In his loneliness Pelle had often taken his way to the little house by the cemetery, where Due lived in two little rooms. It was always a sort of consolation to see familiar faces, but in other respects he did not gain much by his visits; Due was pleasant enough, but Anna thought of nothing but herself, and how she could best get on. Due had a situation as coachman at a jobmaster"s, and they seemed to have a sufficiency.
"We have no intention of being satisfied with driving other people"s horses," Anna would say, "but you must crawl before you can walk." She had no desire to return to the country.
"Out there there"s no prospects for small people, who want something more than groats in their belly and a few rags on their back. You are respected about as much as the dirt you walk on, and there"s no talk of any future. I shall never regret that we"ve come away from the country."
Due, on the contrary, was homesick. He was quite used to knowing that there was a quarter of a mile between him and the nearest neighbor, and here he could hear, through the flimsy walls, whether his neighbors were kissing, fighting, or counting their money. "It is so close here, and then I miss the earth; the pavements are so hard."
"He misses the manure--he can"t come treading it into the room," said Anna, in a superior way; "for that was the only thing there was plenty of in the country. Here in the town too the children can get on better; in the country poor children can"t learn anything that"ll help them to amount to something; they"ve got to work for their daily bread. It"s bad to be poor in the country!"
"It"s worse here in town," said Pelle bitterly, "for here only those who dress finely amount to anything!"
"But there are all sorts of ways here by which a man can earn money, and if one way doesn"t answer, he can try another. Many a man has come into town with his naked rump sticking out of his trousers, and now he"s looked up to! If a man"s only got the will and the energy--well, I"ve thought both the children ought to go to the munic.i.p.al school, when they are older; knowledge is never to be despised."
"Why not Marie as well?" asked Pelle.
"She? What? She"s not fitted to learn anything. Besides, she"s only a girl."
Anna, like her brother Alfred, had set herself a lofty goal. Her eyes were quite bright when she spoke of it, and it was evidently her intention to follow it regardless of consequences. She was a loud-voiced, capable woman with an authoritative manner; Due simply sat by and smiled and kept his temper. But in his inmost heart, according to report, he knew well enough what he wanted. He never went to the public-house, but came straight home after work; and in the evening he was never happier than when all three children were scrambling over him. He made no distinction between his own two youngsters and the six-year-old Marie, whom Anna had borne before she married him.
Pelle was very fond of little Marie, who had thrived well enough so long as her child-loving grandparents had had her, but now she was thin and had stopped growing, and her eyes were too experienced. She gazed at one like a poor housewife who is always fretted and distressed, and Pelle was sorry for her. If her mother was harsh to her, he always remembered that Christmastide evening when he first visited his Uncle Kalle, and when Anna, weeping and abashed, had crept into the house, soon to be a mother. Little Anna, with the mind of a merry child, whom everybody liked. What had become of her now?
One evening, as Morten was not at liberty, he ran thither. Just as he was on the point of knocking, he heard Anna storming about indoors; suddenly the door flew open and little Marie was thrown out upon the footpath. The child was crying terribly.
"What"s the matter, then?" asked Pelle, in his cheerful way.
"What"s the matter? The matter is that the brat is saucy and won"t eat just because she doesn"t get exactly the same as the others. Here one has to slave and reckon and contrive--and for a bad girl like that! Now she"s punishing herself and won"t eat. Is it anything to her what the others have? Can she compare herself with them? She"s a b.a.s.t.a.r.d brat and always will be, however you like to dress it up!"
"She can"t help that!" said Pelle angrily.
"Can"t help it! Perhaps I can help it? Is it my fault that she didn"t come into the world a farmer"s daughter, but has to put up with being a b.a.s.t.a.r.d? Yes, you may believe me, the neighbors" wives tell me to my face she hasn"t her father"s eyes, and they look at me as friendly as a lot of cats! Am I to be punished all my life, perhaps, because I looked a bit higher, and let myself be led astray in a way that didn"t lead to anything? Ah, the little monster!" And she clenched her fists and shook them in the direction from which the child"s crying could still be heard.
"Here one goes and wears oneself out to keep the house tidy and to be respectable, and then no one will treat me as being as good as themselves, just because once I was a bit careless!" She was quite beside herself.
"If you aren"t kind to little Marie, I shall tell Uncle Kalle," said Pelle warningly.
She spat contemptuously. "Then you can tell him. Yes, I wish to G.o.d you"d do it! Then he"d come and take her away, and delighted I should be!"
But now Due was heard stamping on the flags outside the door, and they could hear him too consoling the child. He came in holding her by the hand, and gave his wife a warning look, but said nothing. "There, there--now all that"s forgotten," he repeated, in order to check the child"s sobs, and he wiped away the grimy tears from her cheeks with his great thumbs.
Anna brought him his food, sulkily enough, and out in the kitchen she muttered to herself. Due, while he ate his supper of bacon and black bread, stood the child between his knees and stared at her with round eyes. "Rider!" she said, and smiled persuasively. "Rider!" Due laid a cube of bacon on a piece of bread.
"There came a rider riding On his white hoss, hoss, hoss, hoss!"
he sang, and he made the bread ride up to her mouth. "And then?"
