Chapter 62

“Well, that’s what I say!” she rejoined, looking at him boldly. Her face was quite heated with wine. “Does any one stand in the front of things like father does? He was the first, and he has been always the most zealous; he has done a good stroke of work, more than most men. And to- day he might well have been one of the leaders and have called the tune, if it weren’t for that damned hiccoughing. He’s a clever man, and his comrades respect him too, but what does all that signify if a man hiccoughs? Every time he stands on the speaker’s platform he has the hiccoughs.”

“And yet it isn’t caused by brandy?” said the thick-set little Vanishing Man, Albert Olsen.

“Oh, no, father has never gone in for bottle agitation,” replied Madam Stolpe.

“That was a fine speech that mother made about me,” said Stolpe, laughing, “and she didn’t hiccough. It is astonishing, though—there are some people who can’t. But now it’s your turn, Frederik. Now you have become a journeyman and must accept the responsibility yourself for doing things according to plumb-line and square. We have worked on the scaffold together and we know one another pretty well. Many a time you’ve been a clown and many a time a sheep, and a box on the ears from your old man has never been lacking. But that was in your fledgling years. When only you made up your mind there was no fault to be found with you. I will say this to your credit—that you know your trade—you needn’t be shamed by anybody. Show what you can do, my lad! Do your day’s work so that your comrades don’t need to take you in tow, and never shirk when it comes to your turn!”

“Don’t cheat the drinker of his bottle, either,” said Albert Olsen, interrupting. Otto nudged him in the ribs.

“No, don’t do that,” said Stolpe, and he laughed. “There are still two things,” he added seriously. “Take care the girls don’t get running about under the scaffold in working hours, that doesn’t look well; and always uphold the fellowship. There is nothing more despicable than the name of strikebreaker.”

“Hear, hear!” resounded about the table. “A true word!”

Frederik sat listening with an embarrassed smile.

He was dressed in a new suit of the white clothes of his calling, and on his round chin grew a few dark downy hairs, which he fingered every other moment. He was waiting excitedly until the old man had finished, so that he might drink brotherhood with him.

“And now, my lad,” said Stolpe, taking the cover from the “tureen,” “now you are admitted to the corporation of masons, and you are welcome! Health, my lad.” And with a sly little twinkle of his eye, he set the utensil to his mouth, and drank.

“Health, father!” replied Frederik, with shining eyes, as his father passed him the drinking-bowl. Then it went round the table. The women shrieked before they drank; it was full of Bavarian beer, and in the amber fluid swam Bavarian sausages. And while the drinking-bowl made its cheerful round, Stolpe struck up with the Song of the Mason:

“The man up there in snowy cap and blouse, He is a mason, any fool could swear. Just give him stone and lime, he’ll build a house Fine as a palace, up in empty air! Down in the street below stands half the town: Ah, ah! Na, na! The scaffold sways, but it won’t fall down!

“Down in the street he’s wobbly in his tread, He tumbles into every cellar door; That’s ’cause his home is in the clouds o’erhead, Where all the little birds about him soar. Up there he works away with peaceful mind: Ah, ah. Na, na! The scaffold swings in the boisterous wind!

“What it is to be giddy no mason knows: Left to himself he’d build for ever, Stone upon stone, till in Heaven, I s’pose! But up comes the Law, and says—Stop now, clever! There lives the Almighty, so just come off! Ah, ah! Na, na! Sheer slavery this, but he lets them scoff!

“Before he knows it the work has passed: He measures all over and reckons it up. His wages are safe in his breeches at last, And he clatters off home to rest and to sup. And a goodly wage he’s got in his pocket: Ah, ah! Na, na! The scaffold creaks to the winds that rock it!”

The little thick-set slater sat with both arms on the table, staring right in front of him with veiled eyes. When the song was over he raised his head a little. “Yes, that may be all very fine—for those it concerns. But the slater, he climbs higher than the mason.” His face was purple.

“Now, comrade, let well alone,” said Stolpe comfortably. “It isn’t the question, to-night, who climbs highest, it’s a question of amusing ourselves merely.”

