Chapter 23

Pelle threw himself on his back and again pulled his cap over his eyes—he was in no hurry. He had now been travelling nearly a month with Sort, and had spent almost as much time on the road as sitting at his work. Sort could never rest when he had been a few days in one place; he must go on again! He loved the edge of the wood and the edge of the meadow, and could spend half the day there. And Pelle had many points of contact with this leisurely life in the open air; he had his whole childhood to draw upon. He could lie for hours, chewing a grass-stem, patient as a convalescent, while sun and air did their work upon him.

“Why do you never preach to me?” he said suddenly, and he peeped mischievously from tinder his cap.

“Why should I preach to you? Because I am religious? Well, so are you; every one who rejoices and is content is religious.”

“But I’m not at all content!” retorted Pelle, and he rolled on his back with all four limbs in the air. “But you—I don’t understand why you don’t get a congregation; you’ve got such a power over language.”

“Yes, if I were built as you are—fast enough. But I’m humpbacked!”

“What does that matter? You don’t want to run after the women!”

“No, but one can’t get on without them; they bring the men and the children after them. And it’s really queer that they should—for women don’t bother themselves about God! They haven’t the faculty of going behind things. They choose only according to the outside—they want to hang everything on their bodies as finery—and the men too, yes, and the dear God best of all—they’ve got a use for the lot!”

Pelle lay still for a time, revolving his scattered experiences. “But Marie Nielsen wasn’t like that,” he said thoughtfully. “She’d willingly give the shirt off her body and ask nothing for herself. I’ve behaved badly to her—I didn’t even say goodbye before I came away!”

“Then you must look her up when we come to town and confess your fault. There was no lovemaking between you?”

“She treated me like a child; I’ve told you.”

Sort was silent a while.

“If you would help me, we’d soon get a congregation! I can see it in your eyes, that you’ve got influence over them, if you only cared about it; for instance, the girl at Willow Farm. Thousands would come to us.”

Pelle did not answer. His thoughts were roaming back wonderingly to Willow Farm, where Sort and he had last been working; he was once more in that cold, damp room with the over-large bed, on which the pale girl’s face was almost invisible. She lay there encircling her thick braids with her transparent hand, and gazed at him; and the door was gently closed behind him. “That was really a queer fancy,” he said, and he breathed deeply; “some one she’d never laid eyes on before; I could cry now when I think of it.”

“The old folks had told her we were there, and asked if she wouldn’t like me to read something from God’s word with her. But she’d rather see you. The father was angry and didn’t want to allow it. ‘She has never thought about young men before,’ he said, ‘and she shall stand before the throne of God and the Lamb quite pure.’ But I said, ‘Do you know so precisely that the good God cares anything for what you call purity, Ole Jensen? Let the two of them come together, if they can take any joy in it.’ Then we shut the door behind you—and how was it then?” Sort turned toward Pelle.

“You know,” replied Pelle crossly. “She just lay there and looked at me as though she was thinking: ‘That’s what he looks like—and he’s come a long way here.’ I could see by her eyes that you had spoken of me and that she knew about all my swinishness.”

Sort nodded.

“Then she held out her hand to me. How like she is to one of God’s angels already—I thought—but it’s a pity in one who’s so young. And then I went close to her and took her hand.”

“And what then?” Sort drew nearer to Pelle. His eyes hung expectantly on Pelle’s lips.

“Then she stretched out her mouth to me a little—and at that very moment I forgot what sort of a hog I’d been—and I kissed her!”

“Didn’t she say anything to you—not a word?”

“She only looked at me with those eyes that you can’t understand. Then I didn’t know what I—what I ought to do next, so I came away.”

“Weren’t you afraid that she might transfer death to you?”

“No; why should I be? I didn’t think about it. But she could never think of a thing like that—so child-like as she was!”

They both lay for a time without speaking. “You have something in you that conquers them all!” said Sort at length. “If only you would help me—I’d see to the preaching!”

