Pelle the Conqueror, Vol. 2 by Martin Anderson Nexo

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Many eyes gazed out over the sea, but the men with the ice-boat
did not come back; the mysterious "over yonder" had swallowed them.
It was as though the world had sunk into the sea; as if, behind the
rugged ice-field which reached to the horizon, there now lay nothing
but the abyss.

The "Saints" were the only people who were busy; they held
overcrowded meetings, and spoke about the end of the world. All else
lay as though dead. Under these conditions, who would worry himself
about the future? In the workshop they sat in caps and overcoats and
froze; the little coal that still remained had to be saved for the
master. Pelle was in his room every moment. The master did not speak
much now; he lay there and tossed to and fro, his eyes gazing up at
the ceiling; but as soon as Pelle had left him he knocked for him
again. "How are things going now?" he would ask wearily. "Run down
to the harbor and see whether the ice isn't near breaking--it is so
very cold; at this rate the whole earth will become a lump of ice.
This evening they will certainly hold another meeting about the last
judgment. Run and hear what they think about it."

Pelle went, and returned with the desired information, but when he
had done so the master had usually forgotten all about the matter.
From time to time Pelle would announce that there seemed to be a
bluish shimmer on the sea, far beyond the ice. Then the master's
eyes would light up. But he was always cast down again by the next
announcement. "The sea will eat up the ice yet--you'll see," said
Master Andres, as though from a great distance. "But perhaps it
cannot digest so much. Then the cold will get the upper hand, and
we shall all be done for!"

But one morning the ice-field drove out seaward, and a hundred men
got ready to clear the channel of ice by means of dynamite. Three
weeks had gone by since any post had been received from the outer
world, and the steamer went out in order to fetch news from Sweden.
It was caught by the ice out in the offing, and driven toward the
south; from the harbor they could see it for days, drifting about
in the ice-pack, now to the north and now to the south.

At last the heavy bonds were broken. But it was difficult alike for
the earth and for mankind to resume the normal activities of life.
Everybody's health had suffered. The young master could not stand
the change from the bitter frost to the thaw; when his cough did not
torment him he lay quite still. "Oh, I suffer so dreadfully, Pelle!"
he complained, whispering. "I have no pain--but I suffer, Pelle."

But then one morning he was in a good humor. "Now I am past the
turning-point," he said, in a weak but cheerful voice; "now you'll
just see how quickly I shall get well. What day is it really to-day?
Thursday? Death and the devil! then I must renew my lottery ticket!
I am so light I was flying through the air all night long, and if
I only shut my eyes I am flying again. That is the force in the new
blood--by summer I shall be quite well. Then I shall go out and see
the world! But one never--deuce take it!--gets to see the best--the
stars and space and all that! So man must learn to fly. But I was
there last night."

Then the cough overpowered him again. Pelle had to lift him up;
at every spasm there was a wet, slapping sound in his chest. He
put one hand on Pelle's shoulder and leaned his forehead against
the boy's body. Suddenly the cough ceased; and the white, bony hand
convulsively clutched Pelle's shoulder. "Pelle, Pelle!" moaned the
master, and he gazed at him, a horrible anxiety in his dying eyes.

"What does he see now?" thought Pelle, shuddering; and he laid him
back on his pillow.

XXII

Often enough did Pelle regret that he had wasted five years as
apprentice. During his apprenticeship he had seen a hundred, nay,
two hundred youths pass into the ranks of the journeymen; and then
they were forthwith turned into the streets, while new apprentices
from the country filled up the ranks again. There they were, and
they had to stand on their own legs. In most cases they had learned
nothing properly; they had only sat earning their master's daily
bread, and now they suddenly had to vindicate their calling. Emil
had gone to the dogs; Peter was a postman and earned a krone a day,
and had to go five miles to do that. When he got home he had to
sit over the knee-strap and waxed-end, and earn the rest of his
livelihood at night. Many forsook their calling altogether. They
had spent the best years of their youth in useless labor.

Jens had done no better than the majority. He sat all day over
repairs, and had become a small employer, but they were positively
starving. The girl had recently had a miscarriage, and they had
nothing to eat. When Pelle went to see them they were usually
sitting still and staring at one another with red eyes; and over
their heads hung the threat of the police, for they were not yet
married. "If I only understood farm work!" said Jens. "Then I'd
go into the country and serve with a farmer."

