Pelle the Conqueror Part 93

He stood there plunging deep into his trouser pockets; he fetched out a handful of things: chewing-tobacco, bits of flock, broken matches, and in the midst of all a crumpled ten-kroner note. "So I thought!" he said, fishing out the note. "I was afraid the girls had quite cleaned me out last night! Now Pelle, you go up and spin them some sort of a yarn; I can't do it properly myself; for, look you, if I know that woman she won't stop crying day and night for another twenty-four hours! That's the last of my pay. But--oh, well, blast it ... we go to sea to-morrow!"

"She stopped crying when I took her the money," said Pelle, when he came down again.

"That's good. We sailors are dirty beasts; you know; we do our business into china and eat our b.u.t.ter out of the tarbucket; all the same, we--I tell you, I should have left the thing alone and used the money to have made a jolly night of it to-night...." He was suddenly silent; he chewed at his quid as though inwardly considering his difficult philosophy.

"d.a.m.n it all, to-morrow we put to sea!" he cried suddenly.

They went out to Alleenberg and sat in the gardens. Pelle ordered beer.

"I can very well stand a few pints when I meet a good pal," he said, "but at other times I save like the devil. I've got to see about getting my old father over here; he's living on charity at home."

"So your father's still living? I can see him still so plainly--he had a love-affair with Madam Olsen for some time, but then bo'sun Olsen came home unexpectedly; they thought he'd remain abroad."

Pelle laughed. Much water had run into the sea since those days. Now he was no longer ashamed of Father La.s.se's foolish prank.

Light was gleaming from the booths in the garden. Young couples wandered about and had their fortunes told; they ventured themselves on the Wheel of Happiness, or had their portraits cut out by the silhouette artist.

By the roundabout was a mingled whirl of cries and music and brightly colored petticoats. Now and again a tremendous outcry arose, curiously dreadful, over all other sounds, and from the concert-pavilion one heard the cracked, straining voices of one-time "stars." Wretched little worldlings came breathlessly hurrying thither, pushing through the crowd, and disappeared into the pavilion, nodding familiarly to the man in the ticket-office window.

"It's really quite jolly here," said Per Kofod. "You have a d.a.m.n good time of it on land!"

On the wide pathway under the trees apprentices, workmen, soldiers, and now and again a student, loitered up and down, to and fro, looking sideways at the servant-girls, who had stationed themselves on either side of the walk, standing there arm-in-arm, or forming little groups.

Their eyes sent many a message before ever one of them stopped and ventured to speak. Perhaps the maiden turned away; if so, that was an end of the matter, and the youngster began the business all over again.

Or perhaps she ran off with him to one of the closed arbors, where they drank coffee, or else to the roundabouts. Several of the young people were from Pelle's home; and every time he heard the confident voices of the Bornholm girls Pelle's heart stirred like a bird about to fly away.

Suddenly his troubles returned to his mind. "I really felt inclined, this evening, to have done with the whole thing.... Just look at those two, Per!" Two girls were standing arm-in-arm under a tree, quite close to their table. They were rocking to and fro together, and now and again they glanced at the two young men.

"Nothing there for me--that's only for you land-lubbers," said Per Kofod. "For look you now, they're like so many little lambs whose ears you've got to tickle. And then it all comes back to you in the nights when you take the dog-watch alone; you've told her lies, or you promised to come back again when she undid her bodice.... And in the end there she is, planted, and goin' to have a kid! It don't do. A sailor ought to keep to the naughty girls."

"But married women can be frisky sometimes," said Pelle.

"That so, really? Once I wouldn't have believed that any one could have kicked a good woman; but after all they strangle little children.... And they come and eat out of your hand if you give 'em a kind word--that's the mischief of it.... D'you remember Howling Peter?"

"Yes, as you ask me, I remember him very well."

"Well, his father was a sailor, too, and that's just what he did....

And she was just such a girl, one who couldn't say no, and believed everything a man told her. He was going to come back again--of course.

'When you hear the trap-door of the loft rattle, that'll be me,' he told her. But the trap-door rattled several times, and he didn't come. Then she hanged herself from the trap-door with a rope. Howling Peter came on to the parish. And you know how they all scorned him. Even the wenches thought they had the right to spit at him. He could do nothing but bellow. His mother had cried such a lot before he was born, d'ye see?

Yes, and then he hanged himself too--twice he tried to do it. He'd inherited that! After that he had a worse time than ever; everybody thought it honorable to ill-use him and ask after the marks on his throat. No, not you; you were the only one who didn't raise a hand to him. That's why I've so often thought about you. 'What has become of him?' I used to ask myself. 'G.o.d only knows where he's got to!'" And he gazed at Pelle with a pair of eyes full of trust.

"No, that was due to Father La.s.se," said Pelle, and his tone was quite childlike. "He always said I must be good to you because you were in G.o.d's keeping."

"In G.o.d's keeping, did he say?" repeated Per Kofod thoughtfully. "That was a curious thing to say. That's a feeling I've never had. There was nothing in the whole world at that time that could have helped me to stand up for myself. I can scarcely understand how it is that I'm sitting here talking to you--I mean, that they didn't torment the life out of my body."

"Yes, you've altered very much. How does it really come about that you're such a smart fellow now?"

"Why, such as I am now, that's really my real nature. It has just waked up, that's what I think. But I don't understand really what was the matter with me then. I knew well enough I could knock you down if I had only wanted to. But I didn't dare strike out, just out of sheer wretchedness. I saw so much that you others couldn't see. d.a.m.n it all, I can't make head nor tail of it! It must have been my mother's dreadful misery that was still in my bones. A horror used to come over me--quite causeless--so that I had to bellow aloud; and then the farmers used to beat me. And every time I tried to get out of it all by hanging myself, they beat me worse than ever. The parish council decided I was to be beaten. Well, that's why I don't do it, Pelle--a sailor ought to keep to women that get paid for it, if they have anything to do with him--that is, if he can't get married. There, you have my opinion."

