Pelle was awakened by a distant sound resembling thunder, that came
nearer and nearer out of the night and kept close to the prison. He lay
still and listened shudderingly in the hope of hearing the reassuring
step of the watchman passing his door, while fancies chased one another
in his heavy head like riderless horses. The hollow, threatening sound
grew ever louder and clearer, until it suddenly shattered the stillness
of the night with a thunderous roar, which seemed to bring everything
crashing down. It was as though a great gulf had opened and swallowed
everything.
In one panic-stricken bound he was at the window, his heart beating
tumultuously; but the next moment he was ashamed of his mistake. It had
been the same terrifying Doomsday that he had dreaded in the days of
his childhood, when the lightning zig-zagged among the rocks at home;
and yet it was nothing but the noise of the first farm-carts as they
passed from the highroad onto the stone paving of the town. It was the
solitude brooding in his imagination, making it start in fear at every
sound. But that would wear off.
He stretched himself and shook off the nightmare. Free! No gaoler was
coming like a bad spirit to shatter the night’s happy dream of freedom.
He _was_ free! His pallet had not to be hooked up to the wall at a
certain hour; he could lie as long as he wanted to, the whole day, if
he liked. But now he had more important things to do; life was waiting.
He hastily put on his clothes.
In the street the lamplighter was lighting every other lamp. An endless
procession of carts was pouring in from the country to supply the town.
Pelle threw open the window and looked out over the wakening city while
he dressed himself. He was accustomed to sleep in a silence that was
only broken by the soft squeaking of the mice under the heat-grating;
and the night-noises of the city—the rumble of the electric trams, the
shouts of night-wanderers—all these unwonted sounds that pierced the
darkness so startlingly, had filled, his sleep with feverish dreams and
caused a series of ugly, deformed visions to pass through his brain.
He now felt quite rested, however, and greeted the city with awakened
pleasure. Yes, he had slept more than sufficiently; the noise called
him and he must go down and give a helping hand to keep it going. For
years he had done nothing but hoard; now he would set to work again
with strength and courage. As soon as he was dressed he went out. It
was too early to visit Ellen, but he could not bear to stay in any
longer. It was early morning. The first tram-car came in, filled with
workmen, some even hanging on to the steps both of the motor-wagon and
the two cars following it. And there was the first peasant with milk:
they were not even up yet in the ice-dairy! Every quarter of an hour
trams came in with workmen, and the market-carts continued to drive in
from the country laden with vegetables, corn or pigs’ carcasses. The
street was like a feeding-tube through which nourishment was
continually being drawn into the city.
On the top of swaying loads of straw sat Zealand peasants nodding. They
had come all the way from the Frederikssund quarter, and had been
driving all night. Here and there came a drover with a few animals
intended for the cattle-market. The animals did not like the town, and
constantly became restive, hitching themselves round lamp-posts or
getting across the tram-lines. The newspaper-women trudged from street-
door to street-door with their aprons laden with morning papers, and he
heard them toiling up the stairs as though their feet were weighted
with lead. And beneath all this could be heard the endless tramp-tramp
of workmen hastening to their work.
There was a peculiarly familiar sound in those footsteps, which
suddenly reminded him that he no longer belonged to their party, but
had marked out his own way for good and evil.
Why was he not still a small, impersonal fraction of this great stream
which day after day mechanically followed the same round in the mill?
Solitude had made his view of mankind a new and wondering one; he now,
in every strange face he met, involuntarily sought for a little of that
which makes each individual a world in himself. But these men were all
alike, he thought; they came hurrying out of the darkness of the side
streets, and were not fully awake and steady on their feet until they
joined the throng, but then they did walk capitally. He recognized the
firm beat again: he had himself taught it to them.
