Part 56 (1/2)

”O Lord, is that a man?” he cried to Jeppe, who sat at his window, shaving himself before the milk-can. ”Just look how he puffs! Now he'll go in and beg G.o.d to forgive him for going courting!”

Jeppe came to the window to see and to silence him; one could hear Brother Jorgen's falsetto voice right down the street. ”Has he been courting? However did you get him to venture such a leap?” he asked eagerly.

”Oh, it was while we were sitting at table. I had a tussle with my melancholy madman--because I couldn't help thinking of the little Jorgen. G.o.d knows, I told myself, no little Jorgen has come to carry on your name, and the boy's a weakling, and you've no one else to build on!

It's all very well going about with your nose in the air all the days G.o.d gives you--everything will be swept away and be to no purpose. And everything of that sort--you know how I get thinking when ideas like that get the upper hand with me. I sat there and looked at the boy, and angry I felt with him, that I did; and right opposite him there was sitting a fine bit of womanhood, and he not looking at her. And with that I struck my hand on the table, and I says, 'Now, boy, just you take Marie by the hand and ask her whether she'll be your wife--I want to make an end of the matter now and see what you're good for!' The boy all shrivels up and holds out his hand, and Marie, it don't come amiss to her. 'Yes, that I will!' she says, and grips hold of him before he has time to think what he's doing. And we shall be having the marriage soon.”

”If you can make a boot out of that leather!” said Jeppe.

”Oh, she's a warm piece--look at the way she's built. She's thawing him already. Women, they know the way--he won't freeze in bed.”

Old Jorgen laughed contentedly, and went off to his work. ”Yes, why, she'd breathe life into the dead,” he announced to the street at large.

The others went out in their finest clothes, but Pelle did not care to go. He had not been able to accomplish his constant resolution to keep himself neat and clean, and this failure weighed upon him and abashed him. And the holes in his stockings, which were now so big that they could no longer be darned, were disgustingly apparent, with his skin showing through them, so that he had a loathing for himself.

Now all the young people were going out. He could see the sea in the opening at the end of the street; it was perfectly calm, and had borrowed the colors of the sunset. They would be going to the harbor or the dunes by the sea; there would be dancing on the gra.s.s, and perhaps some would get to fighting about a girl. But he wasn't going to be driven out of the pack like a mangy dog; he didn't care a hang for the whole lot of them!

He threw off his ap.r.o.n and established himself on a beer-barrel which stood outside before the gate. On the bench opposite sat the older inhabitants of the street, puffing at their pipes and gossiping about everything under the sun. Now the bells sounded the hour for leaving off work. Madame Rasmussen was beating her child and reviling it in time with her blows. Then suddenly all was silent; only the crying of the child continued, like a feeble evening hymn. Old Jeppe was talking about Malaga--”when I ran ash.o.r.e at Malaga!”--but Baker Jorgen was still lamenting his want of an heir, and sighing: ”Yes, yes; if only one could see into the future!” Then he suddenly began to talk about the Mormons.

”It might really be great fun to see, some time, what they have to offer you,” he said.

”I thought you'd been a Mormon a long time, Uncle Jorgen,” said Master Andres. The old man laughed.

”Well, well; one tries all sorts of things in one's time,” he said, and looked out at the sky.

Up the street stood the watchmaker, on his stone steps, his face turned up to the zenith, while he shouted his senseless warnings: ”The new time! I ask you about the new time, O G.o.d the Father!” he repeated.

Two weary stevedores were going homeward. ”He'll drive all poverty out of the world and give us all a new life--that's the form his madness takes,” said one of them, with a dreary laugh.

”Then he's got the millennium on the brain?” said the other.

”No, he's just snarling at the world,” said old Jorgen, behind them. ”We shall certainly get a change in the weather.”

”Things are bad with him just now, poor fellow,” said Bjerregrav, shuddering. ”It was about this time of the year that he lost his wits.”

An inner voice admonished Pelle: ”Don't sit there with your hands in your lap, but go in and look after your clothes!” But he could not bring himself to do so--the difficulties had become too insurmountable. On the following day Manna and the others called him, but he could not spring over the wall to join them; they had begun to turn up their noses at him and regard him critically. He did not very well understand it, but he had become an outcast, a creature who no longer cared about was.h.i.+ng himself properly. But what was the use? He could not go on contending against the invincible! No one had warned him in time, and now the town had captured him, and he had given up everything else. He must shuffle through life as best he could.

No one had a thought for him! When was.h.i.+ng was being done for his employers it never occurred to Madam to wash anything of his, and he was not the boy to come forward of himself. The washerwoman was more considerate; when she could she would smuggle in some of Pelle's dirty linen, although it meant more work for her. But she was poor herself; as for the rest, they only wanted to make use of him. There was no one in town who cared sufficiently for his welfare to take the trouble even to open his mouth to tell him the truth. This was a thought that made him feel quite weak about the knees, although he was fifteen years old and had courage to tackle a mad bull. More than anything else it was his loneliness that weakened his powers of resistance. He was helpless alone among all these people, a child, who had to look after himself as best he could, and be prepared for attacks from every quarter.

He sat there, making no effort to dispel the misery that had come over him, and was working its will with him, while with half an ear he listened to the life around him. But suddenly he felt something in his waistcoat pocket--money! He felt immensely relieved at once, but he did not hurry; he slipped behind the gate and counted it. One and a half kroner. He was on the point of regarding it as a gift from on high, as something which the Almighty had in His great goodness placed there, but then it occurred to him that this was his master's money. It had been given him the day before for repairs to a pair of ladies' shoes, and he had forgotten to pay it in, while the master, strangely enough, had quite forgotten to ask for it.

Pelle stood with bent back by the well outside, scrubbing himself over a bucket until his blood tingled. Then he put on his best clothes, drew his shoes on to his naked feet, to avoid the painful feeling of the ragged stockings, and b.u.t.toned his rubber collar--for the last time innocent of any tie--to his s.h.i.+rt. Shortly afterward he was standing outside a shop-window, contemplating some large neckties, which had just been put upon the market, and could be worn with any one of four faces outward; they filled the whole of the waistcoat, so that one did not see the s.h.i.+rt. Now he would be disdained no longer! For a moment he ran to and fro and breathed the air; then he got upon the scent, and ran at a breathless gallop toward the sea-dunes, where the young folk of the town played late into the summer night that lay over the wan sea.

Of course, it was only a loan. Pelle had to sole a pair of shoes for a baker's apprentice who worked with Nilen; as soon as they were finished he would repay the money. He could put the money under the cutting-out board in his master's room; the master would find it there, would gaze at it with a droll expression, and say: ”What the devil is this?”

And then he would knock on the wall, and would treat Pelle to a long rigmarole about his magical gifts--and then he would ask him to run out and fetch a half-bottle of port.

He did not receive the money for soling the shoes; half the sum he had to pay out for leather, and the rest was a long time coming, for the baker's apprentice was a needy wretch. But he did not doubt his own integrity; the master might be as sure of his money as if it had been in the bank. Yet now and again he forgot to give up petty sums--if some necessity or other was pressing him unexpectedly. They were, of course, all loans--until the golden time came. And that was never far away.

One day he returned home as the young master was standing at the door, staring at the driving clouds overhead. He gave Pelle's shoulder a familiar squeeze. ”How was it they didn't pay you for the shoes at the Chamberlain's yesterday?”

Pelle went crimson and his hand went to his waistcoat pocket. ”I forgot it,” he said in a low voice.