Pelle stretched himself indolently—he felt no desire to create a new religion. “No, I want to go away and see the world now,” he said. “There must be places in that world where they’ve already begun to go for the rich folks—that’s where I want to go!”

“One can’t achieve good by the aid of evil—you had better stay here! Here you know where you are—and if we went together—”

“No, there’s nothing here for any one to do who is poor—if I go on here any longer, I shall end in the mud again. I want to have my share—even if I have to strike a bloodsucker dead to get it—and that couldn’t be any very great sin! But shan’t we see about getting on now? We’ve been a whole month now tramping round these Sudland farms. You’ve always promised me that we should make our way toward the heath. For months now I’ve heard nothing of Father Lasse and Karna. When things began to go wrong with me, it was as though I had quite forgotten them.”

Sort rose quickly. “Good! So you’ve still thoughts for other things than killing bloodsuckers! How far is it, then, to Heath Farm?”

“A good six miles.”

“We’ll go straight there. I’ve no wish to begin anything to-day.”

They packed their possessions on their backs and trudged onward in cheerful gossip. Sort pictured their arrival to Pelle. “I shall go in first and ask whether they’ve any old boots or harness that we can mend; and then you’ll come in, while we’re in the middle of a conversation.”

Pelle laughed. “Shan’t I carry the bench for you? I can very well strap it on the other things.”

“You shan’t sweat for me as well as yourself!” rejoined Sort, laughing. “You’d want to take off even your trousers then.”

They had chattered enough, and tramped on in silence. Pelle stepped forward carelessly, drinking in the fresh air. He was conscious of a superfluity of strength and well-being; otherwise he thought of nothing, but merely rejoiced unconsciously over his visit to his home. At every moment he had to moderate his steps, so that Sort should not be left behind.

“What are you really thinking about now?” he asked suddenly. He would always have it that Sort was thinking of something the moment he fell silent. One could never know beforehand in what region he would crop up next.

“That’s just what the children ask!” replied Sort, laughing. “They always want to know what’s inside.”

“Tell me, then—you might as well tell me!”

“I was thinking about life. Here you walk at my side, strong and certain of victory as the young David. And yet a month ago you were part of the dregs of society!”

“Yes, that is really queer,” said Pelle, and he became thoughtful.

“But how did you get into such a mess? You could quite well have kept your head above water if you had only wanted to!”

“That I really don’t know. I tell you, it’s as if some one had hit you over the head; and then you run about and don’t know what you’re doing; and it isn’t so bad if you’ve once got there. You work and drink and bang each other over the head with your beer-cans or bottles—”

“You say that so contentedly—you don’t look behind things—that’s the point! I’ve seen so many people shipwrecked; for the poor man it’s only one little step aside, and he goes to the dogs; and he himself believes he’s a devilish fine fellow. But it was a piece of luck that you got out of it all! Yes, it’s a wonder remorse didn’t make your life bitter.”

“If we felt remorse we had brandy,” said Pelle, with an experienced air. “That soon drives out everything else.”

“Then it certainly has its good points—it helps a man over the time of waiting!”

“Do you really believe that an eternal kingdom is coming—the ‘thousand-year kingdom’—the millennium? With good times for all, for the poor and the miserable?”

Sort nodded. “God has promised it, and we must believe His Word. Something is being prepared over on the mainland, but whether it’s the real millennium, I don’t know.”

They tramped along. The road was stony and deserted. On either side the rocky cliffs, with their scrubby growth, were beginning to rise from the fields, and before them ranged the bluish rocky landscape of the heath or moorland. “As soon as we’ve been home, I shall travel; I must cross the sea and find out what they do really intend there,” said Pelle.

“I have no right to hold you back,” answered Sort quietly, “but it will be lonely travelling for me. I shall feel as if I’d lost a son. But of course you’ve got other things to think of than to remember a poor hunchback! The world is open to you. Once you’ve feathered your nest, you’ll think no more of little Sort!”

