Part 91 (1/2)

”What nonsense!” said Pelle crossly.

”But that's really true! When it rained we used to sit under the gallery--in the corner by the dustbin--and she used to tell us--and it's really true! And, besides, don't you think she's fascinating? She's really just like a princess--like that!” Marie made a gesture in the air with her fingers outspread. ”And she knows everything that is going to happen. She used to run down to us, in the courtyard, in her long dress, and her mother used to stand up above and call her; then she'd sit on the grating as if it was a throne and she was the queen and we were her ladies. She used to braid our hair, and then dress it beautifully with colored ribbons, and when I came up here again mother used to tear it all down and make my hair rough again. It was a sin against G.o.d to deck one's self out like that, she said. And when mother disappeared I hadn't time to play down there any more.”

”Poor little girl!” said Pelle, stroking her hair.

”Why do you say that?” she asked him, looking at him in astonishment.

He enjoyed her absolute confidence, and was told things that the boys were not allowed to know. She began to dress more carefully, and her fine fair hair was always brushed smoothly back from her forehead. She was delighted when they both had some errand in the city. Then she put on her best and went through the streets at his side, her whole face smiling. ”Now perhaps people will think we are a couple of lovers--but what does it matter? Let them think it!” Pelle laughed; with her thirteen years she was no bigger than a child of nine, so backward in growth was she.

She often found it difficult to make both ends meet; she would say little or nothing about it, but a kind of fear would betray itself in her expression. Then Pelle would speak cheerfully of the good times that would soon be coming for all poor people. It cost him a great deal of exertion to put this in words so as to make it sound as it ought to sound. His thoughts were still so new--even to himself. But the children thought nothing of his unwieldy speech; to them it was easier to believe in the new age than it was to him.

VI

Pelle was going through a peculiar change at this time. He had seen enough need and poverty in his life; and the capital was simply a battlefield on which army upon army had rushed forward and had miserably been defeated. Round about him lay the fallen. The town was built over them as over a cemetery; one had to tread upon them in order to win forward and harden one's heart. Such was life in these days; one shut one's eyes--like the sheep when they see their comrades about to be slaughtered--and waited until one's own turn came. There was nothing else to do.

But now he was awake and suffering; it hurt him with a stabbing pain whenever he saw others suffer; and he railed against misfortune, unreasonable though it might be.

There came a day when he sat working at home. At the other end of the gangway a factory girl with her child had moved in a short while before.

Every morning she locked the door and went to work--and she did not return until the evening. When Pelle came home he could hear the sound of crying within the room.

He sat at his work, wrestling with his confused ideas. And all the time a curious stifled sound was in his ears--a grievous sound, as though something were incessantly complaining. Perhaps it was only the dirge of poverty itself, some strophe of which was always vibrating upon the air.

Little Marie came hurrying in. ”Oh, Pelle, it's crying again!” she said, and she wrung her hands anxiously upon her hollow chest. ”It has cried all day, ever since she came here--it is horrible!”

”We'll go and see what's wrong,” said Pelle, and he threw down his hammer.

The door was locked; they tried to look through the keyhole, but could see nothing. The child within stopped its crying for a moment, as though it heard them, but it began again at once; the sound was low and monotonous, as though the child was prepared to hold out indefinitely.

They looked at one another; it was unendurable.

”The keys on this gangway do for all the doors,” said Marie, under her breath. With one leap Pelle had rushed indoors, obtained his key, and opened the door.

Close by the door sat a little four-year-old boy; he stared up at them, holding a rusty tin vessel in his hand. He was tied fast to the stove; near him, on an old wooden stool, was a tin plate containing a few half-nibbled crusts of bread. The child was dressed in filthy rags and presented a shocking appearance. He sat in his own filth; his little hands were covered with it. His tearful, swollen face was smeared all over with it. He held up his hands to them beseechingly.

Pelle burst into tears at the horrible sight and wanted to pick the child up. ”Let me do that!” cried Marie, horrified. ”You'll make yourself filthy!”

”What then?” said Pelle stupidly. He helped to untie the child; his hands were trembling.

To some extent they got the child to rights and gave him food. Then they let him loose in the long gangway. For a time he stood stupidly gaping by the doorpost; then he discovered that he was not tied up, and began to rush up and down. He still held in his hand the old tea-strainer which he had been grasping when they rescued him; he had held on to it convulsively all the time. Marie had to dip his hand in the water in order to clean the strainer.

From time to time he stood in front of Pelle's open door, and peeped inside. Pelle nodded to him, when he went storming up and down again--he was like a wild thing. But suddenly he came right in, laid the tea-strainer in Pelle's lap and looked at him. ”Am I to have that?”

asked Pelle. ”Look, Marie, he is giving me the only thing he's got!”

”Oh, poor little thing!” cried Marie pityingly. ”He wants to thank you!”

In the evening the factory girl came rus.h.i.+ng in; she was in a rage, and began to abuse them for breaking into her room. Pelle wondered at himself, that he was able to answer her so quietly instead of railing back at her. But he understood very well that she was ashamed of her poverty and did not want any one else to see it. ”It is unkind to the child,” was all he said. ”And yet you are fond of it!”

Then she began to cry. ”I have to tie him up, or he climbs out over the window-sill and runs into the street--he got to the corner once before.