Despite all his recklessness, Pelle could not help seeing his own
fate in theirs; only his attachment to Master Andres had hindered
him from taking to his heels and beginning something else.

Now everything suddenly came to an end; old Jeppe sold the business,
with apprentices and all. Pelle did not wish to be sold. Now was
his opportunity; now, by a sudden resolve, he might bring this
whole chapter to an end.

"You don't go!" said Jeppe threateningly; "you have still a year
of your apprenticeship before you! I shall give information to the
police about you--and you've learned what that means." But Pelle
went. Afterward they could run to the police as often as they liked.

With a light and cheerful mind he rented an attic on the hill above
the harbor, and removed his possessions thither. He felt as though
he was stretching himself after his years of slavery; he no longer
had any one over him, and he had no responsibilities, and no burdens.
Year by year he had fought against a continual descent. It had by no
means fortified his youthful courage vainly to pit his energies, day
after day, against the decline of the workshop; he was only able to
hold back the tide a little, and as for the rest, he must perforce
sink with the business.

A good share of resignation and a little too much patience with
regard to his eighteen years--this was for the moment his net
profit from the process of going downhill.

Now it all lay at the foot of the hill, and he could stand aside
and draw himself up a little. His conscience was clear, and he felt
a somewhat mitigated delight in his freedom; that was all he had
won. He had no money for traveling, and his clothes were in a sad
case; but that did not trouble him at first. He breathed deeply,
and considered the times. The death of the master had left a great
void within him; he missed that intelligent glance, which had given
him the feeling that he was serving an idea; and the world was a
terribly desolate and God-forsaken place now that this glance no
longer rested on him, half lucid and half unfathomable, and now
that the voice was silent which had always gone to his heart--when
it was angry just as much as when it was infinitely mild or
frolicsome. And where he was used to hear that voice his ear
encountered only solitude.

He did nothing to arouse himself; he was for the present idle. This
or that employer was after him, truly, for they all knew that he
was a quick and reliable worker, and would willingly have taken him
as apprentice, for a krone a week and his food. But Pelle would have
none of them; he felt that his future did not lie in that direction.
Beyond that he knew nothing, but only waited, with a curious apathy,
for something to happen--something, anything. He had been hurried
out of his settled way of life, yet he had no desire to set to
work. From his window he could look out over the harbor, where the
extensive alterations that had been interrupted by the winter were
again in full swing. And the murmur of the work rose up to him; they
were hewing, boring and blasting; the tip-wagons wandered in long
rows up the slipway, threw their contents out on the shore, and
returned. His limbs longed for strenuous work with pick and shovel,
but his thoughts took another direction.

If he walked along the street the industrious townsfolk would turn
to look after him, exchanging remarks which were loud enough to
reach his ear. "There goes Master Jeppe's apprentice, loafing
along," they would tell one another; "young and strong he is, but he
doesn't like work. He'll turn into a loafer if you give him time--
that you can see. Yes, wasn't it he who got a beating at the town
hall, for his brutal behavior? What else can you expect of him?"

So then Pelle kept the house. Now and again he got a little work
from comrades, and poor people of his acquaintance; he did his best
without proper implements, or if he could not manage otherwise he
would go to Jens. Jens had lasts and an anvil. At other times he sat
at the window, freezing, and gazed out over the harbor and the sea.
He saw the ships being rigged and fitted, and with every ship that
went gliding out of the harbor, to disappear below the horizon, it
seemed to him that a last possibility had escaped him; but although
he had such a feeling it did not stir him. He shrank from Morten,
and did not mix with other people. He was ashamed to be so idle
when every one else was working.

As for food, he managed fairly well; he lived on milk and bread,
and needed only a few ore a day. He was able to avoid extreme
hunger. As for firing, it was not to be thought of. Sitting idly
in his room, he enjoyed his repose, apart from a certain feeling
of shame; otherwise he was sunk in apathy.

