The “Ark” was now freezing in the north wind; all outward signs of life
were stripped from it. The sounds that in summer bubbled up from its
deep well-like shaft were silent now; the indistinguishable dripping of
a hundred waste-pipes, that turned the court into a little well with
green slimy walls, was silent too. The frost had fitted them all with
stoppers; and where the toads had sat gorging themselves in the
cavities of the walls—fantastic caverns of green moss and slimy
filaments—a crust of ice hung over all; a grimy glacier, which extended
from the attics right down to the floor of the court.
Where were they now, the grimy, joyful children? And what of the
evening carouse of the hearse-driver, for which his wife would soundly
thrash him? And the quarrelsome women’s voices, which would suddenly
break out over this or that railing, criticizing the whole court, sharp
as so many razors?
The frost was harder than ever! It had swept all these things away and
had locked them up as closely as might be. The hurdy-gurdy man lay down
below in his cellar, and had as visitor that good friend of the north
wind, the gout; and down in the deserted court the draught went
shuffling along the dripping walls. Whenever any one entered the
tunnel- entry the draught clutched at his knees with icy fingers, so
that the pain penetrated to the very heart.
There stood the old barrack, staring emptily out of its black windows.
The cold had stripped away the last shred of figured curtain, and sent
it packing to the pawn-shop. It had exchanged the canary for a score of
firewood, and had put a stop to the day-long, lonely crying of the
little children behind the locked doors—that hymn of labor, which had
ceased only in the evening, when the mothers returned from the
factories. Now the mothers sat with their children all day long, and no
one but the cold grudged them this delight. But the cold and its
sister, hunger, came every day to look in upon them.
On the third floor, away from the court, Widow Johnsen sat in the
corner by the stove. Hanne’s little girl lay cowering on the floor, on
a tattered patchwork counterpane. Through the naked window one saw only
ice, as though the atmosphere were frozen down to the ground.
Transparent spots had formed on the window-panes every time the child
had breathed on them in order to look out, but they had soon closed up
again. The old woman sat staring straight into the stove with big,
round eyes; her little head quivered continually; she was like a bird
of ill omen, that knew a great deal more than any one could bear to
hear.
“Now I’m cold again, grandmother,” said the child quietly.
“Don’t keep from shivering, then you’ll be warm,” said the old woman.
“Are you shivering?”
“No, I’m too old and stiff for it—I can’t shiver any more. But the cold
numbs my limbs, so that I can’t feel them. I could manage well enough
if it wasn’t for my back.”
“You lean your back against the cold stove too!”
“Yes, the cold grips my poor back so.”
“But that’s stupid, when the stove isn’t going.”
“But if only my back would get numb too!” said the old woman piteously.
The child was silent, and turned her head away.
Over the whole of the wall were tiny glittering crystals. Now and again
there was a rustling sound under the wall-paper.
“Grandmother, what’s that funny noise?” asked the child.
“That’s the bugs—they are coming down,” said the old woman. “It’s too
cold for them up there in the attics, and they don’t like it here. You
should see them; they go to Olsen’s with the warm wall; they stay there
in the cold.”
“Is the wall at Olsen’s always warm, then?”
“Yes, when there’s fire in the boiler of the steam mill.”
Then the child was silent a while, wearily turning her head from side
to side. A dreadful weariness was stamped on her face. “I’m cold,” she
complained after a time.
“See if you can’t shiver!”
“Hadn’t I better jump a bit?”
“No, then you’d just swallow down the cold—the air is like ice. Just
keep still, and soon mother will be here, and she’ll bring something!”
“She never gets anything,” said the child. “When she gets there it’s
always all over.”
“That’s not true,” said Madam Johnsen severely. “There’s food enough in
the soup kitchens for all; it’s just a matter of understanding how to
go about it. The poor must get shame out of their heads. She’ll bring
something to-day!”
The child stood up and breathed a hole in the ice on the window-pane.
“Look now, whether it isn’t going to snow a little so that the poor man
can get yet another day’s employment,” said the old woman.
No, the wind was still blowing from the north, although it commonly
shuffled along the canal; but now, week after week, it blew from the
Nicolai tower, and played the flute on the hollow bones of poverty. The
canals were covered with ice, and the ground looked horribly hard. The
naked frost chased the people across it like withered leaves. With a
thin rustling sound they were swept across the bridges and disappeared.
A great yellow van came driving by. The huge gates of the prison opened
slowly and swallowed it. It was the van containing the meat for the
prisoners. The child followed it with a desolate expression.
“Mother isn’t coming,” she said. “I am so hungry.”
“She will soon come—you just wait! And don’t stand in the light there;
come here in the corner! The light strikes the cold right through one.”
“But I feel colder in the dark.”
