  They lived with Sort, who had his own little house in the outermost suburb. The little travelling cobbler did not know what to do for them: Lasse was so dejected and so aimless. He could not rest; he did not recover; from time to time he broke out into lamentation. He had grown very frail, and could no longer lift his spoon to his mouth without spilling the contents. If they tried to distract him, he became obstinate. "Now we must see about fetching your things," they would both say repeatedly. "There is no sense in giving your furniture to the parish." But Lasse would not have them sent for. "They've taken everything else from me; they can take that, too," he said. "And I won't go out there again—and let myself be pitied by every one." "But you'll beggar yourself," said Sort. "They've done that already. Let them have their way. But they'll have to answer for it in the end!" Then Pelle procured a cart, and drove over himself to fetch them. There was quite a load to bring back. Mother Bengta's green chest he found upstairs in the attic; it was full of balls of thread. It was so strange to see it again—for many years he had not thought of his mother. "I'll have that for a travelling trunk," he thought, and he took it with him. Lasse was standing before the door when he returned. "See, I've brought everything here for you, father!" he cried, lustily cracking his whip. But Lasse went in without saying a word. When they had unloaded the cart and went to look for him, he had crawled into bed. There he lay with his face to the wall, and would not speak. Pelle told him all sorts of news of Heath Farm, in order to put a little life into him. "Now the parish has sold Heath Farm to the Hill Farm man for five thousand kroner, and they say he's got a good bargain. He wants to live there himself and to leave Hill Farm in his son's hands." Lasse half turned his head. "Yes, something grows there now. Now they are making thousands—and the farmer will do better still," he said bitterly. "But it's well-manured soil. Karna overstrained herself and died and left me…. And we went so well in harness together. Her thousand kroner went into it, too … and now I'm a poor wreck. All that was put into the barren, rocky soil, so that it became good and generous soil. And then the farmer buys it, and now he wants to live there—we poor lice have prepared the way for him! What else were we there for? Fools we are to excite ourselves so over such a thing! But, how I loved the place!" Lasse suddenly burst into tears. "Now you must be reasonable and see about becoming cheerful again," said Sort. "The bad times for the poor man will soon be over. There is a time coming when no one will need to work himself to death for others, and when every one will reap what he himself has sown. What injury have you suffered? For you are on the right side and have thousands of kroner on which you can draw a bill. It would be still worse if you owed money to others!" "I haven't much more time," said Lasse, raising himself on his elbows. "Perhaps not, you and I, for those who start on the pilgrimage must die in the desert! But for that reason we are God's chosen people, we poor folk. And Pelle, he will surely behold the Promised Land!" "Now you ought to come in, father, and see how we have arranged it," said Pelle. Lasse stood up wearily and went with them. They had furnished one of Sort's empty rooms with Lasse's things. It looked quite cozy. "We thought that you would live here until Pelle is getting on well 'over there,'" said Sort. "No, you don't need to thank me! I'm delighted to think I shall have society, as you may well understand." "The good God will repay it to you," said Lasse, with a quavering voice. "We poor folk have no one but Him to rely on." Pelle could not rest, nor control his thoughts any longer; he must be off! "If you'll give me what the fare comes to, as I've helped you," he told Sort, "then I'll start this evening…." Sort gave him thirty kroner. "That's the half of what we took. There's not so much owing to me," said Pelle. "You are the master and had the tools and everything." "I won't live by the work of other hands—only by that of my own," said Sort, and he pushed the money across to Pelle. "Are you going to travel just as you stand?" "No, I have plenty of money," said Pelle gaily. "I've never before possessed so much money all at once! One can get quite a lot of clothes for that." "But you mustn't touch the money! Five kroner you'll need for the passage and the like; the rest you must save, so that you can face the future with confidence!" "I shall soon earn plenty of money in Copenhagen!" "He has always been a thoughtless lad," said Lasse anxiously. "Once, when he came into town here to be apprenticed he had five kroner; and as for what he spent them on, he could never give any proper account!" Sort laughed. "Then I shall travel as I stand!" said Pelle resolutely. But that wouldn't do, either! He could not by any means please both—they were like two anxious clucking hens. He had no lack of linen, for Lasse had just thought of his own supply. Karna had looked after him well. "But it will be very short for your long body. It's not the same now as it was when you left Stone Farm—then we had to put a tuck in my shirt for you." In the