That year was, if possible, worse than the preceding. As early as
September the unemployed stood in long ranks beside the canals or in
the market-place, their feet in the wet. The bones of their wrists were
blue and prominent and foretold a hard winter, of which the corns of
the old people had long ago given warning; and sparks of fire were
flying up from under poor folks’ kettles. “Now the hard winter is
coming and bringing poverty with it,” said the people. “And then we
shall have a pretty time!”
In October the frost appeared and began to put an end to all work that
had not already been stopped by the hard times.
In the city the poor were living from hand to mouth; if a man had a bad
day it was visible on his plate the next morning. Famine lay curled up
beneath the table in ten thousand households; like a bear in its winter
sleep it had lain there all summer, shockingly wasted and groaning in
its evil dreams; but they were used to its society and took no notice
of it so long as it did not lay its heavy paw upon the table. One day’s
sickness, one day’s loss of work—and there it was!
“Ach, how good it would be if we only had a brine-tub that we could go
to!” said those who could still remember their life in the country.
“But the good God has taken the brine-tub and given us the pawnbroker
instead!” and then they began to pledge their possessions.
It was sad to see how the people kept together; the city was scattered
to the winds in summer, but now it grew compacter; the homeless came in
from the Common, and the great landowners returned to inhabit their
winter palaces. Madam Rasmussen, in her attic, suddenly appeared with a
husband; drunken Valde had returned—the cold, so to speak, had driven
him into her arms! At the first signs of spring he would be off again,
into the arms of his summer mistress, Madam Grassmower. But as long as
he was here, here he was! He stood lounging in the doorway downstairs,
with feathers sticking in the shaggy hair of his neck and bits of bed-
straw adhering to his flat back. His big boots were always beautifully
polished; Madam Rasmussen did that for him before she went to work in
the morning; after which she made two of herself, so that her big
strong handsome protector should have plenty of time to stand and
scratch himself.
Week by week the cold locked up all things more closely; it locked up
the earth, so that the husbandmen could not get at it; and it closed
the modest credit account of the poor. Already it had closed all the
harbors round about. Foreign trade shrunk away to nothing; the
stevedores and waterside workers might as well stop at home. It
tightened the heart- strings—and the strings of the big purse that kept
everything going. The established trades began to work shorter hours,
and the less stable trades entirely ceased. Initiative drew in its
horns; people began nothing new, and did no work for the warehouses;
fear had entered into them. All who had put out their feelers drew them
back; they were frostbitten, so to speak. The earth had withdrawn its
sap into itself and had laid a crust of ice over all; humanity did the
same. The poor withdrew their scanty blood into their hearts, in order
to preserve the germ of life. Their limbs were cold and bloodless,
their skin gray. They withdrew into themselves, and into the darkest
corners, packed closely together. They spent nothing. And many of those
who had enough grudged themselves even food; the cold ate their needs
away, and set anxiety in their place. Consumption was at a standstill.
One could not go by the thermometer, for according to that the frost
had been much harder earlier in the year. “What, is it no worse!” said
the people, taken aback. But they felt just as cold and wretched as
ever. What did the thermometer know of a hard winter? Winter is the
companion of hard times, and takes the same way whether it freezes or
thaws—and on this occasion it froze!
In the poor quarters of the city the streets were as though
depopulated. A fall of snow would entice the dwellers therein out of
their hiding- places; it made the air milder, and made it possible,
too, to earn a few kroner for sweeping away the snow. Then they
disappeared again, falling into a kind of numb trance and supporting
their life on incredibly little—on nothing at all. Only in the mornings
were the streets peopled—when the men went out to seek work. But
everywhere where there was work for one man hundreds applied and begged
for it. The dawn saw the defeated ones slinking home; they slept the
time away, or sat all day with their elbows on the table, never
uttering a word. The cold, that locked up all else, had an opposite
effect upon the heart; there was much compassion abroad. Many whose
wits had been benumbed by the cold, so that they did not attempt to
carry on their avocations, had suffered no damage at heart, but
expended their means in beneficence. Kindly people called the poor
together, and took pains to find them out, for they were not easy to
find.
But the Almighty has created beings that live upon the earth and
creatures that live under the earth; creatures of the air and creatures
of the water; even in the fire live creatures that increase and
multiply. And the cold, too, saw the growth of a whole swarm of
creatures that live not by labor, but on it, as parasites. The good
times are their bad times; then they grow thin, and there are not many
of them about. But as soon as cold and destitution appear they come
forth in their swarms; it is they who arouse beneficence—and get the
best part of what is going. They scent the coming of a bad year and
inundate the rich quarters of the city. “How many poor people come to
the door this year!” people say, as they open their purses. “These are
hard times for the poor!”