“That’s just because you don’t understand. I only long now for the
pitch darkness.”
“I long for the sun!” retorted the child defiantly.
There was a creaking of timber out in the yard. The child ran out and
opened the door leading to the gallery. It was only the people
opposite, who were tearing a step away.
But then came mother, with a tin pail in her hand, and a bundle under
her arm; and there was something in the pail—it looked heavy. Tra-la-
la! And the bundle, the bundle! What was in that? “Mother, mother!” she
cried shrilly, leaning far over the rickety rail.
Hanne came swiftly up the stairs, with open mouth and red cheeks; and a
face peeped out of every little nest.
“Now Widow Hanne has taken the plunge,” they said. They knew what a
point of honor it had been with her to look after her mother and her
child unaided. She was a good girl.
And Widow Hanne nodded to them all, as much as to say, “Now it’s done,
thank God!”
She stood leaning over the table, and lifted the cover off the pail.
“Look!” she said, as she stirred the soup with a ladle: “there’s pearl
barley and pot-herbs. If only we had something we could warm it up
with!”
“We can tear away a bit of the woodwork like other people,” said the
mother.
“Yes,” replied Hanne breathlessly, “yes, why not? If one can beg one
can do that!”
She ran out onto the gallery and tore away a few bits of trellis, so
that the sound re-echoed through the court. People watched her out of
all the dark windows. Widow Hanne had knocked off the head of her
pride!
Then they sat down to their soup, the old woman and the child. “Eat!”
said Hanne, standing over them and looking on with glowing eyes. Her
cheeks were burning. “You look like a flower in the cold!” said her
mother. “But eat, yourself, or you’ll starve to death.”
No, Hanne would not eat. “I feel so light,” she said, “I don’t need any
food.” She stood there fingering her bundle; all her features were
quivering, and her mouth was like that of a person sick of a fever.
“What have you there?” asked Madam Johnsen.
“Clothes for you and little Marie. You were so cold. I got them
downstairs from the old clothes woman—they were so cheap.”
“Do you say you bought them?”
“Yes—I got them on credit.”
“Well, well, if you haven’t given too much for them! But it will do one
good to have something warm on one’s back!”
Hanne undid the bundle, while the others looked on in suspense. A light
summer dress made its appearance, pleated and low-necked, blue as
little Marie’s eyes, and a pair of thin kid shoes. The child and the
old woman gazed wonderingly at the dress. “How fine!” they said. They
had forgotten everything, and were all admiration. But Hanne stood
staring with horror, and suddenly burst into sobs.
“Come, come, Hanne!” said her mother, clapping her on the back. “You
have bought a dress for yourself—that’s not so dreadful! Youth will
have its rights.”
“No, mother, no, I didn’t buy it at all! I knew you both needed
something to keep you warm, so I went into a fine house and asked if
they hadn’t any cast-off things, and there was a young lady—she gave me
this—and she was so kind. No, I didn’t know at all what was in the
bundle—I really didn’t know, dear mother!”
“Well, well, they are fine enough!” said the old woman, spreading the
dress out in front of her. “They are fine things!” But Hanne put the
things together and threw them into the corner by the stove.
“You are ill!” said her mother, gazing at her searchingly; “your eyes
are blazing like fire.”
The darkness descended, and they went to bed. People burned no useless
lights in those days, and it was certainly best to be in bed. They had
laid the feather-bed over themselves cross-wise, when it comfortably
covered all three; their daytime clothes they laid over their feet.
Little Marie lay in the middle. No harm could come to her there. They
talked at random about indifferent matters. Hanne’s voice sounded loud
and cheerful in the darkness as though it came from a radiant
countryside.
“You are so restless,” said the mother. “Won’t you try to sleep a
little? I can feel the burning in you from here!”
“I feel so light,” replied Hanne; “I can’t lie still.” But she did lie
still, gazing into space and humming inaudibly to herself, while the
fever raged in her veins.
After a time the old woman awoke; she was cold. Hanne was standing in
the middle of the room, with open mouth; and was engaged in putting on
her fine linen underclothing by the light of a candle-end.
Her breath came in short gasps and hung white on the air.
“Are you standing there naked in the cold?” said Madam Johnsen
reproachfully. “You ought to take a little care of yourself.”
“Why, mother, I’m so warm! Why, it’s summer now!”
“What are you doing, child?”
“I am only making myself a little bit smart, mother dear!”
“Yes, yes—dance, my baby. You’ve still got the best of your youth
before you, poor child! Why didn’t you get a husband where you got the
child from?”
Hanne only hummed a tune to herself, and proceeded to don the bright
blue summer costume. It was a little full across the chest, but the
decolletage sat snugly over her uncovered bosom. A faint cloud of vapor
surrounded her person like a summer haze.