“I shall think of you, right enough,” replied Pelle. “And as soon as I’m doing well I shall come back and look out for you—not before. Father will be sure to object to my idea of travelling—he would so like me to take over Heath Farm from him; but there you must back me up. I’ve no desire to be a farmer.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Now just look at it! Nothing but stone upon stone with heather and scrubby bushes in between! That’s what Heath Farm was four years ago —and now it’s quite a fine property. That the two of them have done —without any outside help.”

“You must be built of good timber,” said Sort. “But what poor fellow is that up on the hill? He’s got a great sack on his back and he’s walking as if he’d fall down at every step.”

“That—that is Father Lasse! Hallo!” Pelle waved his cap.

Lasse came stumbling up to them; he dropped his sack and gave them his hand without looking at them.

“Are you coming this way?” cried Pelle joyfully; “we were just going on to look for you!”

“You can save yourself the trouble! You’ve become stingy about using your legs. Spare them altogether!” said Lasse lifelessly.

Pelle stared at him. “What’s the matter? Are you leaving?”

“Yes, we’re leaving!” Lasse laughed—a hollow laugh. “Leaving—yes! We’ve left—indeed, we’ve each of us gone our own way. Karna has gone where there’s no more care and trouble—and here’s Lasse, with all that’s his!” He struck his foot against the sack, and stood there with face averted from them, his eyes fixed upon the ground.

All signs of life had vanished from Pelle’s face. Horrified, he stared at his father, and his lips moved, but he could form no words.

“Here I must meet my own son by accident in the middle of the empty fields! So often as I’ve looked for you and asked after you! No one knew anything about you. Your own flesh and blood has turned from you, I thought—but I had to tell Karna you were ill. She fully expected to see you before she went away. Then you must give him my love, she said, and God grant all may go well with him. She thought more about you than many a mother would have done! Badly you’ve repaid it. It’s a long time ago since you set foot in our house.”

Still Pelle did not speak; he stood there swaying from side to side; every word was like the blow of a club.

“You mustn’t be too hard on him!” said Sort. “He’s not to blame—ill as he’s been!”

“Ah, so you too have been through bad times and have got to fight your way, eh? Then, as your father, I must truly be the last to blame you.” Lasse stroked his son’s sleeve, and the caress gave Pelle pleasure. “Cry, too, my son—it eases the mind. In me the tears are dried up long ago. I must see how I can bear my grief; these have become hard times for me, you may well believe. Many a night have I sat by Karna and been at my wits’ end—I could not leave her and go for help, and everything went wrong with us all at the same time. It almost came to my wishing you were ill. You were the one who ought to have had a kindly thought for us, and you could always have sent us news. But there’s an end of it all!”

“Are you going to leave Heath Farm, father?” asked Pelle quietly.

“They have taken it away from me,” replied Lasse wretchedly. “With all these troubles, I couldn’t pay the last instalment, and now their patience is at an end. Out of sheer compassion they let me stay till Karna had fought out her fight and was happily buried in the earth—every one could see it wasn’t a matter of many days more.”

“If it is only the interest,” said Sort, “I have a few hundred kroner which I’ve saved up for my old days.”

“Now it’s too late; the farm is already taken over by another man. And even if that were not the case—what should I do there without Karna? I’m no longer any use!”

“We’ll go away together, father!” said Pelle, raising his head.

“No; I go nowhere now except to the churchyard. They have taken my farm away from me, and Karna has worked herself to death, and I myself have left what strength I had behind me. And then they took it away from me!”

“I will work for us both—you shall be comfortable and enjoy your old days!” Pelle saw light in the distance.

Lasse shook his head. “I can no longer put things away from me—I can no longer leave them behind and go on again!”

“I propose that we go into the town,” said Sort. “Up by the church we are sure to find some one who will drive us in.”

They collected their things and set off. Lasse walked behind the others, talking to himself; from time to time he broke out into lamentation. Then Pelle turned back to him in silence and took his hand.

“There is no one to help us and give us good advice. On the contrary, they’d gladly see us lose life and fortune if they could only earn a few shillings on that account. Even the authorities won’t help the poor man. He’s only there so that they can all have a cut at him and then each run off with his booty. What do they care that they bring need and misery and ruin upon us? So long as they get their taxes and their interest! I could stick them all in the throat, in cold blood!”

