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Updated: May 23, 2025
Recklessness was finally Pelle's refuge too; when all the lights seemed to have gone out of the future it helped him to take up the fairy-tale of life anew, and lent a glamor to naked poverty. Imagination entered even into starvation: are you or are you not going to die of it?
The engineer asked him all sorts of questions, and was amazed to learn that he had never had lessons in drawing. "Perhaps we could make use of you upstairs here," he said. "Would you care for that?" Pelle's heart gave a sudden leap. This was luck, the real genuine good fortune that seized upon its man and lifted him straightway into a region of dazzling radiance!
"Hold your row!" cried the journeyman threateningly. Pelle was greatly concerned; he had not once made the attempt to go over and see Lasse. The young master came to get something off the shelf above his head, and leaned confidentially on Pelle's shoulder, his weak leg hanging free and dangling.
"You must be very heartless, when you can leave your old grandmother and not even like others to help her. I'm certain she's in want somewhere or other." Johanna looked at him angrily. "I whipped her too," she exclaimed malignantly, and then burst into a laugh at Pelle's expression. "No, I didn't really," she said reassuringly.
Even if they held out, it might well exhaust their economic strength. The misfortune was that they were too isolated; they were as yet like men washed up onto an open shore; they had nothing to fall back upon. The employers had long since discovered that they were just as international as the workmen, and had adopted Pelle's old organization idea.
"We don't very well see what we could offer you in its place. But don't forget that you will always be welcome Ellen herself sent me here." "Yes, yes! Give her many thanks for that! And now you be off, before the old woman comes back," said Lasse anxiously. "She doesn't like any one to be here she's afraid for her money." The first thing that had to go was Pelle's winter overcoat.
One day Lasse came stamping into the workshop and into the midst of them all, looking the picture of a big farmer, with his fur collar drawn round his ears. He had a sack of potatoes outside; it was a present to Pelle's employers, because Pelle was learning his trade so well. Pelle was given leave and went out with his father; and he kept looking furtively at the fur collar.
It was Pelle's own desperate struggle that was speaking through him now, but the refrain of suffering ran through it all. He stood before them radiant and confident of victory, towering indomitably over them all. Gradually his words became keen and vigorous.
One evening the boys had been hostile in their attitude, and one of them maintained that the marks of the whip could still be seen on Pelle's back. "Pelle has never been beaten with a whip!" cried Morten, in a rage. Pelle himself made no reply, but followed the "squadron"; his whole nature felt somehow embittered.
A deafening, long-drawn ringing told him that the fire-brigade was near at hand. But in the midst of all the uproar Pelle's ears had heard a faint, intermittent sound. With one leap he was in Madam Johnsen's room; he stood there listening; the crying of a child reached him from the other side of the wall, where the rooms opened on to the inner corridor.
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