matter of shoes he was not well off. It would never do for a journeyman shoemaker to look for work wearing such shoes as his. Sort and Pelle must make a pair of respectable boots. "We must leave ourselves time," said Sort. "Think! They must be able to stand the judgment of the capital!" Pelle was impatient, and wanted to get the work quickly out of hand. Now there was only the question of a new suit. "Then buy it ready made on credit," said Sort. "Lasse and I will be good enough securities for a suit." In the evening, before he started, he and Lasse went out to look up Due. They chose the time when they were certain of meeting Due himself. They neither of them cared much for Anna. As they approached the house they saw an old richly-dressed gentleman go in at the front door. "That is the consul," said Pelle, "who has helped them to get on. "Is it like that with them?" said Lasse, standing still. "Then I am sorry for Due when he first finds out how his affairs really stand! He will certainly find that he has bought his independence too dearly! Yes, yes; for those who want to get on the price is hard to pay. I hope it will go well with you over there, my boy." They had reached the church. There stood a cart full of green plants; two men were carrying them into a dwelling-house. "What festivity's going on here?" asked Pelle. "There's to be a wedding to-morrow," answered one of the men. "Merchant Lau's daughter is marrying that swaggering fellow, who's always giving himself airs—Karlsen, he's called, and he's a poor chap like ourselves. But do you suppose he'll notice us? When dirt comes to honor, there's no bearing with it! Now he's become a partner in the business!" "Then I'll go to the wedding," said Lasse eagerly, while they strolled on. "It is very interesting to see when one of a family comes to something." Pelle felt that this was to some extent meant as a reproach, but he said nothing. "Shall we have one look at the new harbor?" he said. "No, now the sun's going down, and I'll go home and get to bed. I'm old—but you go. I shall soon find my way back." Pelle strolled onward, but then turned aside toward the north—he would go and bid Marie Nielsen good-bye. He owed her a friendly word for all her goodness. Also, as an exception, she should for once see him in respectable clothes. She had just come home from her work, and was on the point of preparing her supper. "No, Pelle, is that you?" she cried delightedly, "and so grand, too—you look like a prince!" Pelle had to remain to supper. "I have really only come to thank you for all your friendliness and to say good-bye. To-morrow I go to Copenhagen." She looked at him earnestly. "And you are glad!" Pelle had to tell her what he had been doing since he had last seen her. He sat there looking gratefully about the poor, clean room, with the bed set so innocently against the wall, covered with a snow-white counterpane. He had never forgotten that fragrance of soap and cleanliness and her fresh, simple nature. She had taken him in the midst of all his misery and had not thought her own white bed too good for him while she scrubbed the mire from him. When he reached the capital he would have himself photographed and send her his portrait. "And how are you doing now?" he asked gently. "Just as when you last saw me—only a little more lonely," she answered earnestly. And then he must go. "Good-bye, and may everything go well with you!" he said, and he shook her hand. "And many thanks for all your goodness!" She stood before him silently, looking at him with an uncertain smile. "Ah, no! I'm only a human being too!" she cried suddenly, and she flung her arms about him in a passionate embrace. And then the great day broke! Pelle awaked with the sun and had the green chest already packed before the others were up, and then he roamed about, not knowing what he should set his hand to, he was so restless and so excited. He answered at random, and his eyes were full of radiant dreams. In the morning he and Lasse carried the chest to the steamer, in order to have the evening free. Then they went to the church, in order to attend Alfred's wedding. Pelle would gladly have stayed away; he had enough to do with his own affairs, and he had no sympathy for Alfred's doings. But Lasse pushed him along. The sun stood high in heaven and blazed in the winding side-streets so that the tarred timberwork sweated and the gutters stank; from the harbor came the sound of the crier, with his drum, crying herrings, and announcing an auction. The people streamed to church in breathless conversation concerning this child of fortune, Alfred, who had climbed so far. The church was full of people. It was gaily decorated, and up by the organ stood eight young women who were to sing "It is so lovely together to be!" Lasse had never seen or heard of such a wedding. "I feel quite proud!" he said. "He's a bladder full of wind!" said Pelle. "He's taking her simply on account of the honor." And then the bridal pair stepped up to the altar. "It's tremendous the way Alfred has greased his head!" whispered Lasse. "It looks like a newly-licked calf's head! But she is pretty. I'm only puzzled that she's not put on her myrtle-wreath—I suppose nothing has happened?" "Yes, she's got a child," whispered Pelle. "Otherwise, he