Her mother had to hook up the dress at the back. “If only we don’t wake
Marie!” she whispered, entirely absorbed by the dress. “And the fine
lace on the chemise—you can always let that peep out of the dress a
little—it looks so pretty like that. Now you really look like a summer
girl!”
“I’ll just run down and show it to Madam Olsen,” said Hanne, pressing
her hand to her glowing cheeks.
“Yes, do—poor folks’ joys must have their due,” replied the old woman,
turning over to the wall.
Hanne ran down the steps and across the yard and out into the street.
The ground was hard and ringing in the frost, the cold was angry and
biting, but the road seemed to burn Hanne through her thin shoes. She
ran through the market, across the bridge, and into the less crowded
quarter of the city—right into Pelle’s arms. He was just going to see
Father Lasse.
Pelle was wearied and stupefied with the continual battle with hard
reality. The bottomless depths of misery were beginning to waste his
courage. Was it really of any use to hold the many together? It only
made the torture yet harder for them to bear. But in a moment
everything looked as bright as though he had fallen into a state of
ecstasy, as had often happened lately. In the midst of the sternest
realities it would suddenly happen that his soul would leap within him
and conjure up the new age of happiness before his eyes, and the
terrible dearth filled his arms to overflowing with abundance! He did
not feel the cold; the great dearth had no existence; violent spiritual
excitement and insufficient nourishment made the blood sing continually
in his ears. He accepted it as a happy music from a contented world. It
did not surprise him that he should meet Hanne in summer clothing and
attired as for a ball.
“Pelle, my protector!” she said, grasping his hand. “Will you go to the
dance with me?”
“That’s really the old Hanne,” thought Pelle delightedly—“the careless
Princess of the ‘Ark,’ and she is feverish, just as she used to be
then.” He himself was in a fever. When their eyes met they emitted a
curious, cold, sparkling light. He had quite forgotten Father Lasse and
his errand, and went with Hanne.
The entrance of “The Seventh Heaven” was flooded with light, which
exposed the merciless cold of the street. Outside, in the sea of light,
thronged the children of the terrible winter, dishevelled and perishing
with the cold. They stood there shuddering, or felt in their pockets
for a five-öre piece, and if they found it they slipped through the
blood- red tunnel into the dancing-hall.
But it was cold in there too; their breath hung like white powder on
the air; and crystals of ice glittered on the polished floor. Who would
dream of heating a room where the joy of life was burning? and a
thousand candles? Here carelessness was wont to give of its abundance,
so that the lofty room lay in a cloud and the musicians were bathed in
sweat.
But now the cold had put an end to that. Unemployed workers lounged
about the tables, disinclined for movement. Winter had not left the
poor fellows an ounce of frivolity. Cerberus Olsen might spare himself
the trouble of going round with his giant arms outspread, driving the
two or three couples of dancers with their five-öre pieces indoors
toward the music, as though they had been a whole crowd. People only
toiled across the floor in order to have the right to remain there.
Good Lord! Some of them had rings and watches, and Cerberus had ready
cash—what sort of dearth was that? The men sat under the painted
ceiling and the gilded mirrors, over a glass of beer, leaving the girls
to freeze—even Elvira had to sit still. “Mazurka!” bellowed Cerberus,
going threateningly from table to table. They slunk into the hall like
beaten curs, dejectedly danced once round the floor, and paid.
But what is this? Is it not Summer herself stepping into the hall? All
glowing and lightly clad in the blue of forget-me-nots, with a rose in
her fair hair? Warmth lies like fleeting summer upon her bare
shoulders, although she has come straight out of the terrible winter,
and she steps with boldly moving limbs, like a daughter of joy. How
proudly she carries her bosom, as though she were the bride of
fortune—and how she burns! Who is she? Can no one say?
Oh, that is Widow Hanne, a respectable girl, who for seven long years
faithfully trod her way to and from the factory, in order to keep her
old mother and her child!
But how comes it then that she has the discreet Pelle on her arm? He
who has sold his own youth to the devil, in order to alleviate poverty?
What does he want here on the dancing-floor? And Hanne, whence did she
get her finery? She is still out of employment! And how in all the
world has she grown so beautiful?
They whisper behind her, following her as she advances; and in the
midst of the hall she stands still and smiles. Her eyes burn with a
volcanic fire. A young man rushes forward and encircles her with his
arm. A dance with Hanne! A dance with Hanne!
Hanne dances with a peculiar hesitation, as though her joy had brought
her from far away. Heavily, softly, she weighs on the arms of her
partners, and the warmth rises from her bare bosom and dispels the cold
of the terrible winter. It is as though she were on fire! Who could
fail to be warmed by her?