On sunny mornings he got up early and slipped out of the town. All
day long he would stroll in the great pine-woods or lie on the dunes
by the shore, with the murmur of the sea sounding through his half-
slumber. He ate like a dog whatever he could get that was eatable,
without particularly thinking of what it consisted. The glitter of
the sun on the water, and the poignant scent of the pine-trees, and
the first rising of the sluggish sap which came with spring, made
him dizzy, and filled his brain with half-wild imaginations. The
wild animals were not afraid of him, but only stood for a moment
inhaling his scent; then they would resume their daily life before
his eyes. They had no power to disturb his half-slumber; but if
human beings approached, he would hide himself, with a feeling of
hostility, almost of hatred. He experienced a kind of well-being
out in the country. The thought often occurred to him that he would
give up his dwelling in the town, and creep at night under the
nearest tree.

Only when the darkness hid him did he return to his room. He would
throw himself, fully dressed, on his bed, and lie there until he
fell asleep. As though from a remote distance he could hear his
next-door neighbor, Strom the diver, moving about his room with
tottering steps, and clattering with his cooking utensils close at
hand. The smell of food, mingled with tobacco smoke and the odor of
bedding, which crept through the thin board partition, and hovered,
heavy and suffocating, above his head, became even more overpowering.
His mouth watered. He shut his eyes and forced himself to think
of other things, in order to deaden his hunger. Then a light,
well-known step sounded on the stairs and some one knocked on the
door--it was Morten. "Are you there, Pelle?" he asked. But Pelle
did not move.

Pelle could hear Strom attacking his bread with great bites, and
chewing it with a smacking sound; and suddenly in the intervals of
mastication, another sound was audible; a curious bellowing, which
was interrupted every time the man took a bite; it sounded like a
child eating and crying simultaneously. That another person should
cry melted something in Pelle, and filled him with a feeble sense
of something living; he raised himself on his elbows and listened
to Strom struggling with terror, while cold shudders chased one
another down his back.

People said that Strom lived here because in his youth he had done
something at home. Pelle forgot his own need and listened, rigid
with terror, to this conflict with the powers of evil. Patiently,
through his clenched teeth, in a voice broken by weeping, Strom
attacked the throng of tiny devils with words from the Bible.
"I'll do something to you at last that'll make you tuck your tails
between your legs!" he cried, when he had read a little. There was
a peculiar heaviness about his speech, which seemed charged with
a craving for peace. "Ah!" he cried presently, "you want some more,
you damned rascals, do you? Then what have you got to say to this
--'I, the Lord thy God, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the
God of Jacob'"--Strom hurled the words at them, anger crept into his
voice, and suddenly he lost patience. He took the Bible and flung
it on the floor. "Satan take you, then!" he shouted, laying about
him with the furniture.

Pelle lay bathed in sweat, listening to this demoniac struggle; and
it was with a feeling of relief that he heard Strom open the window
and drive the devils out over the roofs. The diver fought the last
part of the battle with a certain humor. He addressed the corner of
the room in a wheedling, flattering tone. "Come, you sweet, pretty
little devil! What a white skin you have--Strom would so like to
stroke you a little! No, you didn't expect that! Are we getting
too clever for you? What? You'd still bite, would you, you devil's
brat? There, don't scowl like that!"--Strom shut the window with
an inward chuckle.

For a while he strolled about amusing himself. "Strom is still man
enough to clear up Hell itself!" he said, delighted.

Pelle heard him go to bed, and he himself fell asleep. But in the
night he awoke; Strom was beating time with his head against the
board partition, while he lay tearfully singing "By the waters of
Babylon!" But halfway through the psalm the diver stopped and stood
up. Pelle heard him groping to and fro across the floor and out on
the landing. Seized with alarm, he sprang out of bed and struck a
light. Outside stood Strom, in the act of throwing a noose over the
rafters. "What do you want here?" he said fiercely. "Can I never
get any peace from you?"

"Why do you want to lay hands on yourself?" asked Pelle quietly.

"There's a woman and a little child sitting there, and she's forever
and forever crying in my ear. I can't stand it any longer!" answered
Strom, knotting his rope.

"Think of the little child, then!" said Pelle firmly, and he tore
down the rope. Strom submitted to be led back into his room, and he
crawled into bed. But Pelle must stay with him; he dared not put out
the light and lie alone in the darkness.

"Is it the devils?" asked Pelle.

"What devils?" Strom knew nothing of any devils. "No, it's remorse,"
he replied. "The child and its mother are continually complaining of
my faithlessness."

