Pelle the Conqueror Part 72

One day the skipper came in at the workshop door, banged a pair of shoes down on the window-bench, and went out again. They had been bought in England, and belonged to the helmsman of a bark which had just come into the harbor. The young master looked at them, turned them over in his hands, and looked at them again. Then he called Jeppe. They were sewn throughout--shoes for a grown man, yet sewn throughout! Moreover, the factory stamp was under the sole.

In Jeppe's opinion they were not worth a couple of shillings. But he could not get over the fact that they were machine-made.

"Then we are superfluous," he said, in a quavering voice. All his old importance seemed to have fallen from him. "For if they can make the one kind on a machine, they can make another. The handicraft is condemned to death, and we shall all be without bread one fine day! Well, I, thank G.o.d, have not many years before me." It was the first time that Jeppe had admitted that he owed his life to G.o.d.

Every time he came into the workshop he began to expatiate on the same subject. He would stand there turning the hated shoes over between his hands. Then he would criticize them. "We must take more pains next winter."

"Father forgets it's all up with us now," said the young master wearily.

Then the old man would be silent and hobble out. But after a time he would be back again, fingering the boots and shoes, in order to discover defects in them. His thoughts were constantly directed upon this new subject; no song of praise, no eulogy of his handicraft, pa.s.sed his lips nowadays. If the young master came to him and asked his help in some difficult situation, he would refuse it; he felt no further desire to triumph over youth with his ancient dexterity, but shuffled about and shrank into himself. "And all that we have thought so highly of--what's to become of it?" he would ask. "For machines don't make masterpieces and medal work, so where will real good work come in?"

The young master did not look so far ahead; he thought princ.i.p.ally of the money that was needed. "Devil take it, Pelle, how are we going to pay every one, Pelle?" he would ask dejectedly. Little Nikas had to look out for something else; their means would not allow them to keep a journeyman. So Nikas decided to marry, and to set up as a master shoemaker in the north. The shoemaker of the Baptist community had just died, and he could get plenty of customers by joining the sect; he was already attending their services. "But go to work carefully!" said Jeppe. "Or matters will go awry!"

It was a bad shock to all of them. Klaussen went bankrupt and had to find work on the new harbor. Blom ran away, deserting his wife and children, and they had to go home to the house of her parents. In the workshop matters had been getting worse for a long time. And now this had happened, throwing a dazzling light upon the whole question. But the young master refused to believe the worst. "I shall soon be well again now," he said. "And then you will just see how I'll work up the business!" He lay in bed more often now, and was susceptible to every change in the weather. Pelle had to see to everything.

"Run and borrow something!" the master would say. And if Pelle returned with a refusal, he would look at the boy with his wide, wondering eyes.

"They've got the souls of grocers!" he would cry. "Then we must peg those soles!"

"That won't answer with ladies' patent-leather shoes!" replied Pelle very positively.

"d.a.m.n and blast it all, it will answer! We'll black the bottom with cobbler's wax."

But when the black was trodden off, Jungfer Lund and the others called, and were wroth. They were not accustomed to walk in pegged shoes. "It's a misunderstanding!" said the young master, the perspiration standing in clear beads on his forehead. Or he would hide and leave it to Pelle. When it was over, he would reach up to the shelf, panting with exhaustion. "Can't you do anything for me, Pelle?" he whispered.

One day Pelle plucked up courage and said it certainly wasn't healthy to take so much spirit; the master needed so much now.

"Healthy?" said the master; "no, good G.o.d, it isn't healthy! But the beasts demand it! In the beginning I couldn't get the stuff down, especially beer; but now I've accustomed myself to it. If I didn't feed them, they'd soon rush all over me and eat me up."

"Do they swallow it, then?"

"I should think they do! As much as ever you like to give them. Or have you ever seen me tipsy? I can't get drunk; the tubercles take it all.

And for them it's sheer poison. On the day when I am able to get drunk again I shall thank G.o.d, for then the beasts will be dead and the spirit will be able to attack me again. Then it'll only be a question of stopping it, otherwise it'll play the deuce with my mind!"

Since the journeyman had left, the meals had become more meager than ever. The masters had not had enough money in the spring to buy a pig.

