The “Ark” now showed as a clumsy gray mass. It was always dark; the autumn daylight was unable to penetrate it. In the interior of the mass the pitch-black night brooded continually; those who lived there had to grope their way like moles. In the darkness sounds rose to the surface which failed to make themselves noticeable in the radiance of summer. Innumerable sounds of creatures that lived in the half-darkness were heard. When sleep had laid silence upon it all, the stillness of night unveiled yet another world: then the death-watches audibly bored their way beneath the old wall-papers, while rats and mice and the larvae of wood-beetles vied with one another in their efforts. The darkness was full of the aromatic fragrance of the falling worm-dust. All through this old box of a building dissolution was at work, with thousands of tiny creatures to aid it. At times the sound of it all rose to a tremendous crash which awoke Pelle from sleep, when some old worm-eaten timber was undermined and sagged in a fresh place. Then he would turn over on the other side.

When he went out of an evening he liked to make his way through the cheerful, crowded streets, in order to share in the brightness of it all; the rich luxury of the shops awakened something within him which noted the startling contrast between this quarter of the town and his own. When he passed from the brightly lit city into his own quarter, the streets were like ugly gutters to drain the darkness, and the “Ark” rose mysteriously into the sky of night like a ponderous mountain. Dark cellar-openings led down into the roots of the mountain, and there, in its dark entrails, moved wan, grimy creatures with smoky lamps; there were all those who lived upon the poverty of the “Ark”—the old iron merchant, the old clothes merchant, and the money-lender who lent money upon tangible pledges. They moved fearfully, burrowing into strange-looking heaps. The darkness was ingrained in them; Pelle was always reminded of the “underground people” at home. So the base of the cliffs had opened before his eyes in childhood, and he had shudderingly watched the dwarfs pottering about their accursed treasure. Here they moved about like greedy goblins, tearing away the foundations from under the careless beings in the “Ark,” so that one day these might well fall into the cellars—and in the meantime they devoured them hair and hide. At all events, the bad side of the fairy tale was no lie!

One day Pelle threw down his work in the twilight and went off to carry out his mission. Pipman had some days earlier fallen drunk from the rickety steps, and down in the well the children of the quarter surrounded the place where he had dropped dead, and illuminated it with matches. They could quite plainly see the dark impress of a shape that looked like a man, and were all full of the spectacle.

Outside the mouth of the tunnel-like entry he stopped by the window of the old clothes dealer’s cellar. Old Pipman’s tools lay spread out there in the window. So she had got her claws into them too! She was rummaging about down there, scurfy and repulsive to look at, chewing an unappetizing slice of bread-and-butter, and starting at every sound that came from above, so anxious was she about her filthy money! Pelle needed a new heel-iron, so he went in and purchased that of Pipman. He had to haggle with her over the price.

“Well, have you thought over my proposal?” she asked, when the deal was concluded.

“What proposal?” said Pelle, in all ignorance.

“That you should leave your cobbling alone and be my assistant in the business.”

So that was what she meant? No, Pelle hadn’t thought over it sufficiently.

“I should think there isn’t much to think over. I have offered you more than you could earn otherwise, and there’s not much to do. And I keep a man who fetches and carries things. It’s mostly that I have a fancy to have a male assistant. I am an old woman, going about alone here, and you are so reliable, I know that.”

She needed some one to protect all the thousands of kroner which she had concealed in these underground chambers. Pelle knew that well enough—she had approached him before on the subject.

“I should scarcely be the one for that—to make my living out of the poverty of others,” said Pelle, smiling. “Perhaps I might knock you over the head and distribute all your pennies to the poor!”

The old woman stared at him for a moment in alarm. “Ugh, what a horrible thing to say!” she cried, shuddering. “You libel your good heart, joking about such things. Now I shan’t like to stay here in the cellar any longer when you’ve gone. How can you jest so brutally about life and death? Day and night I go about here trembling for my life, and yet I’ve nothing at all, the living God knows I’ve nothing. That is just gossip! Everybody looks at me as much as to say, ‘I’d gladly strike you dead to get your money!’ And that’s why I’d like to have a trustworthy man in the business; for what good is it to me that I’ve got nothing when they all believe I have? And there are so many worthless fellows who might fall upon one at any moment.”

“If you have nothing, you can be easy,” said Pelle teasingly. “No need for an empty stomach to have the nightmare!”

“Have nothing! Of course one always has something! And Pelle”—she leaned confidentially over him with a smirk on her face—“now Mary will soon come home, perhaps no later than this summer. She has earned so much over there that she can live on it, and she’ll still be in the prime of her youth. What do you think of that? In her last letter she asked me to look out for a husband for her. He need only be handsome, for she has money enough for two. Then she’d rent a big house in the fine part of the city, and keep her own carriage, and live only for her handsome husband. What do you say to that, Pelle?”

“Well, that is certainly worth thinking over!” answered Pelle; he was in overflowing high spirits.

“Thinking over? Is that a thing to think over? Many a poor lord would accept such an offer and kiss my hand for it, if only he were here.”

“But I’m not a lord, and now I must be going.”

