In the depths of Pelle’s soul lay a confident feeling that he was
destined for something particular; it was his old dream of fortune,
which would not be wholly satisfied by the good conditions for all men
which he wanted to help to bring about. His fate was no longer in his
eyes a grievous and crushing predestination to poverty, which could
only be lifted from him by a miracle; he was lord of his own future,
and already he was restlessly building it up!
But in addition to this there was something else that belonged only to
him and to life, something that no one else in the world could
undertake. What it was he had not yet figured to himself; but it was
something that raised him above all others, secretly, so that only he
was conscious of it. It was the same obscure feeling of being a pioneer
that had always urged him forward; and when it did take the form of a
definite question he answered it with the confident nod of his
childhood. Yes, he would see it through all right! As though that which
was to befall him was so great and so wonderful that it could not be
put into words, nor even thought of. He saw the straight path in front
of him, and he sauntered on, strong and courageous. There were no other
enemies than those a prudent man might perceive; those lurking forces
of evil which in his childhood had hovered threateningly above his head
were the shadows of the poor man’s wretchedness. There was nothing else
evil, and that was sinister enough. He knew now that the shadows were
long. Morten was right. Although he himself when a child had sported in
the light, yet his mind was saddened by the misery of all those who
were dead or fighting in distant parts of the earth; and it was on this
fact that the feeling of solidarity must be based. The miraculous
simply had no existence, and that was a good thing for those who had to
fight with the weapon of their own physical strength. No invisible
deity sat overhead making his own plans for them or obstructing others.
What one willed, that could one accomplish, if only he had strength
enough to carry it through. Strength—it was on that and that alone that
everything depended. And there was strength in plenty. But the strength
of all must be united, must act as the strength of one. People always
wondered why Pelle, who was so industrious and respectable, should live
in the “Ark” instead of in the northern quarter, in the midst of the
Movement. He wondered at himself when he ever thought about it at all;
but he could not as yet tear himself away from the “Ark.” Here, at the
bottom of the ladder, he had found peace in his time of need. He was
too loyal to turn his back on those among whom he had been happy.
He knew they would feel it as a betrayal; the adoration with which the
inmates of the “Ark” regarded the three orphan children was also
bestowed upon him; he was the foundling, the fourth member of the
“Family,” and now they were proud of him too!
It was not the way of the inmates of the “Ark” to make plans for the
future. Sufficient to the day was the evil thereof; to-morrow’s cares
were left for the morrow. The future did not exist for them. They were
like careless birds, who had once suffered shipwreck and had forgotten
it. Many of them made their living where they could; but however down
in the world they were, let the slightest ray of sunlight flicker down
to them, and all was forgotten. Of the labor movement and other new
things they gossiped as frivolously as so many chattering starlings,
who had snapped up the news on the wind.
But Pelle went so confidently out into the world, and set his shoulders
against it, and then came back home to them. He had no fear; he could
look Life straight in the face, he grappled boldly with the future,
before which they shudderingly closed their eyes. And thereby his name
came to be spoken with a particular accent; Pelle was a prince; what a
pity it was that he wouldn’t, it seemed, have the princess!
He was tall and well-grown, and to them he seemed even taller. They
went to him in their misery, and loaded it all on his strong young
shoulders, so that he could bear it for them. And Pelle accepted it all
with an increasing sense that perhaps it was not quite aimlessly that
he lingered here—so near the foundations of society!
At this time Widow Frandsen and her son Ferdinand came upon the scene.
Misfortune must house itself somewhere!
Ferdinand was a sturdy young fellow of eighteen years, with a
powerfully modelled head, which looked as though it had originally been
intended to absorb all the knowledge there is in all the world. But he
used it only for dispensing blows; he had no other use for it whatever.
Yet he was by no means stupid; one might even call him a gifted young
man. But his gifts were of a peculiar quality, and had gradually become
even more peculiar.
As a little child he had been forced to fight a besotted father, in
order to protect his mother, who had no other protector. This unequal
battle _had_ to be fought; and it necessarily blunted his capacity for
feeling pain, and particularly his sense of danger. He knew what was in
store for him, but he rushed blindly into the fray the moment his
mother was attacked; just as a dog will attack a great beast of prey,
so he hung upon the big man’s fists, and would not be shaken off. He
hated his father, and he longed in his heart to be a policeman when he
was grown up. With his blind and obtuse courage he was particularly
adapted to such a calling; but he actually became a homeless vagabond.