Now the room is warm once more. Hanne is like a blazing meteor that
kindles all as it circles round; where she glides past the fire springs
up and the blood runs warmly in the veins. They overturn the chairs in
their eagerness to dance with her. “Hi, steward! Five kroner on my
watch—only be quick!” “Ach, Hanne, a dance with me!”—“Do you remember
we were at the factory together?”—“We used to go to school together!”
Hanne does not reply, but she leaves Pelle and lays her naked arm upon
their shoulders, and if they touch it with their cheeks the fire
streams through them. They do not want to let her go again; they hold
her fast embraced, gliding along with her to where the musicians are
sitting, where all have to pay. No word passes her lips, but the fire
within her is a promise to each of them, a promise of things most
precious. “May I see you home to-night?” they whisper, hanging on her
silent lips.
But to Pelle she speaks as they glide along. “Pelle, how strong you
are! Why have you never taken me? Do you love me?” Her hand is clasping
his shoulder as she whirls along beside him. Her breath burns in his
ear.
“I don’t know!” he says uneasily. “But stop now—you are ill.”
“Hold me like that! Why have you never been stronger than I? Do you
want me, Pelle? I’ll be yours!”
Pelle shakes his head. “No, I love you only like a sister now.”
“And now I love you! Look—you are so distant to me—I don’t understand
you—and your hand is as hard as if you came from another world! You are
heavy, Pelle! Have you brought me happiness from a foreign land with
you?”
“Hanne, you are ill! Stop now and let me take you home!”
“Pelle, you were not the right one. What is there strange about you?
Nothing! So let me alone—I am going to dance with the others as well!”
Hitherto Hanne has been dancing without intermission. The men stand
waiting for her; when one releases her ten spring forward, and this
evening Hanne wants to dance with them all. Every one of them should be
permitted to warm himself by her! Her eyes are like sparks in the
darkness; her silent demeanor excites them; they swing her round more
and more wildly. Those who cannot dance with her must slake the fire
within them with drink. The terrible winter is put to flight, and it is
warm as in Hell itself. The blood is seething in their brains; it
injects the whites of their eyes, and expresses itself in wanton
frolic, in a need to dance till they drop, or to fight.
“Hanne is wild to-night—she has got her second youth,” says Elvira and
the other girls maliciously.
Hold your tongues. No one shall criticize Hanne’s behavior! It is
wonderful to touch her; the touch of her skin hurts one, as though she
was not flesh and blood, but fire from Heaven! They say she has not had
a bite of food for a week. The old woman and the child have had all
there was. And yet she is burning! And see, she has now been dancing
without a break for two whole hours! Can one understand such a thing?
Hanne dances like a messenger from another world, where fire, not cold,
is the condition of life. Every dancer leaves his partner in the lurch
as soon as she is free! How lightly she dances! Dancing with her, one
soars upward, far away from the cold. One forgets all misery in her
eyes.
But she has grown paler and paler; she is dancing the fire out of her
body while others are dancing it in! Now she is quite white, and
Olsen’s Elvira comes up and tugs at her dress, with anxiety in her
glance. “Hanne, Hanne!” But Hanne does not see her; she is only longing
for the next pair of arms—her eyes are closed. She has so much to make
up for! And who so innocent as she? She does not once realize that she
is robbing others of their pleasure. Is she suffering from vertigo or
St. Vitus’s dance, in her widowhood?
Hold your tongue! How beautiful she is! Now she is growing rosy again,
and opening her eyes. Fire darts from them; she has brought Pelle out
of his corner and is whispering something to him, blushing as she does
so; perhaps that precious promise that hitherto no one has been able to
draw from her. Pelle must always be the lucky man!
“Pelle, why don’t you dance with me oftener? Why do you sit in the
corner there always and sulk? Are you angry with me as you used to be,
and why are you so hard and cold? And your clothes are quite stiff!”
“I come from outside all this—from the terrible winter, Hanne, where
the children are crying for bread, and the women dying of starvation,
and the men go about with idle hands and look on the ground because
they are ashamed of their unemployment!”
“But why? It is still summer. Only look how cheerful every one is! Take
me, then, Pelle!”
Hanne grows red, redder than blood, and leans her head on his shoulder.
Only see how she surrenders herself, blissful in her unashamed ecstasy!
She droops backward in his arms, and from between her lips springs a
great rose of blood, that gushes down over the summer-blue dress.
Fastened to the spot by his terrible burden, Pelle stands there unable
to move. He can only gaze at Hanne, until Cerberus takes her in his
giant’s arms and bears her out. She is so light in her summer finery—
she weighs nothing at all!
“Mazurka!” he bellows, as he returns, and goes commandingly along the
ranks of dancers.