“Won’t you just see her pictures?” The old woman began to rummage in a drawer.

“No.” Pelle only wanted to be gone. He had seen these pictures often enough, grimed with the air of the cellar and the old woman’s filthy hands; pictures which represented Mary now as a slim figure, striped like a tiger-cat, as she sang in the fashionable variety theaters of St. Petersburg, now naked, with a mantle of white furs, alone in the midst of a crowd of Russian officers—princes, the old woman said. There was also a picture from the aquarium, in which she was swimming about in a great glass tank amid some curious-looking plants, with nothing on her body but golden scales and diamond ornaments. She had a magnificent body—that he could plainly see; but that she could turn the heads of fabulously wealthy princes and get thousands out of their pockets merely by undressing herself—that he could not understand. And he was to take her to wife, was he?—and to get all that she had hoarded up! That was tremendously funny! That beat everything!

He went along the High Street with a rapid step. It was raining a little; the light from the street lamps and shop-windows was reflected in the wet flagstones; the street wore a cheerful look. He went onward with a feeling that his mind was lifted above the things of everyday; the grimy old woman who lived as a parasite on the poverty of the “Ark” and who had a wonderful daughter who was absorbing riches like a leech. And on top of it all the little Pelle with the “lucky curl,” like the curly-haired apprentice in the story! Here at last was the much-longed-for fairy tale!

He threw back his head and laughed. Pelle, who formerly used to feel insults so bitterly, had achieved a sense of the divinity of life.

That evening his round included the Rabarber ward. Pelle had made himself a list, according to which he went forth to search each ward of the city separately, in order to save himself unnecessary running about. First of all, he took a journeyman cobbler in Smith Street; he was one of Meyer’s regular workers, and Pelle was prepared for a hard fight. The man was not at home. “But you can certainly put him down,” said his wife. “We’ve been talking it over lately, and we’ve come to see it’s really the best thing.” That was a wife after Pelle’s heart. Many would deny that their husbands were at home when they learned what Pelle wanted; or would slam the door in his face; they were tired of his running to and fro.

He visited various houses in Gardener Street, Castle Street, Norway Street, making his way through backyards and up dark, narrow stairs, up to the garrets or down to the cellars.

Over all was the same poverty; without exception the cobblers were lodged in the most miserable holes. He had not a single success to record. Some had gone away or were at fresh addresses; others wanted time to consider or gave him a direct refusal. He promised himself that he would presently give the wobblers another call; he would soon bring them round; the others he ticked off, keeping them for better times—their day too would come before long! It did not discourage him to meet with refusals; he rejoiced over the single sheep. This was a work of patience, and patience was the one thing in which he had always been rich.

He turned into Hunter Street and entered a barrack-like building, climbing until he was right under the roof, when he knocked on a door. It was opened by a tall thin man with a thin beard. This was Peter, his fellow-’prentice at home. They were speedily talking of the days of their apprenticeship, and the workshop at home with all the curious company there. There was not much that was good to be said of Master Jeppe. But the memory of the young master filled them with warmth. “I often think of him in the course of the year,” said Peter. “He was no ordinary man. That was why he died.”

There was something abstracted about Peter; and his den gave one an impression of loneliness. Nothing was left to remind one of the mischievous fellow who must always be running; but something hostile and obstinate glowed within his close-set eyes. Pelle sat there wondering what could really be the matter with him. He had a curious bleached look as though he had shed his skin; but he wasn’t one of the holy sort, to judge by his conversation.

“Peter, what’s the truth of it—are you one of us?” said Pelle suddenly.

A disagreeable smile spread over Peter’s features. “Am I one of you? That sounds just like when they ask you—have you found Jesus? Have you become a missionary?”

“You are welcome to call it that,” replied Pelle frankly, “if you’ll only join our organization. We want you.”

“You won’t miss me—nobody is missed, I believe, if he only does his work. I’ve tried the whole lot of them—churches and sects and all—and none of them has any use for a man. They want one more listener, one more to add to their list; it’s the same everywhere.” He sat lost in thought, looking into vacancy. Suddenly he made a gesture with his hands as though to wave something away. “I don’t believe in anything any longer, Pelle—there’s nothing worth believing in.”

“Don’t you believe in improving the lot of the poor, then? You haven’t tried joining the movement?” asked Pelle.

“What should I do there? They only want to get more to eat—and the little food I need I can easily get. But if they could manage to make me feel that I’m a man, and not merely a machine that wants a bit more greasing, I’d as soon be a thin dog as a fat one.”

“They’d soon do that!” said Pelle convincingly. “If we only hold together, they’ll have to respect the individual as well, and listen to his demands. The poor man must have his say with the rest.”

Peter made an impatient movement. “What good can it do me to club folks on the head till they look at me? It don’t matter a damn to me! But perhaps they’d look at me of their own accord—and say, of their own accord—‘Look, there goes a man made in God’s image, who thinks and feels in his heart just as I do!’ That’s what I want!”