In the autumn Pelle had removed; he was now dwelling in a little two-
roomed apartment on the Kapelvej. He had many points of contact with
this part of the city now; besides, he wanted Ellen to be near her
parents when she should be brought to bed. Lasse would not accompany
him; he preferred to be faithful to the “Ark”; he had got to know the
inmates now, and he could keep himself quite decently by occasional
work in the neighboring parts of the city.
Pelle fought valiantly to keep the winter at bay. There was nothing to
do at the workshop; and he had to be on the go from morning to night.
Wherever work was to be had, there he applied, squeezing his way
through hundreds of others. His customers needed footwear now more than
ever; but they had no money to pay for it.
Ellen and he drew nearer at this season and learned to know one another
on a new side. The hard times drew them together; and he had cause to
marvel at the stoutness of her heart. She accepted conditions as they
were with extraordinary willingness, and made a little go a very long
way. Only with the stove she could do nothing. “It eats up everything
we scrape together,” she said dejectedly; “it sends everything up the
chimney and doesn’t give out any warmth. I’ve put a bushel of coal on
it to-day, and it’s as cold as ever! Where I was in service we were
able to warm two big rooms with one scuttle! I must be a fool, but
won’t you look into it?” She was almost crying.
“You mustn’t take that to heart so!” said Pelle gloomily. “That’s the
way with poor folks’ stoves. They are old articles that are past use,
and the landlords buy them up as old iron and then fit them in their
workmen’s dwellings! And it’s like that with everything! We poor people
get the worst and pay the dearest—although we make the things! Poverty
is a sieve.”
“Yes, it’s dreadful,” said Ellen, looking at him with mournful eyes.
“And I can understand you so well now!”
Threatening Need had spread its pinions above them. They hardly dared
to think now; they accepted all things at its hands.
One day, soon after Ellen had been brought to bed, she asked Pelle to
go at once to see Father Lasse. “And mind you bring him with you!” she
said. “We can very well have him here, if we squeeze together a little.
I’m afraid he may be in want.”
Pelle was pleased by the offer, and immediately set out. It was good of
Ellen to open her heart to the old man when they were by no means
certain of being able to feed themselves.
The “Ark” had a devastated appearance. All the curtains had disappeared
—except at Olsen’s; with the gilt mouldings they always fetched fifty
öre. The flowers in the windows were frostbitten. One could see right
into the rooms, and inside also all was empty. There was something
shameless about the winter here; instead of clothing the “Ark” more
warmly it stripped it bare—and first of all of its protecting veils.
The privies in the court had lost their doors and covers, and it was
all Pelle could do to climb up to the attics! Most of the balustrades
had vanished, and every second step was lacking; the “Ark” was helping
itself as well as it could! Over at Madam Johnsen’s the bucket of oak
was gone that had always stood in the corner of the gallery when it was
not lent to some one—the “Ark” possessed only the one. And now it was
burned or sold. Pelle looked across, but had not the courage to call.
Hanne, he knew, was out of work.
A woman came slinking out of the third story, and proceeded to break
away a fragment of woodwork; she nodded to Pelle. “For a drop of
coffee!” she said, “and God bless coffee! You can make it as weak as
you like as long as it’s still nice and hot.”
The room was empty; Lasse was not there. Pelle asked news of him along
the gangway. He learned that he was living in the cellar with the old
clothes woman. Thin gray faces appeared for a moment in the doorways,
gazed at him, and silently disappeared.
The cellar of the old clothes woman was overcrowded with all sorts of
objects; hither, that winter, the possessions of the poor had drifted.
Lasse was sitting in a corner, patching a mattress; he was alone down
there. “She has gone out to see about something,” he said; “in these
times her money finds plenty of use! No, I’m not going to come with you
and eat your bread. I get food and drink here—I earn it by helping her
—and how many others can say this winter that they’ve their living
assured? And I’ve got a corner where I can lie. But can’t you tell me
what’s become of Peter? He left the room before me one day, and since
then I’ve never seen him again.”
“Perhaps he’s living with his sweetheart,” said Pelle. “I’ll see if I
can’t find out.”
“Yes, if you will. They were good children, those three, it would be a
pity if one of them were to come to any harm.”
Pelle would not take his father away from a regular situation where he
was earning a steady living. “We don’t very well see what we could
offer you in its place. But don’t forget that you will always be
welcome— Ellen herself sent me here.”