So there was no one to consume the sc.r.a.ps. Now they had to eat them all themselves. Master Andres was never at the table; he took scarcely any nourishment nowadays; a piece of bread-and-b.u.t.ter now and again, that was all. Breakfast, at half-past seven, they ate alone. It consisted of salt herrings, bread and hog's lard, and soup. The soup was made out of all sorts of odds and ends of bread and porridge, with an addition of thin beer. It was fermented and unpalatable. What was left over from breakfast was put into a great crock which stood in one corner of the kitchen, on the floor, and this was warmed up again the next morning, with the addition of a little fresh beer. So it went on all the year round. The contents were renewed only when some one kicked the crock so that it broke. The boys confined themselves to the herrings and the lard; the soup they did not use except to fish about in it. They made a jest of it, throwing all sorts of objects into it, and finding them again after half a year.

Jeppe was still lying in the alcove, asleep; his nightcap was hoved awry over one eye. Even in his sleep he still had a comical expression of self-importance. The room was thick with vapor; the old man had his own way of getting air, breathing it in with a long snort and letting it run rumbling through him. If it got too bad, the boys would make a noise; then he would wake and scold them.

They were longing for food by dinner-time; the moment Jeppe called his "Dinner!" at the door they threw everything down, ranged themselves according to age, and tumbled in behind him. They held one another tightly by the coat-tails, and made stupid grimaces. Jeppe was enthroned at the head of the table, a little cap on his head, trying to preserve seemly table-manners. No one might begin before him or continue after he had finished. They s.n.a.t.c.hed at their spoons, laid them down again with a terrified glance at the old man, and nearly exploded with suppressed laughter. "Yes, I'm very hungry to-day, but there's no need for you to remark it!" he would say warningly, once they were in full swing. Pelle would wink at the others, and they would go on eating, emptying one dish after another. "There's no respect nowadays!" roared Jeppe, striking on the table. But when he did this discipline suddenly entered into them, and they all struck the table after him in turn. Sometimes, when matters got too bad, Master Andres had to find some reason for coming into the room.

The long working-hours, the bad food, and the foul air of the workshop left their mark on Pelle. His attachment to Master Andres was limitless; he could sit there till midnight and work without payment if a promise had been made to finish some particular job. But otherwise he was imperceptibly slipping into the general slackness, sharing the others'

opinion of the day as something utterly abominable, which one must somehow endeavor to get through. To work at half pressure was a physical necessity; his rare movements wearied him, and he felt less inclined to work than to brood. The semi-darkness of the sunless workshop bleached his skin and filled him with unhealthy imaginations.

He did little work now on his own account; but he had learned to manage with very little. Whenever he contrived to get hold of a ten-ore piece, he bought a savings-stamp, so that in this way he was able to collect a few shillings, until they had grown to quite a little sum. Now and again, too, he got a little help from La.s.se, but La.s.se found it more and more difficult to spare anything. Moreover, he had learned to compose his mind by his work.

XIX

The crazy Anker was knocking on the workshop door. "Bjerregrav is dead!"

he said solemnly. "Now there is only one who can mourn over poverty!"

Then he went away and announced the news to Baker Jorgen. They heard him going from house to house, all along the street.

Bjerregrav dead! Only yesterday evening he was sitting yonder, on the chair by the window-bench, and his crutch was standing in the corner by the door; and he had offered them all his hand in his odd, ingenuous way--that unpleasantly flabby hand, at whose touch they all felt a certain aversion, so importunate was it, and almost skinless in its warmth, so that one felt as if one had involuntarily touched some one on a naked part. Pelle was always reminded of Father La.s.se; he too had never learned to put on armor, but had always remained the same loyal, simple soul, unaffected by his hard experience.

The big baker had fallen foul of him as usual. Contact with this childlike, thin-skinned creature, who let his very heart burn itself out in a clasp of his hand, always made him brutal. "Now, Bjerregrav, have you tried it--you know what--since we last saw you?"

Bjerregrav turned crimson. "I am content with the experience which the dear G.o.d has chosen for me," he answered, with blinking eyes.

"Would you believe it, he is over seventy and doesn't know yet how a woman is made!"

"Because, after all I find it suits me best to live alone, and then there's my club foot."

"So he goes about asking questions about everything, things such as every child knows about," said Jeppe, in a superior tone. "Bjerregrav has never rubbed off his childish innocence."

Yet as he was going home, and Pelle was helping him over the gutter, he was still in his mood of everlasting wonder.