“I honestly don’t understand what you mean with your ‘man,’” said Pelle irritably. “What’s the good of running your head against a wall when there are reasonable things in store for us? We want to organize ourselves and see if we can’t escape from slavery. Afterward every man can amuse himself as he likes.”

“Well, well, if it’s so easy to escape from slavery! Why not? Put down my name for one!” said Peter, with a slightly ironical expression.

“Thanks, comrade!” cried Pelle, joyfully shaking his hand. “But you’ll do something for the cause?”

Peter looked about him forlornly. “Horrible weather for you to be out in,” he said, and he lighted Pelle down the stairs.

Pelle went northward along Chapel Street. He wanted to look up Morten. The wind was chasing the leaves along by the cemetery, driving the rain in his face. He kept close against the cemetery wall in order to get shelter, and charged against the wind, head down. He was in the best of humors. That was two new members he had won over; he was getting on by degrees! What an odd fish Peter had become; the word, “man, man,” sounded meaningless to Pelle’s ears. Well, anyhow, he had got him on the list.

Suddenly he heard light, running steps behind him. The figure of a man reached his side, and pushed a little packet under Pelle’s arm without stopping for a moment. At a short distance he disappeared. It seemed to Pelle as though he disappeared over the cemetery wall.

Under one of the street lamps he stopped and wonderingly examined the parcel; it was bound tightly with tape. “For mother” was written upon it in an awkward hand. Pelle was not long in doubt—in that word “mother” he seemed plainly to hear Ferdinand’s hoarse voice. “Now Madam Frandsen will be delighted,” he thought, and he put it in his pocket. During the past week she had had no news of Ferdinand. He dared no longer venture through Kristianshavn. Pelle could not understand how Ferdinand had lit upon him. Was he living out here in the Rabarber ward?

Morten was sitting down, writing in a thick copybook. He closed it hastily as Pelle entered.

“What is that?” asked Pelle, who wanted to open the book; “are you still writing in your copybook?”

Morten, confused, laid his hand on the book. “No. Besides—oh, as far as that goes,” he said, “you may as well know. I have written a poem. But you mustn’t speak of it.”

“Oh, do read it out to me!” Pelle begged.

“Yes; but you must promise me to be silent about it, or the others will just think I’ve gone crazy.”

He was quite embarrassed, and he stammered as he read. It was a poem about poor people, who bore the whole world on their upraised hands, and with resignation watched the enjoyment of those above them. It was called, “Let them die!” and the words were repeated as the refrain of every verse. And now that Morten was in the vein, he read also an unpretentious story of the struggle of the poor to win their bread.

“That’s damned fine!” cried Pelle enthusiastically. “Monstrously good, Morten! I don’t understand how you put it together, especially the verse. But you’re a real poet. But I’ve always thought that—that you had something particular in you. You’ve got your own way of looking at things, and they won’t clip your wings in a hurry. But why don’t you write about something big and thrilling that would repay reading—there’s nothing interesting about us!”

“But I find there is!”

“No, I don’t understand that. What can happen to poor fellows like us?”

“Then don’t you believe in greatness?”

To be sure Pelle did. “But why shouldn’t we have splendid things right away?”

“You want to read about counts and barons!” said Morten. “You are all like that. You regard yourself as one of the rabble, if it comes to that! Yes, you do! Only you don’t know it! That’s the slave-nature in you; the higher classes of society regard you as such and you involuntarily do the same. Yes, you may pull faces, but it’s true, all the same! You don’t like to hear about your own kind, for you don’t believe they can amount to anything! No, you must have fine folks—always rich folks! One would like to spit on one’s past and one’s parents and climb up among the fine folks, and because one can’t manage it one asks for it in books.” Morten was irritated.

“No, no,” said Pelle soothingly, “it isn’t as bad as all that!”

“Yes, it is as bad as all that!” cried Morten passionately. “And do you know why? Because you don’t yet understand that humanity is holy, and that it’s all one where a man is found!”

“Humanity is holy?” said Pelle, laughing. “But I’m not holy, and I didn’t really think you were!”

“For your sake, I hope you are,” said Morten earnestly, “for otherwise you are no more than a horse or a machine that can do so much work.” And then he was silent, with a look that seemed to say that the matter had been sufficiently discussed.

Morten’s reserved expression made Pelle serious. He might jestingly pretend that this was nonsense, but Morten was one of those who looked into things—perhaps there was something here that he didn’t understand.

“I know well enough that I’m a clown compared with you,” he said good-naturedly, “but you needn’t be so angry on that account. By the way, do you still remember Peter, who was at Jeppe’s with your brother Jens and me? He’s here, too—I—I came across him a little while ago. He’s always looking into things too, but he can’t find any foundation to anything, as you can. He believes in nothing in the whole world. Things are in a bad way with him. It would do him good if he could talk with you.”

“But I’m no prophet—you are that rather than I,” said Morten ironically.

“But you might perhaps say something of use to him. No, I’m only a trades unionist, and that’s no good.”

On his way home Pelle pondered honestly over Morten’s words, but he had to admit that he couldn’t take them in. No, he had no occasion to surround his person with any sort of holiness or halo; he was only a healthy body, and he just wanted to do things.