“Yes, that may be,” replied Olsen, letting his head sink again. “But the slater, he climbs the highest.” After which he sat there murmuring to himself.

“Just leave him alone,” whispered Otto. “Otherwise he’ll get in one of his Berserker rages. Don’t be so grumpy, old fellow,” he said, laying his arm on Olsen’s shoulders. “No one can compete with you in the art of tumbling down, anyhow!”

The Vanishing Man was so called because he was in the habit—while lying quite quietly on the roof at work—of suddenly sliding downward and disappearing into the street below. He had several times fallen from the roof of a house without coming to any harm; but on one occasion he had broken both legs, and had become visibly bow-legged in consequence. In order to appease him, Otto, who was his comrade, related how he had fallen down on the last occasion.

“We were lying on the roof, working away, he and I, and damned cold it was. He, of course, had untied the safety-rope, and as we were lying there quite comfortably and chatting, all of a sudden he was off. ‘The devil!’ I shouted to the others, ‘now the Vanishing Man has fallen down again!’ And we ran down the stairs as quick as we could. We weren’t in a humor for any fool’s tricks, as you may suppose. But there was no Albert Olsen lying on the pavement. ‘Damn and blast it all, where has the Vanisher got to?’ we said, and we stared at one another, stupefied. And then I accidentally glanced across at a beer-cellar opposite, and there, by God, he was sitting at the basement window, winking at us so, with his forefinger to his nose, making signs to us to go down and have a glass of beer with him. ‘I was so accursedly thirsty,’ was all he said; ‘I couldn’t wait to run down the stairs!’”

The general laughter appeased the Vanishing Man. “Who’ll give me a glass of beer?” he said, rising with difficulty. He got his beer and sat down in a corner.

Stolpe was sitting at the table playing with his canary, which had to partake of its share in the feast. The bird sat on his red ear and fixed its claws in his hair, then hopped onto his arm and along it onto the table. Stolpe kept on asking it, “What would you like to smoke, Hansie?” “Peep!” replied the canary, every time. Then they all laughed. “Hansie would like a pipe!”

“How clever he is, to answer like that!” said the women.

“Clever?—ay, and he’s sly too! Once we bought a little wife for him; mother didn’t think it fair that he shouldn’t know what love is. Well, they married themselves very nicely, and the little wife lay two eggs. But when she wanted to begin to sit Hansie got sulky; he kept on calling to her to come out on the perch. Well, she wouldn’t, and one fine day, when she wanted to get something to eat, he hopped in and threw the eggs out between the bars! He was jealous—the rascal! Yes, animals are wonderfully clever—stupendous it is, that such a little thing as that could think that out! Now, now, just look at him!”

Hansie had hopped onto the table and had made his way to the remainder of the cake. He was sitting on the edge of the dish, cheerfully flirting his tail as he pecked away. Suddenly something fell upon the table- cloth. “Lord bless me,” cried Stolpe, in consternation, “if that had been any one else! Wouldn’t you have heard mother carry on!”

Old Lasse was near exploding at this. He had never before been in such pleasant company. “It’s just as if one had come upon a dozen of Brother Kalle’s sort,” he whispered to Pelle. Pelle smiled absently. Ellen was holding his hand in her lap and playing with his fingers.

A telegram of congratulation came for Pelle from his Union, and this brought the conversation back to more serious matters. Morten and Stolpe became involved in a dispute concerning the labor movement; Morten considered that they did not sufficiently consider the individual, but attached too much importance to the voice of the masses. In his opinion the revolution must come from within.

“No,” said Stolpe, “that leads to nothing. But if we could get our comrades into Parliament and obtain a majority, then we should build up the State according to our own programme, and that is in every respect a legal one!”

“Yes, but it’s a question of daily bread,” said Morten, with energy. “Hungry people can’t sit down and try to become a majority; while the grass grows the cow starves! They ought to help themselves. If they do not, their self-consciousness is imperfect; they must wake up to the consciousness of their own human value. If there were a law forbidding the poor man to breathe the air, do you think he’d stop doing so? He simply could not. It’s painful for him to look on at others eating when he gets nothing himself. He is wanting in physical courage. And so society profits by his disadvantage. What has the poor man to do with the law? He stands outside all that! A man mustn’t starve his horse or his dog, but the State which forbids him to do so starves its own workers. I believe they’ll have to pay for preaching obedience to the poor; we are getting bad material for the now order of society that we hope to found some day.”