Gradually as he grew in height and strength and the battle was no
longer so unequal, his father began to fear him and to think of
revenge; and once, when Ferdinand had thoroughly thrashed him, he
reported him, and the boy was flogged. The boy felt this to be a
damnable piece of injustice; the flogging left scars behind it, and
another of its results was that his mother was no longer left in peace.
From that time onward he hated the police, and indulged his hatred at
every opportunity. His mother was the only being for whom he still
cared. It was like a flash of sunshine when his father died. But it
came too late to effect any transformation; Ferdinand had long ago
begun to look after his mother in his own peculiar way—which was partly
due to the conditions of his life.
He had grown up in the streets, and even when quite a child was one of
those who are secretly branded. The police knew him well, and were only
awaiting their opportunity to ask him inside. Ferdinand could see it in
their eyes—they reckoned quite confidently on that visit, and had got a
bed already for him in their hotel on the New Market.
But Ferdinand would not allow himself to be caught. When he had
anything doubtful in hand, he always managed to clear himself. He was
an unusually strong and supple young fellow, and was by no means afraid
to work; he obtained all kinds of occasional work, and he always did it
well. But whenever he got into anything that offered him a future, any
sort of regular work which must be learned and attacked with patience,
he could never go on with it.
“You speak to him, Pelle!” said his mother. “You are so sensible, and
he does respect you!” Pelle did speak to him, and helped him to find
some calling for which he was suited; and Ferdinand set to work with a
will, but when he got to a certain point he always threw it up.
His mother never lacked actual necessaries; although sometimes he only
procured them at the last moment. When not otherwise engaged, he would
stand in some doorway on the market-place, loafing about, his hands in
his pockets, his supple shoulders leaning against the wall. He was
always in clogs and mittens; at stated intervals he spat upon the
pavement, his sea-blue eyes following the passers-by with an
unfathomable expression. The policeman, who was aggressively pacing up
and down his beat, glanced at him in secret every time he passed him,
as much as to say, “Shan’t we ever manage to catch the rogue? Why
doesn’t he make a slip?”
And one day the thing happened—quite of itself, and not on account of
any clumsiness on his part—in the “Ark” they laid particular stress
upon that. It was simply his goodness of heart that was responsible.
Had Ferdinand not been the lad he was, matters had not gone awry, for
he was a gifted young man.
He was in the grocer’s shop on the corner of the Market buying a few
coppers’ worth of chewing-tobacco. An eight-year-old boy from the “Ark”
was standing by the counter, asking for a little flour on credit for
his mother. The grocer was making a tremendous fuss about the affair.
“Put it down—I dare say! One keeps shop on the corner here just to feed
all the poor folks in the neighborhood! I shall have the money
to-morrow? Peculiar it is, that in this miserable, poverty-stricken
quarter folks are always going to have money the very next day! Only
the next day never comes!”
“Herre Petersen can depend on it,” said the child, in a low voice.
The grocer continued to scoff, but began to weigh the meal. Before the
scales there was a pile of yard brooms and other articles, but
Ferdinand could see that the grocer was pressing the scale with his
fingers. He’s giving false weight because it’s for a poor person,
thought Ferdinand, and he felt an angry pricking in his head, just
where his thoughts were.
The boy stood by, fingering something concealed in his hand. Suddenly a
coin fell on the floor and went rolling round their feet. Quick as
lightning the grocer cast a glance at the till, as he sprang over the
counter and seized the boy by the scruff of the neck. “Ay, ay,” he said
sharply, “a clever little rogue!”
“I haven’t stolen anything!” cried the boy, trying to wrench himself
loose and to pick up his krone-piece. “That’s mother’s money!”
“You leave the kid alone!” said Ferdinand threateningly. “He hasn’t
done anything!”
The grocer struggled with the boy, who was twisting and turning in
order to recover his money. “Hasn’t done anything!” he growled,
panting, “then why did he cry out about stealing before ever I had
mentioned the word? And where does the money come from? He wanted
credit, because they hadn’t got any! No, thanks—I’m not to be caught
like that.”
“The money belongs to mother!” shrieked the youngster, twisting
desperately in the grocer’s grip. “Mother is ill—I’m to get medicine
with it!” And he began to blubber.
“It’s quite right—his mother is ill!” said Ferdinand, with a growl.
“And the chemist certainly won’t give credit. You’d best let him go,
Petersen.” He took a step forward.
“You’ve thought it out nicely!” laughed the grocer scornfully, and he
wrenched the shop-door open. “Here, policeman, here!”