“Yes, yes! Give her many thanks for that! And now you be off, before
the old woman comes back,” said Lasse anxiously. “She doesn’t like any
one to be here—she’s afraid for her money.”
The first thing that had to go was Pelle’s winter overcoat. He pawned
it one day, without letting Ellen know, and on coming home surprised
her with the money, which he delightedly threw on the table, krone by
krone. “How it rings!” he said to Young Lasse. The child gave a jump,
and wanted the money to play with.
“What do I want with a winter coat?” he retorted, to Ellen’s kindly
reproaches. “I’m not cold, and it only hangs up indoors here. I’ve
borne with it all the summer. Ah, that’s warm!” he cried, to the child,
when Ellen had brought some fuel. “That was really a good winter coat,
that of father’s! Mother and sister and Young Lasse can all warm
themselves at it!”
The child put his hands on his knees and peeped into the fire after his
father’s winter coat. The fire kindled flames in his big child’s eyes,
and played on his red cheeks. “Pretty overcoat!” he said, laughing all
over his face.
They did not see much of the tenants of the house; nor of the family.
People were living quietly, each one fighting his own privations within
his four walls. On Sundays they gave the children to one of the
neighbors, went into the city, and stood for an hour outside some
concert-hall, freezing and listening to the music. Then they went home
again and sat vegetating in the firelight, without lighting the lamp.
One Sunday things looked bad. “The coals will hold out only till
midday,” said Ellen; “we shall have to go out. And there’s no more food
either. But perhaps we can go to the old folks; they’ll put up with us
till evening.”
As they were about to start, Ellen’s brother Otto arrived, with his
wife and two children, to call on them. Ellen exchanged a despairing
glance with Pelle. Winter had left its stamp on them too; their faces
were thin and serious. But they still had warm clothes. “You must keep
your cloaks on,” said Ellen, “for I have no more coal. I forgot it
yesterday, I had so much to do; I had to put off ordering it until
to-day, and to-day, unfortunately, the coal dealer isn’t at home.”
“If only the children aren’t cold,” said Pelle, “we grown-ups can
easily keep ourselves warm.”
“Well, as long as they haven’t icicles hanging from their noses they
won’t come to any harm!” said Otto with a return of his old humor.
They moved restlessly about the room and spoke of the bad times and the
increasing need. “Yes, it’s terrible that there isn’t enough for
everybody,” said Otto’s wife.
“But the hard winter and the misery will come to an end and then things
will be better again.”
“You mean we shall come to an end first?” said Otto, laughing
despairingly.
“No, not we—this poverty, of course. Ach, you know well enough what I
mean. But he’s always like that,” she said, turning to Pelle.
“Curious, how you women still go about in the pious belief that there’s
not enough for all!” said Pelle. “Yet the harbor is full of stacks of
coal, and there’s no lack of eatables in the shops. On the contrary—
there is more than usual, because so many are having to do without—and
you can see, too, that everything in the city is cheaper. But what good
is that when there’s no money? It’s the distribution that’s all wrong.”
“Yes, you are quite right!” said Otto Stolpe. “It’s really damnable
that no one has the courage to help himself!”
Pelle heard Ellen go out through the kitchen door, and presently she
came back with firing in her apron. She had borrowed it. “I’ve scraped
together just a last little bit of coal,” she said, going down on her
knees before the stove. “In any case it’s enough to heat the water for
a cup of coffee.”
Otto and his wife begged her urgently not to give herself any trouble;
they had had some coffee before they left home—after a good solid
breakfast. “On Sundays we always have a solid breakfast,” said young
Madam Stolpe; “it does one such a lot of good!” While she was speaking
her eyes involuntarily followed Ellen’s every moment, as though she
could tell thereby how soon the coffee would be ready.
Ellen chatted as she lit the fire. But of course they must have a cup
of coffee; they weren’t to go away with dry throats!
Pelle sat by listening in melancholy surprise; her innocent boasting
only made their poverty more glaring. He could see that Ellen was
desperately perplexed, and he followed her into the kitchen.
“Pelle, Pelle!” she said, in desperation. “They’ve counted on stopping
here and eating until the evening. And I haven’t a scrap in the house.
What’s to be done?”
“Tell them how it is, of course!”
“I can’t! And they’ve had nothing to eat to-day—can’t you see by
looking at them?” She burst into tears.
“Now, now, let me see to the whole thing!” he said consolingly. “But
what are you going to give us with our coffee?”
“I don’t know! I have nothing but black bread and a little butter.”
“Lord, what a little donkey!” he said, smiling, and he took her face
between his hands. “And you stand there lamenting! Just you be cutting
the bread-and-butter!”