"Then, _pop_ he rode in at the gate!" said the child, and swallowed horse and rider.
While she ate she kept her eyes fixed upon him unwaveringly, with that painful earnestness which was so sad to see. But sometimes it happened that the rider rode right up to her mouth, and then, with a jerk, turned about, and disappeared, at a frantic gallop, between Due"s white teeth.
Then she smiled for a moment.
"There"s really no sense shoving anything into her," said Anna, who was bringing coffee in honor of the visitor. "She gets as much as she can eat, and she"s not hungry."
"She"s hungry, all the same!" hummed Due.
"Then she"s dainty--our poor food isn"t good enough for her. She takes after her father, I can tell you! And what"s more, if she isn"t naughty now she soon will be when once she sees she"s backed up."
Due did not reply. "Are you quite well again now?" he asked, turning to Pelle.
"What have you been doing to-day?" asked Anna, filling her husband"s long pipe.
"I had to drive a forest ranger from up yonder right across the whole of the moor. I got a krone and a half for a tip."
"Give it to me, right away!"
Due pa.s.sed her the money, and she put it into an old coffeepot. "This evening you must take the bucket to the inspector"s," she said.
Due stretched himself wearily. "I"ve been on the go since half-past four this morning," he said.
"But I"ve promised it faithfully, so there"s nothing else to be done.
And then I thought you"d see to the digging for them this autumn; you can see when we"ve got the moonlight, and then there"s Sundays. If we don"t get it some one else will--and they are good payers."
Due did not reply.
"In a year or two from now, I"m thinking, you"ll have your own horses and won"t need to go sc.r.a.ping other people"s daily bread together," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder, "Won"t you go right away and take the bucket? Then it"s done. And I must have some small firewood cut before you go to bed."
Due sat there wearily blinking. After eating, fatigue came over him. He could hardly see out of his eyes, so sleepy was he. Marie handed him his cap, and at last he got on his legs. He and Pelle went out together.
The house in which Due lived lay far up the long street, which ran steeply down to the sea. It was an old watercourse, and even now when there was a violent shower the water ran down like a rushing torrent between the poor cottages.
Down on the sea-road they met a group of men who were carrying lanterns in their hands; they were armed with heavy sticks, and one of them wore an old leather hat and carried a club studded with spikes. This was the night-watch. They moved off, and behind them all went the new policeman, Pihl, in his resplendent uniform. He kept well behind the others, in order to show off his uniform, and also to ensure that none of the watch took to their heels. They were half drunk, and were taking their time; whenever they met any one they stood still and related with much detail precisely why they had taken the field. The "Great Power" was at his tricks again. He had been refractory all day, and the provost had given the order to keep an eye on him. And quite rightly, for in his cups he had met Ship-owner Monsen, on Church Hill, and had fallen upon him with blows and words of abuse: "So you take the widow"s bread out of her mouth, do you? You told her the _Three Sisters_ was damaged at sea, and you took over her shares for next to nothing, did you? Out of pure compa.s.sion, eh, you scoundrel? And there was nothing the matter with the ship except that she had done only too well and made a big profit, eh?
So you did the poor widow a kindness, eh?" A scoundrel, he called him and at every question he struck him a blow, so that he rolled on the ground. "We are all witnesses, and now he must go to prison. A poor stone-cutter oughtn"t to go about playing the judge. Come and help us catch him, Due--you are pretty strong!"
"It"s nothing to do with me," said Due.
"You do best to keep your fingers out of it," said one of the men derisively; "you might get to know the feel of his fist." And they went on, laughing contemptuously.
"They won"t be so pleased with their errand when they"ve done," said Due, laughing. "That"s why they"ve got a nice drop stowed away--under their belts. To give them courage. The strong man"s a swine, but I"d rather not be the one he goes for."
"Suppose they don"t get him at all!" said Pelle eagerly.
Due laughed. "They"ll time it so that they are where he isn"t. But why don"t he stick to his work and leave his fool"s tricks alone? He could have a good drink and sleep it off at home--he"s only a poor devil, he ought to leave it to the great people to drink themselves silly!"
But Pelle took another view of the affair. The poor man of course ought to go quietly along the street and take his hat off to everybody; and if anybody greeted him in return he"d be quite proud, and tell it to his wife as quite an event, as they were going to bed. "The clerk raised his hat to me to-day--yes, that he did!" But Stonecutter Jorgensen looked neither to right nor to left when he was sober, and in his cups he trampled everybody underfoot.
Pelle by no means agreed with the pitiful opinions of the town. In the country, whence he came, strength was regarded as everything, and here was a man who could have taken strong Erik himself and put him in his pocket. He roamed about in secret, furtively measuring his wrists, and lifted objects which were much too heavy for him; he would by no means have objected to be like the "Great Power," who, as a single individual, kept the whole town in a state of breathless excitement, whether he was in one of his raging moods or whether he lay like one dead. The thought that he was the comrade of Jens and Morten made him quite giddy, and he could not understand why they bowed themselves so completely to the judgment of the town, as no one could cast it in their teeth that they were on the parish, but only that their father was a powerful fellow.
Jens shrank from continually hearing his father"s name on all lips, and avoided looking people in the eyes, but in Morten"s open glance he saw no trace of this nameless grief.