Pelle the Conqueror Part 76

"There's a woman and a little child sitting there, and she's forever and forever crying in my ear. I can't stand it any longer!" answered Strom, knotting his rope.

"Think of the little child, then!" said Pelle firmly, and he tore down the rope. Strom submitted to be led back into his room, and he crawled into bed. But Pelle must stay with him; he dared not put out the light and lie alone in the darkness.

"Is it the devils?" asked Pelle.

"What devils?" Strom knew nothing of any devils. "No, it's remorse,"

he replied. "The child and its mother are continually complaining of my faithlessness."

But next moment he would spring out of bed and stand there whistling as though he was coaxing a dog. With a sudden grip he seized something by the throat, opened the window, and threw it out. "So, that was it!" he said, relieved; "now there's none of the devil's brood left!" He reached after the bottle of brandy.

"Leave it alone!" said Pelle, and he took the bottle away from him. His will increased in strength at the sight of the other's misery.

Strom crept into bed again. He lay there tossing to and fro, and his teeth chattered. "If I could only have a mouthful!" he said pleadingly; "what harm can that do me? It's the only thing that helps me! Why should a man always torment himself and play the respectable when he can buy peace for his soul so cheaply? Give me a mouthful!" Pelle pa.s.sed him the bottle. "You should take one yourself--it sets a man up! Do you think I can't see that you've suffered shipwreck, too? The poor man goes aground so easily, he has so little water under the keel. And who d'you think will help him to get off again if he's betrayed his own best friend?

Take a swallow, then--it wakes the devil in us and gives us courage to live."

No, Pelle wanted to go to bed.

"Why do you want to go now? Stay here, it is so comfortable. If you could, tell me about something, something that'll drive that d.a.m.ned noise out of my ears for a bit! There's a young woman and a little child, and they're always crying in my ears."

Pelle stayed, and tried to distract the diver. He looked into his own empty soul, and he could find nothing there; so he told the man of Father La.s.se and of their life at Stone Farm, with everything mixed up just as it occurred to him. But his memories rose up within him as he spoke of them, and they gazed at him so mournfully that they awakened his crippled soul to life. Suddenly he felt utterly wretched about himself, and he broke down helplessly.

"Now, now!" said Strom, raising his head. "Is it your turn now? Have you, too, something wicked to repent of, or what is it?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? That's almost like the women--crying is one of their pleasures. But Strom doesn't hang his head; he would like to be at peace with himself, if it weren't for a pair of child's eyes that look at him so reproachfully, day in and day out, and the crying of a girl! They're both at home there in Sweden, wringing their hands for their daily bread. And the one that should provide for them is away from them here and throws away his earnings in the beer-houses. But perhaps they're dead now because I've forsaken them. Look you, that is a real grief; there's no child's talk about that! But you must take a drink for it."

But Pelle did not hear; he sat there gazing blindly in front of him.

All at once the chair began to sail through air with him; he was almost fainting with hunger. "Give me just one drink--I've had not a mouthful of food to-day!" He smiled a shamefaced smile at the confession.

With one leap, Strom was out of bed. "No, then you shall have something to eat," he said eagerly, and he fetched some food. "Did one ever see the like--such a desperate devil! To take brandy on an empty stomach!

Eat now, and then you can drink yourself full elsewhere! Strom has enough on his conscience without that.... He can drink his brandy himself! Well, well, then, so you cried from hunger! It sounded like a child crying to me!"

Pelle often experienced such nights. They enlarged his world in the direction of the darkness. When he came home late and groped his way across the landing he always experienced a secret terror lest he should rub against Strom's lifeless body; and he only breathed freely when he heard him snoring or ramping round his room. He liked to look in on him before he went to bed.

Strom was always delighted to see him, and gave him food; but brandy he would not give him. "It's not for fellows as young as you! You'll get the taste for it early enough, perhaps."

"You drink, yourself," said Pelle obstinately.

"Yes, I drink to deaden remorse. But that's not necessary in your case."

"I'm so empty inside," said Pelle. "Really brandy might set me up a little. I feel as if I weren't human at all, but a dead thing, a table, for instance."

"You must do something--anything--or you'll become a good-for-nothing.

I've seen so many of our sort go to the dogs; we haven't enough power of resistance!"

"It's all the same to me what becomes of me!" replied Pelle drowsily.

"I'm sick of the whole thing!"

XXIII

It was Sunday, and Pelle felt a longing for something unaccustomed. At first he went out to see Jens, but the young couple had had a dispute and had come to blows. The girl had let the frying-pan containing the dinner fall into the fire, and Jens had given her a box on the ears. She was still white and poorly after her miscarriage. Now they were sitting each in a corner, sulking like children. They were both penitent, but neither would say the first word. Pelle succeeded in reconciling them, and they wanted him to stay for dinner. "We've still got potatoes and salt, and I can borrow a drop of brandy from a neighbor!" But Pelle went; he could not watch them hanging on one another's necks, half weeping, and kissing and babbling, and eternally asking pardon of one another.

So he went out to Due's. They had removed to an old merchant's house where there was room for Due's horses. They seemed to be getting on well. It was said that the old consul took an interest in them and helped them on. Pelle never went into the house, but looked up Due in the stable, and if he was not at home Pelle would go away again. Anna did not treat him as though he was welcome. Due himself greeted him cordially. If he had no rounds to make he used to hang about the stable and potter round the horses; he did not care about being in the house.