Ellen set to work hesitatingly. But before she appeared with the
refreshments they heard her bang the front door and go running down the
steps. After a time she returned. “Oh, Lord! Now the baker has sold out
of white bread,” she said, “so you must just have black
bread-and-butter with your coffee.”
“But that’s capital,” they cried. “Black bread always goes best with
coffee. Only it’s a shame we are giving you so much trouble!”
“Look here,” said Pelle, at last. “It may please you to play hide-and-
seek with one another, but it doesn’t me—I am going to speak my mind.
With us things are bad, and it can’t be any better with you. Now how is
it, really, with the old folks?”
“They are struggling along,” said Otto. “They always have credit, and I
think they have a little put by as well.”
“Then shan’t we go there to-night and have supper? Otherwise I’m afraid
we shan’t get anything.”
“Yes, we will! It’s true we were there the day before yesterday—but
what does that matter? We must go somewhere, and at least it’s sticking
to the family!”
The cold had no effect on Pelle; the blood ran swiftly through his
veins. He was always warm. Privation he accepted as an admonition, and
merely felt the stronger for it; and he made use of his involuntary
holiday to work for the Cause.
It was no time for public meetings and sounding words—many had not even
clothes with which to go to meetings. The movement had lost its impetus
through the cold; people had their work cut out to keep the little they
already had. Pelle made it his business to encourage the hopes of the
rejected, and was always on the run; he came into contact with many
people. Misery stripped them bare and developed his knowledge of
humanity.
Wherever a trade was at a standstill, and want had made its appearance,
he and others were at hand to prevent demoralization and to make the
prevailing conditions the subject of agitation. He saw how want
propagates itself like the plague, and gradually conquers all—a callous
accomplice in the fate of the poor man. In a week to a fortnight
unemployment would take all comfort from a home that represented the
scraping and saving of many years—so crying was the disproportion. Here
was enough to stamp a lasting comprehension upon the minds of all, and
enough to challenge agitation. All but persons of feeble mind could see
now what they were aiming at.
And there were people here like those at home. Want made them even more
submissive. They could hardly believe that they were so favored as to
be permitted to walk the earth and go hungry. With them there was
nothing to be done. They were born slaves, born with slavery deep in
their hearts, pitiful and cur-like.
They were people of a certain age—of an older generation than his. The
younger folk were of another and a harder stuff; and he often was
amazed to find how vigorously their minds echoed his ideas. They were
ready to dare, ready to meet force with force. These must be held back
lest they should prejudice the movement—for them its progress was never
sufficiently rapid.
His mind was young and intact and worked well in the cold weather; he
restlessly drew comparisons and formed conclusions in respect of
everything he came into contact with. The individual did not seem to
change. The agitation was especially directed to awakening what was
actually existent. For the rest, they must live their day and be
replaced by a younger generation in whom demands for compensation came
more readily to the tongue. So far as he could survey the evolution of
the movement, it did not proceed through the generations, but in some
amazing fashion grew out of the empty space between them. So youth,
even at the beginning, was further ahead than age had been where it
left off.
The movements of the mind had an obscure and mystical effect upon him,
as had the movement of his blood in childhood; sometimes he felt a
mysterious shudder run through him, and he began to understand what
Morten had meant when he said that humanity was sacred. It was terrible
that human beings should suffer such need, and Pelle’s resentment grew
deeper.
Through his contact with so many individuals he learned that Morten was
not so exceptional; the minds of many betrayed the same impatience, and
could not understand that a man who is hungry should control himself
and be content with the fact of organization. There was a revolutionary
feeling abroad; a sterner note was audible, and respectable people gave
the unemployed a wide berth, while old people prophesied the end of the
world. The poor had acquired a manner of thinking such as had never
been known.
One day Pelle stood in a doorway with some other young people,
discussing the aspect of affairs; it was a cold meeting-place, but they
had not sufficient means to call a meeting in the usual public room.
The discussion was conducted in a very subdued tune; their voices were
bitter and sullen. A well-dressed citizen went by. “There’s a fine
overcoat,” cried one; “I should like to have one like that! Shall we
fetch him into the doorway and pull his coat off?” He spoke loudly, and
was about to run out into the street.
“No stupidity!” said Pelle sadly, seizing him by the arm. “We should
only do ourselves harm! Remember the authorities are keeping their eyes
on us!”
“Well, what’s a few weeks in prison?” the man replied. “At least one
would get board and lodging for so long.” There was a look that
threatened mischief in his usually quiet and intelligent eyes.