But next moment he would spring out of bed and stand there whistling
as though he was coaxing a dog. With a sudden grip he seized
something by the throat, opened the window, and threw it out. "So,
that was it!" he said, relieved; "now there's none of the devil's
brood left!" He reached after the bottle of brandy.

"Leave it alone!" said Pelle, and he took the bottle away from him.
His will increased in strength at the sight of the other's misery.

Strom crept into bed again. He lay there tossing to and fro, and
his teeth chattered. "If I could only have a mouthful!" he said
pleadingly; "what harm can that do me? It's the only thing that
helps me! Why should a man always torment himself and play the
respectable when he can buy peace for his soul so cheaply? Give
me a mouthful!" Pelle passed him the bottle. "You should take one
yourself--it sets a man up! Do you think I can't see that you've
suffered shipwreck, too? The poor man goes aground so easily, he has
so little water under the keel. And who d'you think will help him to
get off again if he's betrayed his own best friend? Take a swallow,
then--it wakes the devil in us and gives us courage to live."

No, Pelle wanted to go to bed.

"Why do you want to go now? Stay here, it is so comfortable. If you
could, tell me about something, something that'll drive that damned
noise out of my ears for a bit! There's a young woman and a little
child, and they're always crying in my ears."

Pelle stayed, and tried to distract the diver. He looked into his
own empty soul, and he could find nothing there; so he told the man
of Father Lasse and of their life at Stone Farm, with everything
mixed up just as it occurred to him. But his memories rose up within
him as he spoke of them, and they gazed at him so mournfully that
they awakened his crippled soul to life. Suddenly he felt utterly
wretched about himself, and he broke down helplessly.

"Now, now!" said Strom, raising his head. "Is it your turn now?
Have you, too, something wicked to repent of, or what is it?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? That's almost like the women--crying is one of
their pleasures. But Strom doesn't hang his head; he would like
to be at peace with himself, if it weren't for a pair of child's
eyes that look at him so reproachfully, day in and day out, and the
crying of a girl! They're both at home there in Sweden, wringing
their hands for their daily bread. And the one that should provide
for them is away from them here and throws away his earnings in the
beer-houses. But perhaps they're dead now because I've forsaken them.
Look you, that is a real grief; there's no child's talk about that!
But you must take a drink for it."

But Pelle did not hear; he sat there gazing blindly in front of him.
All at once the chair began to sail through air with him; he was
almost fainting with hunger. "Give me just one drink--I've had not
a mouthful of food to-day!" He smiled a shamefaced smile at the
confession.

With one leap, Strom was out of bed. "No, then you shall have
something to eat," he said eagerly, and he fetched some food.
"Did one ever see the like--such a desperate devil! To take brandy
on an empty stomach! Eat now, and then you can drink yourself full
elsewhere! Strom has enough on his conscience without that.... He
can drink his brandy himself! Well, well, then, so you cried from
hunger! It sounded like a child crying to me!"

Pelle often experienced such nights. They enlarged his world in
the direction of the darkness. When he came home late and groped
his way across the landing he always experienced a secret terror
lest he should rub against Strom's lifeless body; and he only
breathed freely when he heard him snoring or ramping round his room.
He liked to look in on him before he went to bed.

Strom was always delighted to see him, and gave him food; but brandy
he would not give him. "It's not for fellows as young as you! You'll
get the taste for it early enough, perhaps."

"You drink, yourself," said Pelle obstinately.

"Yes, I drink to deaden remorse. But that's not necessary
in your case."

"I'm so empty inside," said Pelle. "Really brandy might set me up
a little. I feel as if I weren't human at all, but a dead thing,
a table, for instance."

"You must do something--anything--or you'll become a good-for-
nothing. I've seen so many of our sort go to the dogs; we haven't
enough power of resistance!"

"It's all the same to me what becomes of me!" replied Pelle
drowsily. "I'm sick of the whole thing!"

XXIII

It was Sunday, and Pelle felt a longing for something unaccustomed.
At first he went out to see Jens, but the young couple had had
a dispute and had come to blows. The girl had let the frying-pan
containing the dinner fall into the fire, and Jens had given
her a box on the ears. She was still white and poorly after her
miscarriage. Now they were sitting each in a corner, sulking like
children. They were both penitent, but neither would say the first
word. Pelle succeeded in reconciling them, and they wanted him
to stay for dinner. "We've still got potatoes and salt, and I can
borrow a drop of brandy from a neighbor!" But Pelle went; he could
not watch them hanging on one another's necks, half weeping, and
kissing and babbling, and eternally asking pardon of one another.