The policeman, who was keeping watch at the street corner, came quickly
over to the shop. “Here’s a lad who plays tricks with other folks’
money,” said the grocer excitedly. “Take care of him for a bit,
Iversen!”
The boy was still hitting out in all directions; the policeman had to
hold him off at arm’s length. He was a ragged, hungry little fellow.
The policeman saw at a glance what he had in his fingers, and proceeded
to drag him away; and there was no need to have made any more ado about
the matter.
Ferdinand went after him and laid his hand on the policeman’s arm.
“Mister Policeman, the boy hasn’t done anything,” he said. “I was
standing there myself, and I saw that he did nothing, and I know his
mother!”
The policeman stood still for a moment, measuring Ferdinand with a
threatening eye; then he dragged the boy forward again, the latter
still struggling to get free, and bellowing: “My mother is ill; she’s
waiting for me and the medicine!” Ferdinand kept step with them, in his
thin canvas shoes.
“If you drag him off to the town hall, I shall come with you, at all
events, and give evidence for him,” he continued; “the boy hasn’t done
anything, and his mother is lying sick and waiting for the medicine at
home.”
The policeman turned about, exasperated. “Yes, you’re a nice witness.
One crow don’t pick another’s eyes out. You mind your own business—and
just you be off!”
Ferdinand stood his ground. “Who are you talking to, you Laban?” he
muttered, angrily looking the other up and down. Suddenly he took a run
and caught the policeman a blow in the neck so that he fell with his
face upon the pavement while his helmet rolled far along the street.
Ferdinand and the boy dashed off, each in a different direction, and
disappeared.
And now they had been hunting him for three weeks already. He did not
dare go home. The “Ark” was watched night and day, in the hope of
catching him—he was so fond of his mother. God only knew where he might
be in that rainy, cold autumn. Madam Frandsen moved about her attic,
lonely and forsaken. It was a miserable life. Every morning she came
over to beg Pelle to look in _The Working Man_, to see whether her son
had been caught. He was in the city—Pelle and Madam Frandsen knew that.
The police knew it also; and they believed him responsible for a series
of nocturnal burglaries. He might well be sleeping in the outhouses and
the kennels of the suburban villas.
The inmates of the “Ark” followed his fate with painful interest. He
had grown up beneath their eyes. He had never done anything wrong
there; he had always respected the “Ark” and its inhabitants; that at
least could be said of him, and he loved his mother dearly. And he had
been entirely in the right when he took the part of the boy; a brave
little fellow he was! His mother was very ill; she lived at the end of
one of the long gangways, and the boy was her only support. But it was
a mad undertaking to lay hands on the police; that was the greatest
crime on earth! A man had far better murder his own parents—as far as
the punishment went. As soon as they got hold of him, he would go to
jail, for the policeman had hit his handsome face against the
flagstones; according to the newspaper, anybody but a policeman would
have had concussion of the brain.
Old Madam Frandsen loved to cross the gangway to visit Pelle, in order
to talk about her son.
“We must be cautious,” she said. At times she would purse up her mouth,
tripping restlessly to and fro; then he knew there was something
particular in the wind.
“Shall I tell you something?” she would ask, looking at him
importantly.
“No; better keep it to yourself,” Pelle would reply. “What one doesn’t
know one can’t give evidence about.”
“You’d better let me chatter, Pelle—else I shall go running in and
gossiping with strangers. Old chatterbox that I am, I go fidgeting
round here, and I’ve no one I can trust; and I daren’t even talk to
myself! Then that Pipman hears it all through the wooden partition;
it’s almost more than I can bear, and I tremble lest my toothless old
mouth should get him into trouble!”
“Well, then, tell it me!” said Pelle, laughing. “But you mustn’t speak
loud.”
“He’s been here again!” she whispered, beaming. “This morning, when I
got up, there was money for me in the kitchen. Do you know where he had
put it? In the sink! He’s such a sensible lad! He must have come
creeping over the roofs—otherwise I can’t think how he does it, they
are looking for him so. But you must admit that—he’s a good lad!”
“If only you can keep quiet about it!” said Pelle anxiously. She was so
proud of her son!
“M—m!” she said, tapping her shrunken lips. “No need to tell me that—
and do you know what I’ve hit on, so that the bloodhounds shan’t wonder
what I live on? I’m sewing canvas slippers.”
Then came little Marie with mop and bucket, and the old woman hobbled
away.