So he continued a while, increasing in bitterness, until he broke down like a little child.

XXVI

They lived with Sort, who had his own little house in the outermost suburb. The little travelling cobbler did not know what to do for them: Lasse was so dejected and so aimless. He could not rest; he did not recover; from time to time he broke out into lamentation. He had grown very frail, and could no longer lift his spoon to his mouth without spilling the contents. If they tried to distract him, he became obstinate.

“Now we must see about fetching your things,” they would both say repeatedly. “There is no sense in giving your furniture to the parish.”

But Lasse would not have them sent for. “They’ve taken everything else from me; they can take that, too,” he said. “And I won’t go out there again—and let myself be pitied by every one.”

“But you’ll beggar yourself,” said Sort.

“They’ve done that already. Let them have their way. But they’ll have to answer for it in the end!”

Then Pelle procured a cart, and drove over himself to fetch them. There was quite a load to bring back. Mother Bengta’s green chest he found upstairs in the attic; it was full of balls of thread. It was so strange to see it again—for many years he had not thought of his mother. “I’ll have that for a travelling trunk,” he thought, and he took it with him.

Lasse was standing before the door when he returned.

“See, I’ve brought everything here for you, father!” he cried, lustily cracking his whip. But Lasse went in without saying a word. When they had unloaded the cart and went to look for him, he had crawled into bed. There he lay with his face to the wall, and would not speak.

Pelle told him all sorts of news of Heath Farm, in order to put a little life into him. “Now the parish has sold Heath Farm to the Hill Farm man for five thousand kroner, and they say he’s got a good bargain. He wants to live there himself and to leave Hill Farm in his son’s hands.”

Lasse half turned his head. “Yes, something grows there now. Now they are making thousands—and the farmer will do better still,” he said bitterly. “But it’s well-manured soil. Karna overstrained herself and died and left me…. And we went so well in harness together. Her thousand kroner went into it, too … and now I’m a poor wreck. All that was put into the barren, rocky soil, so that it became good and generous soil. And then the farmer buys it, and now he wants to live there—we poor lice have prepared the way for him! What else were we there for? Fools we are to excite ourselves so over such a thing! But, how I loved the place!” Lasse suddenly burst into tears.

“Now you must be reasonable and see about becoming cheerful again,” said Sort. “The bad times for the poor man will soon be over. There is a time coming when no one will need to work himself to death for others, and when every one will reap what he himself has sown. What injury have you suffered? For you are on the right side and have thousands of kroner on which you can draw a bill. It would be still worse if you owed money to others!”

“I haven’t much more time,” said Lasse, raising himself on his elbows.

“Perhaps not, you and I, for those who start on the pilgrimage must die in the desert! But for that reason we are God’s chosen people, we poor folk. And Pelle, he will surely behold the Promised Land!”

“Now you ought to come in, father, and see how we have arranged it,” said Pelle.

Lasse stood up wearily and went with them. They had furnished one of Sort’s empty rooms with Lasse’s things. It looked quite cozy.

“We thought that you would live here until Pelle is getting on well ‘over there,’” said Sort. “No, you don’t need to thank me! I’m delighted to think I shall have society, as you may well understand.”

“The good God will repay it to you,” said Lasse, with a quavering voice. “We poor folk have no one but Him to rely on.”

Pelle could not rest, nor control his thoughts any longer; he must be off! “If you’ll give me what the fare comes to, as I’ve helped you,” he told Sort, “then I’ll start this evening….”

Sort gave him thirty kroner.

“That’s the half of what we took. There’s not so much owing to me,” said Pelle. “You are the master and had the tools and everything.”

“I won’t live by the work of other hands—only by that of my own,” said Sort, and he pushed the money across to Pelle. “Are you going to travel just as you stand?”

“No, I have plenty of money,” said Pelle gaily. “I’ve never before possessed so much money all at once! One can get quite a lot of clothes for that.”

