When Pelle went now and again to the “Ark,” to see his brothers and
sister, the news of his visit spread quickly through the building.
“Pelle is here!” sounded from gallery to gallery, and they hurried up
the stairs in order to nod to him and to seek to entice him to swallow
a cup of coffee. Old Madam Frandsen had moved; she disappeared when
Ferdinand came out of prison—no one knew whither. Otherwise there were
no changes. A few factory women left by night on account of their rent,
and others had taken their places. And from time to time some one
completed his term, and was carried out of the dark corridors and borne
away on the dead-cart—as always. But in the “Ark” there was no change
to be observed.
It happened one day that he went over to call on Widow Johnsen. She
looked very melancholy sitting there as she turned her old soldiers’
trousers and attended to Hanne’s child, which promised to be a fine
girl. She had aged; she was always sitting at home and scolding the
child; when Pelle visited her he brought a breath of fresh air into her
joyless existence. Then she recalled the excursion to the forest, and
the cozy evenings under the hanging lantern, and sighed. Hanne never
looked at Pelle. When she came running home from the factory, she had
no eyes for anything but her little girl, who threw herself upon her
mother and immediately wanted to play. For the remainder of the day the
child was close under her eyes, and Hanne had to hold her hand as she
moved about, and play with her and the doll.
“Far up the mountain did I climb,”
sang Hanne, and the child sang with her—she could sing already! Hanne’s
clear, quiet eyes rested on the child, and her expression was as joyful
as though fortune had really come to her. She was like a young widow
who has lived her share of life, and in the “Ark” every one addressed
her as Widow Hanne. This was a mark of respect paid to her character;
they threw a widow’s veil over her fate because she bore it so finely.
She had expected so much, and now she centered everything in her child,
as though the Stranger could have brought her no more valuable present.
Peter’s misfortune had struck the little home a serious blow. They had
always only just kept their heads above water; and now he earned less
than ever with his crippled hand. Karl wanted to get on in the world,
and was attending confirmation classes, which cost money and clothes.
They had made up for Peter’s loss of earning power by giving up Father
Lasse’s room and moving his bed into their own room. But all three were
growing, and needed food and clothing.
Peter’s character had taken on a little kink; he was no longer so
cheerful over his work, and he often played the truant, loafing about
the streets instead of going to the factory. Sometimes he could not be
got out of bed in the morning; he crept under the bedclothes and hid
himself. “I can’t work with my bad hand,” he would say, crying, when
Marie wanted to drag him out; “every moment the knives are quite close
to it and nearly chop it off.”
“Then stay at home!” said Marie at last. “Look after the house and I
will go out and see if I can earn something. I can get work as a
charwoman in the new buildings in Market Street.”
But at that he got up and slunk away; he would not allow a woman to
earn his food for him.
Karl was a brisk, merry young vagabond; nothing made any impression on
him. The streets had brought him up, had covered his outer man with a
coating of grime, and had lit the inextinguishable sparks in his eyes.
He was like the sparrows of the capital; black with soot, but full of
an urban sharpness, they slip in and out among the heavy wagon-wheels,
and know everything. He was always getting into difficulties, but
always came home with a whole skin. His continual running about seemed
to have got into his blood like a never-resting impulse.
He was full of shifts for lessening the uncertainty of his earnings,
and the little household depended principally on him. But now he had
had enough of seeking his living in the streets; he wanted to get on;
he wanted most of all to be a shopkeeper. The only thing that held him
back was his regard for his home.
Pelle saw that the little home would have to be broken up. Marie was
developing rapidly; she must leave the “Ark,” and if Karl could not
live his own life, but was forced to sacrifice himself to his brother
and sister, he would end as a street-loafer. Pelle resolved suddenly to
deal with the matter himself, as his habit was. He obtained an outfit
for Karl from a charitable society, and placed him as apprentice with a
shopkeeper for whom the boy had run errands.