It was a slack time now in Master Beck’s workshop, so Pelle was working
mostly at home. He could order his hours himself now, and was able to
use the day, when people were indoors, in looking up his fellow-
craftsmen and winning them for the organization. This often cost him a
lengthy argument, and he was proud of every man he was able to
inscribe. He very quickly learned to classify all kinds of men, and he
suited his procedure to the character of the man he was dealing with;
one could threaten the waverers, while others had to be enticed or got
into a good humor by chatting over the latest theories with them. This
was good practice, and he accustomed himself to think rapidly, and to
have his subject at his fingers’ ends. The feeling of mastery over his
means continually increased in strength, and lent assurance to his
bearing.
He had to make up for neglecting his work, and at such times he was
doubly busy, rising early and sitting late at his bench.
He kept away from his neighbors on the third story; but when he heard
Hanne’s light step on the planking over there, he used to peep
furtively across the well. She went her way like a nun—straight to her
work and straight home again, her eyes fixed on the ground. She never
looked up at his window, or indeed anywhere. It was as though her
nature had completed its airy flutterings, as though it now lay quietly
growing.
It surprised him that he should now regard her with such strange and
indifferent eyes, as though she had never been anything to him. And he
gazed curiously into his own heart—no, there was nothing wrong with
him. His appetite was good, and there was nothing whatever the matter
with his heart. It must all have been a pleasant illusion, a mirage
such as the traveller sees upon his way. Certainly she was beautiful;
but he could not possibly see anything fairy-like about her. God only
knew how he had allowed himself to be so entangled! It was a piece of
luck that he hadn’t been caught—there was no future for Hanne.
Madam Johnsen continued to lean on him affectionately, and she often
came over for a little conversation; she could not forget the good
times they had had together. She always wound up by lamenting the
change in Hanne; the old woman felt that the girl had forsaken her.
“Can you understand what’s the matter with her, Pelle? She goes about
as if she were asleep, and to everything I say she answers nothing but
‘Yes, mother; yes, mother!’ I could cry, it sounds so strange and
empty, like a voice from the grave. And she never says anything about
good fortune now—and she never decks herself out to be ready for it! If
she’d only begin with her fool’s tricks again—if she only cared to look
out and watch for the stranger—then I should have my child again. But
she just goes about all sunk into herself, and she stares about her as
if she was half asleep, as though she were in the middle of empty
space; and she’s never in any spirits now. She goes about so
unmeaning—like with her own dreary thoughts, it’s like a wandering
corpse. Can you understand what’s wrong with her?”
“No, I don’t know,” answered Pelle.
“You say that so curiously, as if you did know something and wouldn’t
come out with it—and I, poor woman, I don’t know where to turn.” The
good-natured woman began to cry. “And why don’t you come over to see us
any more?”
“Oh, I don’t know—I’ve so much on hand, Madam Johnsen,” answered Pelle
evasively.
“If only she’s not bewitched. She doesn’t enter into anything I tell
her; you might really come over just for once; perhaps that would cheer
her up a little. You oughtn’t to take your revenge on us. She was very
fond of you in her way—and to me you’ve been like a son. Won’t you come
over this evening?”
“I really haven’t the time. But I’ll see, some time,” he said, in a low
voice.
And then she went, drooping and melancholy. She was showing her fifty
years. Pelle was sorry for her, but he could not make up his mind to
visit her.
“You are quite detestable!” said Marie, stamping angrily on the floor.
“It’s wretched of you!”
Pelle wrinkled his forehead. “You don’t understand, Marie.”
“Oh, so you think I don’t know all about it? But do you know what the
women say about you? They say you’re no man, or you would have managed
to clip Hanne’s feathers.”
Pelle gazed at her, wondering; he said nothing, but looked at her and
shook his head.
“What are you staring at me for?” she said, placing herself
aggressively in front of him. “Perhaps you think I’m afraid to say what
I like to you? Don’t you stare at me with that face, or you’ll get one
in the mouth!” She was burning red with shame. “Shall I say something
still worse? with you staring at me with that face? Eh? No one need
think I’m ashamed to say what I like!” Her voice was hard and hoarse;
she was quite beside herself with rage.
Pelle was perfectly conscious that it was shame that was working in
her. She must be allowed to run down. He was silent, but did not avert
his reproachful gaze. Suddenly she spat in his face and ran into her
own room with a malicious laugh.
There she was very busy for a time.
There for a time she worked with extreme vigor, but presently grew
quieter. Through the stillness Pelle could hear her gently sobbing. He
did not go in to her. Such scenes had occurred between them before, and
he knew that for the rest of the day she would be ashamed of herself,
and it would he misery for her to look him in the face. He did not wish
to lessen that feeling.
He dressed himself and went out.