"You've had a very bad time," said Pelle, and he took his hand. "But it's a tremendous change that's come over you!"

"Change! You may well say so! One moment Howling Peter--and the next, the strongest man on board! There you have the whole story! For look here now, at sea, of course, it was just the same; even the ship's boy felt obliged to give me a kick on the shins in pa.s.sing. Everybody who got a blow on a rowing pa.s.sed it on to me. And when I went to sea in an American bark, there was a n.i.g.g.e.r on board, and all of them used to hound him down; he crawled before them, but you may take your oath he hated them out of the whites of his devil's eyes. But me, who treated him with humanity, he played all manner of tricks on--it was nothing to him that I was white. Yet even with him I didn't dare to fetch him one--there was always like a flabby lump in my midriff. But once the thing went too far--or else the still-born something inside me was exhausted. I just aimed at him a bit with one arm, so that he fell down.

That really was a rummy business. It was, let's say, like a fairy tale where the toad suddenly turns into a man. I set to then and there and thrashed him till he was half dead. And while I was about it, and in the vein, it seemed best to get the whole thing over, so I went right ahead and thrashed the whole crew from beginning to end. It was a tremendous moment, there was such a heap of rage inside me that had got to come out!"

Pelle laughed. "A lucky thing that I knew you a little while ago, or you would have made mincemeat of me, after all!"

"Not me, mate, that was only a little joke. A fellow is in such high spirits when he comes ash.o.r.e again. But out at sea it's--thrash the others, or they'll thrash you! Well, that's all right, but one ought to be good to the women. That's what I've told the old man on board; he's a fellow-countryman, but a swine in his dealings with women. There isn't a single port where he hasn't a love-affair. In the South, and on the American coast. It's madman's work often, and I have to go along with him and look out that he doesn't get a knife between his ribs. 'Per,' he says, 'this evening we'll go on the bust together.' 'All right, cap'n,'

I say. 'But it's a pity about all the women.' 'Shut your mouth, Per,'

he says; 'they're most of them married safe enough.' He's one of us from home, too--from a little cottage up on the heath."

"What's his name, then?" said Pelle, interested.

"Albert Karlsen."

"Why, then he's Uncle Kalle's eldest, and in a way my cousin--Kalle, that is to say, isn't really his father. His wife had him before she was married--he's the son of the owner of Stone Farm."

"So he's a Kongstrup, then!" cried Per Kofod, and he laughed loudly.

"Well, that's as it should be!"

Pelle paid, and they got up to go. The two girls were still standing by the tree. Per Kofod went up to one of them as though she had been a bird that might escape him. Suddenly he seized her round the waist; she withdrew herself slowly from his grip and laughed in his big fair face.

He embraced her once again, and now she stood still; it was still in her mind to escape, for she laughingly half-turned away. He looked deep into her eyes, then released her and followed Pelle.

"What's the use, Pelle--why, I can hear her complaining already! A fellow ought to be well warned," he said, with a despairing accent.

"But, d.a.m.n it all, why should a man have so much compa.s.sion when he himself has been so cruelly treated? And the others; they've no compa.s.sion. Did you see how gentle her eyes were? If I'd money I'd marry her right away."

"Perhaps she wouldn't have you," replied Pelle. "It doesn't do to take the girls for granted."

In the avenue a few men were going to and fro and calling; they were looking for their young women, who had given them the slip. One of them came up to Per and Pelle--he was wearing a student's cap. "Have the gentlemen seen anything of our ladies?" he asked. "We've been sitting with them and treating them all the evening, and then they said they'd just got to go to a certain place, and they've gone off."

They went down to the harbor. "Can't you come on board with me and say how d'ye-do to the old man?" said Per. "But of course, he's ash.o.r.e to-night. I saw him go over the side about the time we knocked off--rigged out for chasing the girls."

"I don't know him at all," said Pelle; "he was at sea already when I was still a youngster. Anyhow, I've got to go home to bed now--I get to work early in the mornings."

They stood on the quay, taking leave of one another. Per Kofod promised to look Pelle up next time he was in port. While they were talking the door of the after-cabin rattled. Howling Peter drew Pelle behind a stack of coal. A powerful, bearded man came out, leading a young girl by the hand. She went slowly, and appeared to resist. He set her ceremoniously ash.o.r.e, turned back to the cabin, and locked the door behind him. The girl stood still for a moment. A low 'plaint escaped her lips. She stretched her arms pleadingly toward the cabin. Then she turned and went mournfully along the quay.

"That was the old man," whispered Per Kofod. "That's how he treats them all--and yet they don't want to give him up."

Pelle could not utter a word; he stood there cowering, oppressed as by some terrible burden. Suddenly he pulled himself together, pressed his comrade's hand, and set off quickly between the coal-stacks.

After a time he turned aside and followed the young girl at a little distance. Like a sleep-walker, she staggered along the quay and went over the long bridge. He feared she would throw herself in the water, so strangely did she behave.

On the bridge she stood gazing across at the ship, with a frozen look on her face. Pelle stood still; turned to ice by the thought that she might see him. He could not have borne to speak to her just then--much less look into her eyes.

But then she moved on. Her bearing was broken; from behind she looked like one of those elderly, shipwrecked females from the "Ark," who shuffled along by the house-walls in trodden-down men's shoes, and always boasted a dubious past. "Good G.o.d!" thought Pelle, "is her dream over already? Good G.o.d!"

He followed her at a short distance down the narrow street, and as soon as he knew that she must have reached her dwelling he entered the tunnel.

VII