One Sunday afternoon he went over to the “Ark” with a big parcel under
his arm. He was holding Young Lasse by the hand; every moment the child
stooped down, picked up a little stone, dragged his father to the quay-
wall, and threw the stone into the water. He chattered incessantly.
Pelle mechanically allowed himself to be pulled aside, and answered the
child at random. He was thinking of the children’s little home, which
had once been so hospitably opened to him, and must now be broken up.
Perhaps it would be the salvation of Karl and Marie; there was a future
for them outside; they were both young and courageous. And Father Lasse
could come to him; it would be quite possible to make up his bed in the
living-room at night and put it out of the way in the daytime. Ellen
was no longer so particular. But Peter—what was to become of him? The
home was the only thing that still held him.
When Young Lasse looked through the tunnel-entry into the darkness of
the “Ark” he did not want to go in. “Ugly, ugly!” he said, in energetic
refusal. Pelle had to take him in his arms. “Lasse not like that!” he
said, pushing with his hands against his father’s shoulders. “Lasse
wants to go back! get down!”
“What!” said Pelle, laughing, “doesn’t Young Lasse like the ‘Ark’?
Father thinks it’s jolly here!”
“Why?” asked the boy, pouting.
“Why?” Well, Pelle could not at once explain. “Because I lived here
once on a time!” he replied.
“And where was Young Lasse then?”
“Then you used to sit in mother’s eyes and laugh at father.”
At this the child forgot his fear of the darkness and the heavy
timbers. He pressed his round little nose against his father’s, and
gazed into his eyes, in order to see whether a little boy was sitting
in them too. He laughed when he glimpsed himself in them. “Who sits in
mother’s eyes now?” he asked.
“Now a little sister sits there, who likes to play with Young Lasse,”
said Pelle. “But now you must walk again—it doesn’t do for a man to sit
on anybody’s arm!”
The three orphans were waiting for him eagerly; Karl hopped and leaped
into the air when he saw Pelle.
“Where is Father Lasse?” asked Pelle.
“He has gone out with the hand-cart for the second-hand dealer,” said
Marie; “he had to fetch a sofa.” She had taken Young Lasse on her lap
and was almost eating him.
Karl put on his fine new clothes, his fresh face beaming with delight.
The trousers were fully long enough, but it was quite fashionable to go
about with turned-up trousers. That was easily got over.
“Now you look like a real grocer!” said Pelle, laughing.
Karl ran out into the gangway and came back immediately with his head
wetted and his hair parted down the middle. “Ach, you fool, why don’t
you leave well alone!” cried Marie, ruffling his head. A fight ensued.
Peter sat in a corner, self-absorbed, staring gloomily out of the
window.
“Now, Peter, hold your head up!” cried Pelle, clapping him on the
shoulder. “When we’ve got the great Federation together and things are
working properly, I’ll manage something for you too. Perhaps you can
act as messenger for us.”
Peter did not reply, but turned his head away.
“He’s always like that—he’s so grumpy! Do at least be a little polite,
Peter!” said Marie irritably. The boy took his cap and went out.
“Now he’s going out by the North Bridge, to his sweetheart—and we
shan’t see anything of him for the next few days,” said Marie, looking
after him. “She’s a factory girl—she’s had a child by one man—he
deserted her,” said Marie.
“He has a sweetheart already?” said Pelle.
“What of that? He’s seventeen. But there’s nothing in her.”
“She has red hair! And she drags one leg behind her as though she
wanted to take the pavement with her,” said Karl. “She might well be
his mother.”
“I don’t think you ought to tease him,” said Pelle seriously.
“We don’t,” said Marie. “But he won’t have it when we try to be nice to
him. And he can’t bear to see us contented. Lasse says it is as though
he were bewitched.”
“I have a situation for you too, Marie,” said Pelle. “With Ellen’s old
employers in Holberg Street—you’ll be well treated there. But you must
be ready by October.”
