Toward evening they went through the town to the steamer. Pelle took long strides, and a strange feeling of solemnity kept him silent. Lasse trotted along at his side; he stooped as he went. He was in a doleful mood. “Now you won’t forget your old father?” he said, again and again.
“There’s no danger of that,” rejoined Sort. Pelle heard nothing of this; his thoughts were all set on his journey. The blue smoke of kitchen fires was drifting down among the narrow lanes. The old people were sitting out of doors on their front steps, and were gossiping over the news of the day. The evening sun fell upon round spectacles, so that great fiery eyes seemed to be staring out of their wrinkled faces. The profound peace of evening lay over the streets. But in the narrow lanes there was the breathing of that eternal, dull unrest, as of a great beast that tosses and turns and cannot sleep. Now and again it blazed up into a shout, or the crying of a child, and then began anew—like heavy, labored breathing. Pelle knew it well, that ghostly breathing, which rises always from the lair of the poor man. The cares of poverty had shepherded the evil dreams home for the night. But he was leaving this world of poverty, where life was bleeding away unnoted in the silence; in his thoughts it was fading away like a mournful song; and he gazed out over the sea, which lay glowing redly at the end of the street. Now he was going out into the world!
The crazy Anker was standing at the top of his high steps. “Good-bye!” cried Pelle, but Anker did not understand. He turned his face up to the sky and sent forth his demented cry.
Pelle threw a last glance at the workshop. “There have I spent many a good hour!” he thought; and he thought, too, of the young master. Old Jörgen was standing before his window, playing with the little Jörgen, who sat inside on the windowseat. “Peep, peep, little one!” he cried, in his shrill voice, and he hid, and bobbed up into sight again. The young wife was holding the child; she was rosy with maternal delight.
“You’ll be sure to let us hear from you,” said Lasse yet again, as Pelle stood leaning over the steamer’s rail. “Don’t forget your old father!” He was quite helpless in his anxiety.
“I will write to you as soon as I’m getting on,” said Pelle, for the twentieth time at least. “Only don’t worry!” Sure of victory, he laughed down at the old man. For the rest they stood silent and gazed at one another.
At last the steamer moved. “Good luck—take care of yourself!” he cried for the last time, as they turned the pier-head; and as long as he could see he waved his cap. Then he went right forward and sat on a coil of rope.
He had forgotten all that lay behind him. He gazed ahead as though at any moment the great world itself might rise in front of the vessel’s bow. He pictured nothing to himself of what was to come and how he would meet it—he was only longing—longing!
THE END