“But you mustn’t touch the money! Five kroner you’ll need for the passage and the like; the rest you must save, so that you can face the future with confidence!”

“I shall soon earn plenty of money in Copenhagen!”

“He has always been a thoughtless lad,” said Lasse anxiously. “Once, when he came into town here to be apprenticed he had five kroner; and as for what he spent them on, he could never give any proper account!”

Sort laughed.

“Then I shall travel as I stand!” said Pelle resolutely. But that wouldn’t do, either!

He could not by any means please both—they were like two anxious clucking hens.

He had no lack of linen, for Lasse had just thought of his own supply. Karna had looked after him well. “But it will be very short for your long body. It’s not the same now as it was when you left Stone Farm—then we had to put a tuck in my shirt for you.”

In the matter of shoes he was not well off. It would never do for a journeyman shoemaker to look for work wearing such shoes as his. Sort and Pelle must make a pair of respectable boots. “We must leave ourselves time,” said Sort. “Think! They must be able to stand the judgment of the capital!” Pelle was impatient, and wanted to get the work quickly out of hand.

Now there was only the question of a new suit. “Then buy it ready made on credit,” said Sort. “Lasse and I will be good enough securities for a suit.”

In the evening, before he started, he and Lasse went out to look up Due. They chose the time when they were certain of meeting Due himself. They neither of them cared much for Anna. As they approached the house they saw an old richly-dressed gentleman go in at the front door.

“That is the consul,” said Pelle, “who has helped them to get on. Then Due is out with the horses, and we are certainly not welcome.”

“Is it like that with them?” said Lasse, standing still. “Then I am sorry for Due when he first finds out how his affairs really stand! He will certainly find that he has bought his independence too dearly! Yes, yes; for those who want to get on the price is hard to pay. I hope it will go well with you over there, my boy.”

They had reached the church. There stood a cart full of green plants; two men were carrying them into a dwelling-house.

“What festivity’s going on here?” asked Pelle.

“There’s to be a wedding to-morrow,” answered one of the men. “Merchant Lau’s daughter is marrying that swaggering fellow, who’s always giving himself airs—Karlsen, he’s called, and he’s a poor chap like ourselves. But do you suppose he’ll notice us? When dirt comes to honor, there’s no bearing with it! Now he’s become a partner in the business!”

“Then I’ll go to the wedding,” said Lasse eagerly, while they strolled on. “It is very interesting to see when one of a family comes to something.” Pelle felt that this was to some extent meant as a reproach, but he said nothing.

“Shall we have one look at the new harbor?” he said.

“No, now the sun’s going down, and I’ll go home and get to bed. I’m old—but you go. I shall soon find my way back.” Pelle strolled onward, but then turned aside toward the north—he would go and bid Marie Nielsen good-bye. He owed her a friendly word for all her goodness. Also, as an exception, she should for once see him in respectable clothes. She had just come home from her work, and was on the point of preparing her supper.

“No, Pelle, is that you?” she cried delightedly, “and so grand, too—you look like a prince!” Pelle had to remain to supper.

“I have really only come to thank you for all your friendliness and to say good-bye. To-morrow I go to Copenhagen.”

She looked at him earnestly. “And you are glad!”

Pelle had to tell her what he had been doing since he had last seen her. He sat there looking gratefully about the poor, clean room, with the bed set so innocently against the wall, covered with a snow-white counterpane. He had never forgotten that fragrance of soap and cleanliness and her fresh, simple nature. She had taken him in the midst of all his misery and had not thought her own white bed too good for him while she scrubbed the mire from him. When he reached the capital he would have himself photographed and send her his portrait.

“And how are you doing now?” he asked gently.

“Just as when you last saw me—only a little more lonely,” she answered earnestly.

And then he must go. “Good-bye, and may everything go well with you!” he said, and he shook her hand. “And many thanks for all your goodness!”

She stood before him silently, looking at him with an uncertain smile. “Ah, no! I’m only a human being too!” she cried suddenly, and she flung her arms about him in a passionate embrace.