Part 63 (1/2)
”Well,” said Master Andres, ”what they want, I believe, is perfectly right, only they'll never get it. I know a little about it, on account of Garibaldi.”
”But what _do_ they want, then, if they don't want to overthrow the whole world?”
”What do they want? Well, what do they want? That everybody should have exactly the same?” Master Andres was uncertain.
”Then the s.h.i.+p's boy would have as much as the captain! No, it would be the devil and all!” Baker Jorgen smacked his thigh and laughed.
”And they want to abolish the king,” said Wooden-leg La.r.s.en eagerly.
”Who the devil would reign over us then? The Germans would soon come hurrying over! That's a most wicked thing, that Danish people should want to hand over their country to the enemy! All I wonder is that they don't shoot them down without trial! They'd never be admitted to Bornholm.”
”That we don't really know!” The young master smiled.
”To the devil with them--we'd all go down to the sh.o.r.e and shoot them: they should never land alive!”
”They are just a miserable rabble, the lot of them,” said Jeppe. ”I should very much like to know whether there is a decent citizen among them.”
”Naturally, it's always the poor who complain of poverty,” said Bjerregrav. ”So the thing never comes to an end.”
Baker Jorgen was the only one of them who had anything to do. Things would have to be bad indeed before the people stopped buying his black bread. He even had more to do than usual; the more people abstained from meat and cheese, the more bread they ate. He often hired Jeppe's apprentices so that they might help him in the kneading.
But he was not in a happy frame of mind. He was always shouting his abuse of Soren through the open doors, because the latter would not go near his buxom young wife. Old Jorgen had taken him and put him into bed with her with his own hands, but Soren had got out of the business by crying and trembling like a new-born calf.
”D'you think he's perhaps bewitched?” asked Master Andres.
”She's young and pretty, and there's not the least fault to be found with her--and we've fed him with eggs right through the winter. She goes about hanging her head, she gets no attention from him. 'Marie! Soren!'
I cry, just to put a little life into them--he ought to be the sort of devil I was, I can tell you! She laughs and blushes, but Soren, he simply sneaks off. It's really a shame--so dainty as she is too, in every way. Ah, it ought to have been in my young days, I can tell you!”
”You are still young enough, Uncle Jorgen!” laughed Master Andres.
”Well, a man could almost bring himself to it--when he considers what a dreadful injustice is going on under his own eyes. For, look you, Andres, I've been a dirty beast about all that sort of thing, but I've been a jolly fellow too; people were always glad to be on board with me.
And I've had strength for a booze, and a girl; and for hard work in bad weather. The life I've led--it hasn't been bad; I'd live it all over again the same. But Soren--what sort of a strayed weakling is he? He can't find his own way about! Now, if only you would have a chat with him--you've got some influence over him.”
”I'll willingly try.”
”Thanks; but look here, I owe you money.” Jorgen took ten kroner and laid them on the table as he was going.
”Pelle, you devil's imp, can you run an errand for me?” The young master limped into the cutting-out room, Pelle following on his heels.
A hundred times a day the master would run to the front door, but he hurried back again directly; he could not stand the cold. His eyes were full of dreams of other countries, whose climates were kinder, and he spoke of his two brothers, of whom one was lost in South America--perhaps murdered. But the other was in Australia, herding sheep. He earned more at that than the town magistrate received as salary, and was the cleverest boxer in the neighborhood. Here the master made his bloodless hands circle one round the other, and let them fall clenched upon Pelle's back. ”That,” he said, in a superior tone, ”is what they call boxing. Brother Martin can cripple a man with one blow.
He is paid for it, the devil!” The master shuddered. His brother had on several occasions offered to send him his steamer-ticket, but there was that d.a.m.ned leg. ”Tell me what I should do over there, eh, Pelle?”
Pelle had to bring books from the lending library every day, and he soon learned which writers were the most exciting. He also attempted to read himself, but he could not get on with it; it was more amusing to stand about by the skating-pond and freeze and watch the others gliding over the ice. But he got Morten to tell him of exciting books, and these he brought home for the master; such was the ”Flying Dutchman.” ”That's a work of poetry, Lord alive!” said the master, and he related its contents to Bjerregrav, who took them all for reality.
”You should have played some part in the great world, Andres--I for my part do best to stay at home here. But you could have managed it--I'm sure of it.”
”The great world!” said the master scornfully. No, he didn't take much stock in the world--it wasn't big enough. ”If I were to travel, I should like to look for the way into the interior of the earth--they say there's a way into it in Iceland. Or it would be glorious to make a voyage to the moon; but that will always be just a story.”
At the beginning of the new year the crazy Anker came to the young master and dictated a love-letter to the eldest daughter of the king.
”This year he will surely answer,” he said thoughtfully. ”Time is pa.s.sing, and fortune disappears, and there are few that have their share of it; we need the new time very badly.”