So he went out to Due's. They had removed to an old merchant's house
where there was room for Due's horses. They seemed to be getting on
well. It was said that the old consul took an interest in them and
helped them on. Pelle never went into the house, but looked up Due
in the stable, and if he was not at home Pelle would go away again.
Anna did not treat him as though he was welcome. Due himself greeted
him cordially. If he had no rounds to make he used to hang about the
stable and potter round the horses; he did not care about being in
the house. Pelle gave him a hand, cutting chaff for him, or helping
in anything that came to hand, and then they would go into the house
together. Due was at once another man if he had Pelle behind him;
he was more decided in his behavior. Anna was gradually and
increasingly getting the upper hand over him.

She was just as decided as ever, and kept the house in good order.
She no longer had little Marie with her. She dressed her own two
children well, and sent them to a school for young children, and
she paid for their attendance. She was delightful to look at, and
understood how to dress herself, but she would hear nothing good
of any one else. Pelle was not smart enough for her; she turned up
her nose at his every-day clothes, and in order to make him feel
uncomfortable she was always talking about Alfred's engagement to
Merchant Lau's daughter. This was a fine match for him. "_He_
doesn't loaf about and sleep his time away, and sniff at other
people's doors in order to get their plate of food," she said. Pelle
only laughed; nothing made any particular impression on him nowadays.
The children ran about, wearying themselves in their fine clothes
--they must not play with the poor children out-of-doors, and must
not make themselves dirty. "Oh, play with us for a bit, Uncle Pelle!"
they would say, hanging on to him. "Aren't you our uncle too? Mother
says you aren't our uncle. She's always wanting us to call the
consul uncle, but we just run away. His nose is so horribly red."

"Does the consul come to see you, then?" asked Pelle.

"Yes, he often comes--he's here now!"

Pelle peeped into the yard. The pretty wagon had been taken out.
"Father's gone out," said the children. Then he slipped home again.
He stole a scrap of bread and a drop of brandy from Strom, who was
not at home, and threw himself on his bed. As the darkness came on
he strolled out and lounged, freezing, about the street corners.
He had a vague desire to do something. Well-dressed people were
promenading up and down the street, and many of his acquaintances
were there, taking their girls for a walk; he avoided having to
greet them, and to listen to whispered remarks and laughter at
his expense. Lethargic as he was, he still had the acute sense of
hearing that dated from the time of his disgrace at the town hall.
People enjoyed finding something to say when he passed them; their
laughter still had the effect of making his knees begin to jerk
with a nervous movement, like the quickly-suppressed commencement
of a flight.

He slipped into a side-street; he had buttoned his thin jacket
tightly about him, and turned up his collar. In the half-darkness
of the doorways stood young men and girls, in familiar, whispered
conversation. Warmth radiated from the girls, and their bibbed
aprons shone in the darkness. Pelle crept along in the cold, and
knew less than ever what to do with himself; he ranged about to
find a sweetheart for himself.

In the market he met Alfred, arm-in-arm with Lau's daughter. He
carried a smart walking-stick, and wore brown gloves and a tall
hat. "The scamp--he still owes me two and a half kroner, and I shall
never get it out of him!" thought Pelle, and for a moment he felt
a real desire to spring upon him and to roll all his finery in the
mud. Alfred turned his head the other way. "He only knows me when
he wants to do something and has no money!" said Pelle bitterly.

He ran down the street at a jog-trot, in order to keep himself
warm, turning his eyes toward the windows. The bookbinder and
his wife were sitting at home, singing pious songs. The man drank
when at home; that one could see plainly on the blind. At the
wool-merchant's they were having supper.

Farther on, at the Sow's, there was life, as always. A mist of
tobacco smoke and a great deal of noise were escaping through the
open window. The Sow kept a house for idle seamen, and made a great
deal of money. Pelle had often been invited to visit her, but had
always considered himself too good; moreover, he could not bear
Rud. But this evening he seized greedily upon the memory of this
invitation, and went in. Perhaps a mouthful of food would come
his way.

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