“That will be fine! Then Karl and I can go into situations on the same
day!” She clapped her hands. “But Peter!” she cried suddenly. “Who will
look after him? No, I can’t do it, Pelle!”
“We must see if we can’t find nice lodgings for him. You must take the
situation—you can’t go on living here.”
Prom the end of the long gangway came a curious noise, which sounded
like a mixture of singing and crying. Young Lasse got down onto his
feet near the open door, and said, “Sh! Singing! Sh!”
“Yes! That’s the pasteboard-worker and her great Jutlander,” said
Marie. “They’ve got a funeral to-day. The poor little worm has ceased
to suffer, thank God!”
“Is that any one new?” said Pelle.
“No, they are people who moved here in the spring. He hasn’t been
living here, but every Saturday he used to come here and take her
wages. ‘You are crazy to give him your wages when he doesn’t even live
with you!’ we told her. ‘He ought to get a thrashing instead of money!’
‘But he’s the child’s father!’ she said, and she went on giving him her
money. And on Sunday, when he had drunk it, he regretted it, and then
he used to come and beat her, because she needn’t have given it to him.
She was an awful fool, for she could just have been out when he came.
But she was fond of him and thought nothing of a few blows—only it
didn’t do for the child. She never had food for it, and now it’s dead.”
The door at the end of the gangway opened, and the big Jutlander came
out with a tiny coffin under his arm. He was singing a hymn in an
indistinct voice, as he stood there waiting. In the side passage,
behind the partition-wall, a boy’s voice was mocking him. The
Jutlander’s face was red and swollen with crying, and the debauch of
the night before was still heavy in his legs. Behind him came the
mother, and now they went down the gangway with funeral steps; the
woman’s thin black shawl hung mournfully about her, and she held her
handkerchief to her mouth; she was crying still. Her livid face had a
mildewed appearance.
Pelle and Young Lasse had to be off. “You are always in such a hurry!”
said Marie dolefully. “I wanted to make coffee.”
“Yes, I’ve got a lot to do to-day still. Otherwise I’d gladly stay with
you a bit.”
“Do you know you are gradually getting quite famous?” said Marie,
looking at him in admiration. “The people talk almost as much about you
as they do about the big tinplate manufacturer. They say you ruined the
biggest employer in the city.”
“Yes. I ruined his business,” said Pelle, laughing. “But where has the
shopwalker got to?”
“He’s gone down into the streets to show himself!”
Karl, sure enough, was strolling about below and allowing the boys and
girls to admire him. “Look, when we come into the shop and the grocer
isn’t there you’ll stand us treat!” Pelle heard one of them say.
“You don’t catch me! And if you dare you’ll get one in the jaw!”
replied Karl. “Think I’m going to have you loafing about?”
At the end of the street the great Jutlander was rolling along, the
coffin under his arm; the girl followed at a distance, and they kept to
the middle of the road as though they formed part of a funeral
procession. It was a dismal sight. The gray, dismal street was like a
dungeon.
The shutters were up in all the basement windows, excepting that of the
bread-woman. Before the door of her shop stood a crowd of grimy little
children, smearing themselves with dainties; every moment one of them
slipped down into the cellar to spend an öre. One little girl, dressed
in her Sunday best, with a tightly braided head, was balancing herself
on the edge of the curbstone with a big jug of cream in her hand; and
in a doorway opposite stood a few young fellows meditating some
mischief or other.
“Shall we go anywhere to-day?” asked Ellen, when Pelle and young Lasse
got home. “The fine season is soon over.”
“I must go to the committee-meeting,” Pelle replied hesitatingly. He
was sorry for her; she was going to have another child, and she looked
so forsaken as she moved about the home. But it was impossible for him
to stay at home.
“When do you think you’ll be back?”
“That I don’t know, Ellen. It is very possible it will take the whole
day.”
Then she was silent and set out his food.