more and to hear
their accusations. Many of them would turn against him now that he was
powerless, but he would have to put up with that. He felt as though he
had the strength for it now.
Pelle went into the street again, letting his feet carry him where they
would, while he thought of the past and the future. They had been so
certain that a new age would dawn upon them at once! The new, great
truth had been so self-evident that it seemed as if all the old
conditions must fall before it as at a magic word; and now the everyday
reality had worn the gloss off it. As far as he could see, nothing
particular had happened, and what was there to happen? That was not the
way to overturn systems. From Merry Jacob’s opinion he could draw his
own, but he was no longer despondent, he did not mind what happened. He
would have had no objection to challenge the opinion of his old
comrades at once, and find out how he stood.
He had passed through several side streets when he suddenly found
himself in front of a large, well-lighted building with a broad flight
of steps, up which people were flocking. It was one of the
working-men’s halls, and festivities were being held in it to celebrate
the elections. Pelle went, by force of habit, with the stream.
He remained at the back of the hall, and used his eyes as though he had
just dropped down from some other planet; strange feelings welled up
within him when he found himself once more among the people. For a
moment he felt a vehement desire to cry: Here I am! and stretch out his
arms to them all; but he quickly controlled it, and his face regained
its stony composure.
This then was his army from the conflict. They were decidedly better
clothed than on the day when he led them in triumph into the city as
its true citizens; they carried their heads higher too, did not get
behind one another, but claimed room for themselves. They had more to
eat, he could see, for their faces shone more; and their eyes had
become indolent in expression, and no longer looked hungrily out into
uncertainty but moved quietly and unhesitatingly from place to place.
They were prepared for another long march, and perhaps it was as well;
great things did not happen in the twinkling of an eye.
He was aroused from his thoughts by discovering that the people nearest
to him were turning and gazing at him. The number of faces looking
round at him increased, and the words, “Pelle is here!” passed in a
murmur through the crowd. Hundreds of eyes were directed toward him
questioningly and searchingly, some of them in evident expectation of
something unusual happening at once.
The movement became general—a wave that carried him resistlessly to the
front of the hall and up onto the platform. A great roar like the
breaking of surf arose on all sides of him and stupefied his sensitive
brain in which silence sat always putting together a fine new world
about which no one else knew. Suddenly everything was still, so still
that the solitude was again audible to his ear.
Pelle spoke quietly and with confidence. His words were a greeting to
them from a world they as yet did not know, the great solitude through
which man must move alone—without loud-voiced companions to encourage
him—and listen until he hears his own heart beat within it. He sits in
a cell again, like the first original germ of life, alone and forsaken;
and over him a spider skilfully spins its web. At first he is angry
with the busy insect, and tears down the web; but the insect begins
again patiently. And this suddenly becomes a consolatory lesson to him
never to give up; he becomes fond of the little vigilant creature that
makes its web as skilfully as if it had a great responsibility, and he
asks himself whether it is at all conscious of his existence. Is it
sorry for him in his forsaken condition, since it does not move to
another place, but patiently builds its web up again, finer and finer,
as if it had only been torn down because it was not made well enough?
He bitterly regrets his conduct, and would give much for a sign that
the little insect is not angry with him, for no one can afford to
offend another; the smallest creature is of vital importance to you. In
the loneliness of the prison cell you learn solidarity. And one day
when he is sitting reading, the spider, in its busy efforts to carry
its thread past him, drops down and uses his shoulder as a temporary
attachment. Never before has such confidence been shown him
notwithstanding everything; the little insect knew how a hardened
criminal should be taken. It taught him that he had both a heart and a
soul to take care of. A greeting to his comrades from the great silence
that was waiting to speak to them one by one.
He spoke from the depths of his soul, and saw surprise in their faces.
What in the world did he want? Did he want them all to go to prison
only because he himself had been there? Was that all that was left of
the old Pelle—Lightning, as he was then called? He was certainly rather
weak in the legs; there wasn’t much of _his_ eloquence left! They
quickly lost interest and began to talk together in undertones; there
came only a little desultory applause here and there from the corners.
Pelle felt the disappointment and indifference, and smiled. He no
longer had need of storms of approbation; he listened for it now within
himself. This much he had learned by standing up there, namely, that he
had not done with the men below; he was, in fact, only just beginning
with them. His work had been swept away: well then he would build up a
new one that was better. He had sat in his prison-cell and learned
long- suffering.
He took a seat below the platform among the leaders of the meeting, and
felt that he was really a stranger there. It was out of compassion they
had drawn him into the meeting; he read in their eyes that the work
that had been done was done without him, and that he came at an
inopportune moment. Would they have to reckon with him, the
hare-brained fellow, now again, or did he mean to emigrate? Alas, he
did not give much impetus to the Movement! but if they only knew how
much wisdom he had gained in his solitude!
He did not talk, but looked on absently, trying to listen through the
noise for something lasting. They laughed and drank and made speeches—
for him too; but all this was so unnecessary! They had gained
confidence, they spoke quite openly, there was a certain emancipation
in their general behavior; taken as a whole, they made a good
impression. But the miracle? the incomprehensible? He missed a little
anxiety behind the prosperity, the deep, silent pondering that would
show that they had gazed into a new world. Did they not hear the
undertone at all, since they were making such a noise—the unceasing,
soft rhythm that was in his own ears continually and contained the
whole thing? The stillness of the cell had made his hearing acute; the
boisterous laughter, which expressed their pleasure in life, caused him
suffering.
Beside a large blackboard on the platform stood one of the leaders,
writing up the victories of the day, amid the rejoicing of the crowd.
Pelle slipped out unnoticed, and was standing on the steps, breathing
in the quiet night air, when a young man came up to him and held out
his hand. It was his brother-in-law, Frederik Stolpe. “I just wanted to
wish you welcome back,” he said, “and to thank you for what you said in
there.”
“How is Ellen?” Pelle asked in a low voice.
“She’s only pretty well. She lives at 20, Victoria Street, and takes in
washing. I think she would be glad to see you.” He looked searchingly
at Pelle. “If you like, I can easily arrange for you to meet at my
place.”
“Thank you!” Pelle answered, “but I’ll go out to her early to-morrow
morning.” He no longer needed to go by circuitous routes.