Daylight came stealing in over Vesterbro, gray and heavy with spring
moisture and the city smoke. That part of the town was not quite awake
yet; the step sounding in the main street was that of the belated
night- wanderer. He turned down Victoria Street, looking about him in
surprise; he had never been here before. He read the door-plates:
Artists’ Bureau, Artisan Heim, Lodging for Artists, Masseur &
Chiropodist, Costumes for Hire. Most of the announcements were in
foreign languages. There was also a Gymnasium for Equilibrists and a
Conservatorium for Singing and Music, Dancing and Deportment. Nor did
there seem to be a scarcity of pawnbrokers and dealers in second-hand
goods. How had Ellen drifted into this strange atmosphere of perfumes
and old clothes and foreign countries? Behind the windows in the low
rooms he saw wonderful dresses thrown over chair-backs—burnouses and
red fezes; and a little dark figure with a long pigtail and bare feet
in yellow slippers, glided noiselessly past him in the old-fashioned,
palatial doorway of No. 20.
He mounted the stairs with a beating heart. The steps were worn and
groaned ominously when trodden on. The door of the flat stood ajar, and
he heard the sound of sweeping in the front room, while farther in a
child was talking to itself or its doll. He had to stand a little while
on the landing to take breath and to regain his composure.
Ellen was sweeping under the sofa with quick movements. She rose and
gazed at him in bewilderment; the broom fell from her hand and she
swayed to and fro. Pelle caught her, and she leaned inert and helpless
against him, and remained thus for a considerable time, pale and with
closed eyes. When at last he turned her inanimate face toward him and
kissed it, she burst into tears.
He spoke gently and reassuringly to her as to a child. She kept her
eyes closed, as she had always done when anything overwhelmed her. She
lay back on his arm, and he felt her body tremble at the sound of his
voice. Her tears seemed to soften her, and from the yielding of her
body now he could see how stiffly she must have held herself, and was
filled with joy. It had all been for his sake, and with a tremendous
effort of her will she had defied fate until he came. She now placed it
all at his feet and lay prostrate. How tired she must be! But now she
and the children should have a good time; he would live for her now!
He had laid her on the sofa and sat bending over her and telling her
quietly how he had repented and longed for her. She made no answer, but
held his hand in a convulsive grasp, now and then opening her eyes and
stealing a glance at him. Suddenly she discovered how worn and lined
his face was, and as she passed her hand over it as if to soften the
features, she broke into a storm of weeping.
“You have suffered so, Pelle!” she exclaimed vehemently, passing her
trembling fingers through his iron-gray hair. “I can feel by your poor
head how badly they’ve treated you. And I wasn’t even with you! If I
could only do something really nice to make you look happy!”
She drew his head down onto her bosom and stroked it as a mother might
her child’s, and Pelle’s face changed as would a child’s when taken to
its mother’s breast. It was as though the well of life flowed through
him, the hardness of his expression disappeared, and life and warmth
took its place. “I didn’t think you’d come back to us,” said Ellen.
“Ever since Lasse Frederik met you yesterday I’ve been expecting you to
come.”
Pelle suddenly noticed how exhausted she looked. “Haven’t you been to
bed all night?” he asked.
She smilingly shook her head. “I had to take care that the street-door
wasn’t locked. Whenever any one came home, I ran down and unlocked it
again. You mustn’t be angry with the boy for being afraid of you just
at first. He was sorry for it afterward, and ran about the town all the
evening trying to find you.”
A clear child’s voice was calling from the bedroom more and more
persistently: “Man! Good-morning, man!”
It was Sister, sitting up in Ellen’s bed and playing with a feather
that she had pulled out of the corner of the down-quilt. She readily
allowed herself to be kissed, and sat there with pouting mouth and the
funniest little wrinkled nose. “You’re man!” she said insinuatingly.
“Yes, that’s true enough,” answered Pelle, laughing: “but what man?”
“Man!” she repeated, nodding gravely.
Sister shared Ellen’s bed now. At the foot of the big bed stood her own
little cot, which had also been Lasse Frederik’s, and in it lay——.
Well, Pelle turned to the other side of the room, where Lasse Frederik
lay snoring in a small bed, with one arm beneath his head. He had
kicked off the quilt, and lay on his stomach in a deep sleep, with his
limbs extended carelessly. The little fellow was well built, thought
Pelle.
“Now, lazy-bones, you’d better be thinking of getting up!” cried Pelle,
pulling him by the leg.