would never in this world have got her!" "Oh, I see! Yes, but that's smart of him, to catch such a fine lady!" Now the young women sang, and it sounded just as if they were angels from heaven who had come to seal the bond. "We must take our places so that we can congratulate them," said Lasse, and he wanted to push right through the crowd, but Pelle held him back. "I'm afraid he won't know us to-day; but look now, there's Uncle Kalle stood squeezed among the hindmost chairs, and there he had to stay until everybody had passed out. "Yes, I was very anxious to take part in this great day," he said, "and I wanted to bring mother with me, but she thought her clothes weren't respectable enough." Kalle wore a new gray linsey-woolsey suit; he had grown smaller and more bent with the years. "Why do you stand right away in the corner here, where you can see nothing? As the bridegroom's father, you must have been given your place in the first row," said Lasse. "I have been sitting there, too—didn't you see me sitting next to Merchant Lau? We sang out of the same hymn-book. I only got pushed here in the crowd. Now I ought to go to the wedding-feast. I was properly invited, but I don't quite know…." He looked down at himself. Suddenly he made a movement, and laughed in his own reckless way. "Ugh—what am I doing standing here and telling lies to people who don't believe me! No, pigs don't belong in the counting-house! I might spread a bad smell, you know! People like us haven't learned to sweat scent!" "Bah! He's too grand to know his own father! Devil take it! Then come with us so that you needn't go away hungry!" said Lasse. "No—I've been so overfed with roast meats and wine and cakes that I can't get any more down for the present. Now I must go home and tell mother about all the splendid things. I've eighteen miles to go." "And you came here on foot—thirty-six miles! That's too much for your years!" "I had really reckoned that I'd stay the night here. I didn't think … Well, an owl's been sitting there! Children can't very well climb higher than that—not to recognize their own fathers! Anna is now taking the best way to become a fine lady, too…. I shall be wondering how long I shall know myself! Devil take it, Kalle Karlsen, I'm of good family, too, look you! Well, then, ajoo!" Wearily he set about tramping home. He looked quite pitiful in his Toward evening they went through the town to the steamer. Pelle took long strides, and a strange feeling of solemnity kept him silent. Lasse trotted along at his side; he stooped as he went. He was in a doleful mood. "Now you won't forget your old father?" he said, again and again. "There's no danger of that," rejoined Sort. Pelle heard nothing of this; his thoughts were all set on his journey. The blue smoke of kitchen fires was drifting down among the narrow lanes. The old people were sitting out of doors on their front steps, and were gossiping over the news of the day. The evening sun fell upon round spectacles, so that great fiery eyes seemed to be staring out of their wrinkled faces. The profound peace of evening lay over the streets. But in the narrow lanes there was the breathing of that eternal, dull unrest, as of a great beast that tosses and turns and cannot sleep. Now and again it blazed up into a shout, or the crying of a child, and then began anew—like heavy, labored breathing. Pelle knew it well, that ghostly breathing, which rises always from the lair of the poor man. The cares of poverty had shepherded the evil dreams home for the night. But he was leaving this world of poverty, where life was bleeding away unnoted in the silence; in his thoughts it was fading away like a mournful song; and he gazed out over the sea, which lay glowing redly at the end of the street. Now he was going out into the world! The crazy Anker was standing at the top of his high steps. "Good-bye!" cried Pelle, but Anker did not understand. He turned his face up to the sky and sent forth his demented cry. Pelle threw a last glance at the workshop. "There have I spent many a good hour!" he thought; and he thought, too, of the young master. Old Jorgen was standing before his window, playing with the little Jorgen, who sat inside on the windowseat. "Peep, peep, little one!" he cried, in his shrill voice, and he hid, and bobbed up into sight again. The young wife was holding the child; she was rosy with maternal delight. "You'll be sure to let us hear from you," said Lasse yet again, as Pelle stood leaning over the steamer's rail. "Don't forget your old father!" He was quite helpless in his anxiety. "I will write to you as soon as I'm getting on," said Pelle, for the twentieth time at least. "Only don't worry!" Sure of victory, he laughed down at the old man. For the rest they stood silent and gazed at one another. At last the steamer moved. "Good luck—take care of yourself!" he cried for the last time, as they turned the pier-head; and as long as he could see he waved his cap. Then he went right forward and sat on a coil of rope. He had forgotten all that lay behind him. He gazed ahead as though at any moment the great world itself might rise in front of the vessel's bow. He pictured nothing to himself of what was to come and how he would meet it—he was only longing—longing! THE END. |
|