Pelle gave him a hand, cutting chaff for him, or helping in anything that came to hand, and then they would go into the house together. Due was at once another man if he had Pelle behind him; he was more decided in his behavior. Anna was gradually and increasingly getting the upper hand over him.

She was just as decided as ever, and kept the house in good order. She no longer had little Marie with her. She dressed her own two children well, and sent them to a school for young children, and she paid for their attendance. She was delightful to look at, and understood how to dress herself, but she would hear nothing good of any one else. Pelle was not smart enough for her; she turned up her nose at his every-day clothes, and in order to make him feel uncomfortable she was always talking about Alfred's engagement to Merchant Lau's daughter. This was a fine match for him. "_He_ doesn't loaf about and sleep his time away, and sniff at other people's doors in order to get their plate of food,"

she said. Pelle only laughed; nothing made any particular impression on him nowadays. The children ran about, wearying themselves in their fine clothes--they must not play with the poor children out-of-doors, and must not make themselves dirty. "Oh, play with us for a bit, Uncle Pelle!" they would say, hanging on to him. "Aren't you our uncle too?

Mother says you aren't our uncle. She's always wanting us to call the consul uncle, but we just run away. His nose is so horribly red."

"Does the consul come to see you, then?" asked Pelle.

"Yes, he often comes--he's here now!"

Pelle peeped into the yard. The pretty wagon had been taken out.

"Father's gone out," said the children. Then he slipped home again. He stole a sc.r.a.p of bread and a drop of brandy from Strom, who was not at home, and threw himself on his bed. As the darkness came on he strolled out and lounged, freezing, about the street corners. He had a vague desire to do something. Well-dressed people were promenading up and down the street, and many of his acquaintances were there, taking their girls for a walk; he avoided having to greet them, and to listen to whispered remarks and laughter at his expense. Lethargic as he was, he still had the acute sense of hearing that dated from the time of his disgrace at the town hall. People enjoyed finding something to say when he pa.s.sed them; their laughter still had the effect of making his knees begin to jerk with a nervous movement, like the quickly-suppressed commencement of a flight.

He slipped into a side-street; he had b.u.t.toned his thin jacket tightly about him, and turned up his collar. In the half-darkness of the doorways stood young men and girls, in familiar, whispered conversation.

Warmth radiated from the girls, and their bibbed ap.r.o.ns shone in the darkness. Pelle crept along in the cold, and knew less than ever what to do with himself; he ranged about to find a sweetheart for himself.

In the market he met Alfred, arm-in-arm with Lau's daughter. He carried a smart walking-stick, and wore brown gloves and a tall hat. "The scamp--he still owes me two and a half kroner, and I shall never get it out of him!" thought Pelle, and for a moment he felt a real desire to spring upon him and to roll all his finery in the mud. Alfred turned his head the other way. "He only knows me when he wants to do something and has no money!" said Pelle bitterly.

He ran down the street at a jog-trot, in order to keep himself warm, turning his eyes toward the windows. The bookbinder and his wife were sitting at home, singing pious songs. The man drank when at home; that one could see plainly on the blind. At the wool-merchant's they were having supper.

Farther on, at the Sow's, there was life, as always. A mist of tobacco smoke and a great deal of noise were escaping through the open window.

The Sow kept a house for idle seamen, and made a great deal of money.

Pelle had often been invited to visit her, but had always considered himself too good; moreover, he could not bear Rud. But this evening he seized greedily upon the memory of this invitation, and went in. Perhaps a mouthful of food would come his way.

At a round table sat a few tipsy seamen, shouting at one another, and making a deafening row. The Sow sat on a young fellow's knee; she lay half over the table and dabbled her fingers in a puddle of spilt beer; from time to time she shouted right in the face of those who were making the most noise. The last few years had not reduced her circ.u.mference.

"Now look at that! Is that you, Pelle?" she said, and she stood up to give him her hand. She was not quite sober, and had some difficulty in taking his. "That's nice of you to come, now--I really thought we weren't good enough for you! Now, sit down and have a drop; it won't cost you anything." She motioned to him to take a seat.

The sailors were out of humor; they sat staring sleepily at Pelle. Their heavy heads wagged helplessly. "That's surely a new customer?" asked one, and the others laughed.

The Sow laughed too, but all at once became serious. "Then you can leave him out of your games, for he's far too good to be dragged into anything; one knows what you are!" She sank into a chair next to Pelle, and sat looking at him, while she rubbed her own greasy countenance.

"How tall and fine you've grown--but you aren't well-off for clothes!

And you don't look to be overfed.... Ah, I've known you from the time when you and your father came into the country; a little fellow you were then, and La.s.se brought me my mother's hymn-book!" She was suddenly silent, and her eyes filled with tears.

One of the sailors whispered to the rest, and they began to laugh.

"Stop laughing, you swine!" she cried angrily, and she crossed over to them. "You aren't going to play any of your nonsense with him--he comes like a memory of the times when I was respectable, too. His father is the only creature living who can prove that I was once a pretty, innocent little maid, who got into bad company. He's had me on his lap and sung lullabies to me." She looked about her defiantly, and her red face quivered.

"Didn't you weigh as much then as you do now?" asked one of the men, and embraced her.

"Don't play the fool with the little thing!" cried another. "Don't you see she's crying? Take her on your lap and sing her a lullaby--then she'll believe you are La.s.se-Ba.s.se!"