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Updated: June 8, 2025
Pelle bent over her happily; but she pushed him suddenly away; her beautiful body contorted itself, and the dreadful struggle was raging again. But at last a feeble voice relieved hers and filled the home with a new note. "Another mouth to fill," said Madam Blom, holding the new-born child in the air by one leg. It was a boy.
Buy a packet and pay back Klausen and Blom what we've borrowed." "But then they'd see we've got a whole packet," said Pelle. "Besides, they owe us lots of other things that they've borrowed of us." Pelle showed circumspection in his dealings. "What a rogue!" said the master, and he settled himself to read. "Lord above us, what a gallows-bird!" He looked extremely contented.
"And he likes a glass of punch in the evening, and surely a married man can't drink punch every evening of his life. And he doesn't like children! It won't turn out well," he whispered. "Take my word for it, it won't turn out well. Do you remember that incident, gentlemen, with the hihihi sleeping suit? He's one of those whom you don't find where you leave them! Take care, Mrs. Blom!
"Yes, run off," said Holm, "and many thanks for your guidance, and give my respects to Lasse and Karna." On the harbor hill Pelle met Master Jeppe, and farther on Drejer, Klaussen, and Blom.
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.
Pelle bent over her with a helpless expression, while at the foot of the bed sat Madam Blom; she sat there knitting and reading the papers as though nothing whatever was amiss. "Shriek away, little woman," she said from time to time, when Ellen became silent; "that's part of the business!"
In the centre of a large space Mr. Blom suddenly discovered the chimney sweep of his quarter, the proprietor of a small inn, the chemist's assistant and others of the same standing. He watched the game-keeper in his green coat and silver lace, with his gilt staff, walking up and down and casting contemptuous glances at the assembled crowd, as if he were wondering why they were here?
It is in the strident lyrics Ibsen wrote between 1857 and 1863 that we can best read the record of his mind, and share its exasperations, and wonder at its elasticity. The series of sonnets In a Picture Gallery is a strangely violent confession of distrust in his own genius; the Epistle to H. O. Blom a candid admission of his more than distrust in the talent and honesty of others.
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