Part 90 (1/2)

”What will become of us?” said Pelle.

”That I don't know, and it's all the same to me--only it must be something I don't know all about. Everything is so familiar if one is poor--one knows every st.i.tch of one's clothes by heart; one can watch them wearing out. If you'd only been a sailor, Pelle!”

”Have you seen _him_ again?” asked Pelle.

Hanne laughingly shook her head. ”No; but I believe something will happen--something splendid. Out there lies a great s.h.i.+p--I can see it from the window. It's full of wonderful things, Pelle.”

”You are crazy!” said Pelle scornfully. ”That's a bark--bound for the coal quay. She comes from England with coals.”

”That may well be,” replied Hanne indifferently. ”I don't mind that.

There's something in me singing, 'There lies the s.h.i.+p, and it has brought something for me from foreign parts.' And you needn't grudge me my happiness.”

But now her mother came in, and began to mimic her.

”Yes, out there lies the s.h.i.+p that has brought me something--out there lies the s.h.i.+p that has brought me something! Good G.o.d! Haven't you had enough of listening to your own crazy nonsense? All through your childhood you've sat there and made up stories and looked out for the s.h.i.+p! We shall soon have had enough of it! And you let Pelle sit there and watch you uncovering your youth--aren't you ashamed of yourself?”

”Pelle's so good, mother--and he's my brother, too. He thinks nothing of it.”

”Thinks nothing of it? Yes, he does; he thinks how soft and white your bosom is! And he's fit to cry inside of him because he mustn't lay his head there. I, too, have known what it is to give joy, in my young days.”

Hanne blushed from her bosom upward. She threw a kerchief over her bosom and ran into the kitchen.

The mother looked after her.

”She's got a skin as tender as that of a king's daughter. Wouldn't one think she was a cuckoo's child? Her father couldn't stand her. 'You've betrayed me with some fine gentleman'--he used so often to say that.

'We poor folks couldn't bring a piece like that into the world!' 'As G.o.d lives, Johnsen,' I used to say, 'you and no other are the girl's father.' But he used to beat us--he wouldn't believe me. He used to fly into a rage when he looked at the child, and he hated us both because she was so fine. So its no wonder that she had gone a bit queer in the head. You can believe she's cost me tears of blood, Pelle. But you let her be, Pelle. I could wish you could get her, but it wouldn't be best for you, and it isn't good for you to have her playing with you. And if you got her after all, it would be even worse. A woman's whims are poor capital for setting up house with.”

Pelle agreed with her in cold blood; he had allowed himself to be fooled, and was wasting his youth upon a path that led nowhere. But now there should be an end of it.

Hanne came back and looked at him, radiant, full of visions. ”Will you take me for a walk, Pelle?” she asked him.

”Yes!” answered Pelle joyfully, and he threw all his good resolutions overboard.

V

Pelle and his little neighbor used to compete as to which of them should be up first in the morning. When she was lucky and had to wake him her face was radiant with pride. It sometimes happened that he would lie in bed a little longer, so that he should not deprive her of a pleasure, and when she knocked on the wall he would answer in a voice quite stupid with drowsiness. But sometimes her childish years demanded the sleep that was their right, when Pelle would move about as quietly as possible, and then, at half-past six, it would be his turn to knock on the wall. On these occasions she would feel ashamed of herself all the morning. Her brothers were supposed to get their early coffee and go to work by six o'clock. Peter, who was the elder, worked in a tin-plate works, while Earl sold the morning papers, and undertook every possible kind of occasional work as well; this he had to hunt for, and you could read as much in his whole little person. There was something restless and nomadic about him, as though his thoughts were always seeking some outlet.

It was quite a lively neighborhood at this time of day; across the floor of the well, and out through the tunnel-like entry there was an endless clattering of footsteps, as the hundreds of the ”Ark” tumbled out into the daylight, half tipsy with sleep, dishevelled, with evidence of hasty rising in their eyes and their garments, smacking their lips as though they relished the contrast between the night and day, audibly yawning as they scuttled away. Up in Pelle's long gangway factory girls, artisans, and newspaper women came tumbling out, half naked; they were always late, and stood there scolding until their turn came to wash themselves.

There was only one lavatory at either end of the gangway, and there was only just time to sluice their eyes and wake themselves up. The doors of all the rooms stood open; the odors of night were heavy on the air.

On the days when Pelle worked at home little Marie was in high spirits.

She sang and hummed continually, with her curiously small voice, and every few minutes she would run in and offer Pelle her services. At such times she would station herself behind him and stand there in silence, watching the progress of his work, while her breathing was audibly perceptible, as a faint, whistling sound. There was a curious, still, brooding look about her little under-grown figure that reminded Pelle of Morten's unhappy sister; something hard and undeveloped, as in the fruit of a too-young tree. But the same shadow did not lie upon her; childish toil had not steeped her as with a bitter sap; only her outer sh.e.l.l was branded by it. There was about her, on the contrary, a gleam of careful happiness, as though things had turned out much better than she had expected. Perhaps this was because she could see the result of her hard childish labors; no one could scatter that to the winds.

She was a capable little housewife, and her brothers respected her, and faithfully brought home what they earned. Then she took what she needed, laid something by toward the rent, in a box which was put away in the chest of drawers, and gave them something wherewith to amuse themselves.

”They must have something!” she told people; ”besides, men always need money in their pockets. But they deserve it, for they have never yet spent a farthing in drink. On Sat.u.r.day nights they always come straight home with their earnings. But now I must get on with my work; it's dreadful how the time runs through one's hands.”

She talked just like a young married woman, and Pelle inwardly chuckled over her.

After a while she would peep in again; it was time for Pelle to have a bite of something; or else she would bring her mending with her and sit down on the edge of a chair.