Her son did not reply.
“They say you know something about sketching, Pelle?” he said quietly. “Can’t you bring this into order a bit? This here is the breakwater—supposing the water isn’t there—and this is the basin —cut through the middle, you understand? But I can’t get it to look right—yet the dimensions are quite correct. Here above the water-line there will be big coping-stones, and underneath it’s broken stone.”
Pelle set to work, but he was too finicking.
“Not so exact!” said Jörgensen. “Only roughly!”
He was always sitting over his work when they came. From his wife they learned that he did not put in a tender, after all, but took his plans to those who had undertaken the contract and offered them his cooperation. She had now lost all faith in his schemes, and was in a state of continual anxiety. “He’s so queer—he’s always taken up with only this one thing,” she said, shuddering. “He never drinks —and he doesn’t go raging against all the world as he used to do.”
“But that’s a good thing,” said Morten consolingly.
“Yes, you may talk, but what do you know about it? If he looks after his daily bread, well, one knows what that means. But now, like this…. I’m so afraid of the reaction if he gets a set-back. Don’t you believe he’s changed—it’s only sleeping in him. He’s the same as ever about Karen; he can’t endure seeing her crooked figure; she reminds him always too much of everything that isn’t as it should be. She mustn’t go to work, he says, but how can we do without her help? We must live! I daren’t let him catch sight of her. He gets so bitter against himself, but the child has to suffer for it. And he’s the only one she cares anything about.”
Karen had not grown during the last few years; she had become even more deformed; her voice was dry and shrill, as though she had passed through a frozen desert on her way to earth. She was glad when Pelle was there and she could hear him talk; if she thought he would come in the evening, she would hurry home from her situation. But she never joined in the conversation and never took part in anything. No one could guess what was going on in her mind. Her mother would suddenly break down and burst into tears if her glance by chance fell upon her.
“She really ought to leave her place at once,” said her mother over and again. “But the doctor’s wife has one child after another, and then they ask so pleadingly if she can’t stay yet another half-year. They think great things of her; she is so reliable with children.”
“Yes, if it was Pelle, he’d certainly let them fall.” Karen laughed —it was a creaking laugh. She said nothing more; she never asked to be allowed to go out, and she never complained. But her silence was like a silent accusation, destroying all comfort and intimacy.