"What star is that?" he said; "it has quite a different light to the others. It looks so red to me--if only we don't have a severe winter, with the soil frozen and dear fuel for all the poor people." Bjerregrav sighed.

"You mustn't look at the moon so much. Skipper Andersen came by his accident simply because he slept on deck and the moon shone right in his face; now he has gone crazy!"

Yesterday evening just the same as always--and now dead! And no one had known or guessed, so that they might have been a little kinder to him just at the last! He died in his bed, with his mind full of their last disdainful words, and now they could never go to him and say: "Don't take any notice of it, Bjerregrav; we didn't mean to be unkind." Perhaps their behavior had embittered his last hours. At all events, there stood Jeppe and Brother Jorgen, and they could not look one another in the face; an immovable burden weighed upon them.

And it meant a void--as when the clock in a room stops ticking. The faithful sound of his crutch no longer approached the workshop about six o'clock. The young master grew restless about that time; he could not get used to the idea of Bjerregrav's absence.

"Death is a hateful thing," he would say, when the truth came over him; "it is horribly repugnant. Why must one go away from here without leaving the least part of one behind? Now I listen for Bjerregrav's crutch, and there's a void in my ears, and after a time there won't be even that. Then he will be forgotten, and perhaps more besides, who will have followed him, and so it goes on forever. Is there anything reasonable about it all, Pelle? They talk about Heaven, but what should I care about sitting on a damp cloud and singing 'Hallelujah'? I'd much rather go about down here and get myself a drink--especially if I had a sound leg!"

The apprentices accompanied him to the grave. Jeppe wished them to do so, as a sort of atonement. Jeppe himself and Baker Jorgen, in tall hats, walked just behind the coffin. Otherwise only a few poor women and children followed, who had joined the procession out of curiosity.

Coachman Due drove the hea.r.s.e. He had now bought a pair of horses, and this was his first good job.

Otherwise life flowed onward, sluggish and monotonous. Winter had come again, with its commercial stagnation, and the Iceland trade was ruined.

The shoemakers did no more work by artificial light; there was so little to do that it would not repay the cost of the petroleum; so the hanging lamp was put on one side and the old tin lamp was brought out again.

That was good enough to sit round and to gossip by. The neighbors would come into the twilight of the workshop; if Master Andres was not there, they would slip out again, or they would sit idly there until Jeppe said it was bed-time. Pelle had begun to occupy himself with carving once more; he got as close to the lamp as possible, listening to the conversation while he worked upon a b.u.t.ton which was to be carved like a twenty-five-ore piece. Morten was to have it for a tie-pin.

The conversation turned upon the weather, and how fortunate it was that the frost had not yet come to stop the great harbor works. Then it touched upon the "Great Power," and from him it glanced at the crazy Anker, and poverty, and discontent. The Social Democrats "over yonder"

had for a long time been occupying the public mind. All the summer through disquieting rumors had crossed the water; it was quite plain that they were increasing their power and their numbers--but what were they actually aiming at? In any case, it was nothing good. "They must be the very poorest who are revolting," said Wooden-leg La.r.s.en. "So their numbers must be very great!" It was as though one heard the roaring of something or other out on the horizon, but did not know what was going on there. The echo of the upheaval of the lower cla.s.ses was quite distorted by the time it reached the island; people understood just so much, that the lowest cla.s.ses wanted to turn G.o.d's appointed order upside down and to get to the top themselves, and involuntarily their glance fell covertly on the poor in the town. But these were going about in their customary half-slumber, working when there was work to be had and contenting themselves with that. "That would be the last straw,"

said Jeppe, "here, where we have such a well-organized poor-relief!"

Baker Jorgen was the most eager--every day he came with news of some kind to discuss. Now they had threatened the life of the King himself!

And now the troops were called out.

"The troops!" The young master made a disdainful gesture. "That'll help a lot! If they merely throw a handful of dynamite among the soldiers there won't be a trouser-b.u.t.ton left whole! No, they'll conquer the capital now!" His cheeks glowed: he saw the event already in his mind's eye. "Yes, and then? Then they'll plunder the royal Mint!"

"Yes--no. Then they'll come over here--the whole party!"

"Come over here? No, by G.o.d! We'd call out all the militia and shoot them down from the sh.o.r.e. I've put my gun in order already!"

One day Marker came running in. "The pastrycook's got a new journeyman from over yonder--and he's a Social Democrat!" he cried breathlessly.