The boy turned slowly. When he saw his father, he instantly became wide
awake, and raised his arm above his head as though to ward off a blow.
“There’s no box on the ears in the air, my boy,” said Pelle, laughing.
“The game only begins to-day!”
Lasse Frederik continued to hold his arm in the same position, and lay
gazing indifferently out into the front room, as if he had no idea to
what his father was referring; but his face was scarlet.
“Don’t you even say good-morning to your father?” said Ellen, whereupon
he sullenly extended his hand and then turned his face to the wall. He
was vexed at his behavior of the day before, and perhaps expected a
blowing-up. On a nail above his head hung his blouse and cap.
“Is Lasse Frederik a milk-boy?” asked Pelle.
“Yes,” said Ellen, “and he’s very good at it. The drivers praise him.”
“Isn’t he going to get up then, and go? I’ve met several milk-carts.”
“No, for we’re on strike just now,” murmured the boy without turning
round.
Pelle became quite interested. “What fellows you are! So you’re on
strike, are you? What’s it for—is it wages?”
The boy had to explain, and gradually turned his face round, but did
not look at his father.
Ellen stood in the doorway and listened to them smilingly. She looked
frail. “Lasse Frederik’s the leader,” she said gently.
“And he’s lying here instead of being out on the watch for blacklegs?”
exclaimed Pelle quite irritably. “You’re a nice leader!”
“Do you suppose any boy would be so mean as to be a blackleg?” said
Lasse Frederik. “No, indeed! But people fetch their own milk from the
carts.”
“Then you must get the drivers to join you.”
“No, we don’t belong to a real union, so they won’t support us.”
“Well then, make a union! Get up, boy, and don’t lie there snoring when
there’s anything of this sort on! Do you imagine that anything in this
world is to be got by sleeping?”
The boy did not move. He did not seem to think there was any reason for
taking his father very seriously; but he met a reproachful look from
Ellen, and he was out of bed and dressed in a trice. While they sat in
the front room, drinking their coffee, Pelle gave him a few hints as to
how he should proceed in the matter. He was greatly interested, and
went thoroughly into the subject; it seemed to him as though it were
only yesterday that he had occupied himself with the people. How many
pleasant memories of the fight crowded into his mind! And now every
child knew that the meanest thing on earth was to become a blackleg!
How he had fought to make even intelligent fellow-workmen understand
this! It was quite comical to think that the strike—which filled the
workmen with horror the first time he had employed it—was now a thing
that children made use of. Time passed with a fleet foot out here in
the day; and if you wanted to keep pace you must look sharp!
When the boy had gone, Ellen came to Pelle and stroked his hair.
“Welcome home!” she said softly, and kissed his furrowed brow.
He pressed her hand. “Thank you for having a home for me,” he answered,
looking into her eyes; “for if you hadn’t, I think I should have gone
to the dogs.”
“The boy has had his share in that, you know! He’s worked well, or it
might have gone badly with me many a time. You mustn’t be angry with
him, Pelle, even if he is a little sullen to you. You must remember how
much he’s gone through with the other boys. Sometimes he’s come home
quite disheartened.”
“Because of me?” asked Pelle in a low voice.
“Yes, for he couldn’t bear them to say anything about you. At one time
he was always fighting, but now I think he’s taught them to leave him
alone; for he never gave in. But it may have left its marks on him.”
She lingered by him; there was something she wanted to say to him, but
she had a difficulty in beginning. “What is it?” he asked, in order to
help her, his heart beating rapidly. He would have liked to get over
this without speech.
She drew him gently into the bedroom and up to the little cot. “You
haven’t looked at Boy Comfort,” she said.
He bent in embarrassment over the little boy who lay and gazed at him
with large, serious eyes. “You must give me a little time,” he said.
“It’s little Marie’s boy,” said Ellen, with a peculiar intonation.
He stood up quickly, and looked in bewilderment at her. It was a little
while before he comprehended.
“Where is Marie?” he asked with difficulty.
“She’s dead, Pelle,” answered Ellen, and came to his aid by holding out
her hand to him. “She died when the child was born.”
A gray shadow passed across Pelle’s face.