Chapter 19

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.

XXIII

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.