“Yes, but we don’t obey the laws out of respect for the commands of a capitalist society,” said Stolpe, somewhat uncertainly, “but out of regard for ourselves. God pity the poor man if he takes the law into his own hands!”

“Still, it keeps the wound fresh! As for all the others, who go hungry in silence, what do they do? There are too few of them, alas—there’s room in the prisons for them! But if every one who was hungry would stick his arm through a shop window and help himself—then the question of maintenance would soon be solved. They couldn’t put the whole nation in prison! Now, hunger is yet another human virtue, which is often practised until men die of it—for the profit of those who hoard wealth. They pat the poor, brave man on the back because he’s so obedient to the law. What more can he want?”

“Yes, devil take it, of course it’s all topsy-turvy,” replied Stolpe. “But that’s precisely the reason why——No, no, you won’t persuade me, my young friend! You seem to me a good deal too ‘red.’ It wouldn’t do! Now I’ve been concerned in the movement from the very first day, and no one can say that Stolpe is afraid to risk his skin; but that way wouldn’t suit me. We have always held to the same course, and everything that we have won we have taken on account.”

“Yes, that’s true,” interrupted Frau Stolpe. “When I look back to those early years and then consider these I can scarcely believe it’s true. Then it was all we could do to find safe shelter, even among people of our own standing; they annoyed us in every possible way, and hated father because he wasn’t such a sheep as they were, but used to concern himself about their affairs. Every time I went out of the kitchen door I’d find a filthy rag of dishcloth hung over the handle, and they smeared much worse things than that over the door—and whose doing was it? I never told father; he would have been so enraged he would have torn the whole house down to find the guilty person. No, father had enough to contend against already. But now: ‘Ah, here comes Stolpe— Hurrah! Long live Stolpe! One must show respect to Stolpe, the veteran!’”

“That may be all very fine,” muttered Albert Olsen, “but the slater, he climbs the highest.” He was sitting with sunken head, staring angrily before him.

“To be sure he climbs highest,” said the women. “No one says he doesn’t.”

“Leave him alone,” said Otto; “he’s had a drop too much!”

“Then he should take a walk in the fresh air and not sit there and make himself disagreeable,” said Madam Stolpe, with a good deal of temper.

The Vanishing Man rose with an effort. “Do you say a walk in the fresh air, Madam Stolpe? Yes, if any one can stand the air, by God, it’s Albert Olsen. Those big-nosed masons, what can they do?” He stood with bent head, muttering angrily to himself. “Yes, then we’ll take a walk in the fresh air. I don’t want to have anything to do with your fools’ tricks.” He staggered out through the kitchen door.

“What’s he going to do there?” cried Madam Stolpe, in alarm.

“Oh, he’ll just go down into the yard and turn himself inside out,” said Otto. “He’s a brilliant fellow, but he can’t carry much.”

Pelle, still sitting at table, had been drawing with a pencil on a scrap of paper while the others were arguing. Ellen leaned over his shoulder watching him. He felt her warm breath upon his ear and smiled happily as he used his pencil. Ellen took the drawing when he had finished and pushed it across the table to the others. It showed a thick-set figure of a man, dripping with sweat, pushing a wheelbarrow which supported his belly. “Capitalism—when the rest of us refuse to serve him any longer!” was written below. This drawing made a great sensation. “You’re a deuce of a chap!” cried Stolpe. “I’ll send that to the editor of the humorous page—I know him.”

“Yes, Pelle,” said Lasse proudly, “there’s nothing he can’t do; devil knows where he gets it from, for he doesn’t get it from his father.” And they all laughed.

Carpenter Stolpe’s good lady sat considering the drawing with amazement, quite bewildered, looking first at Pelle’s fingers and then at the drawing again. “I can understand how people can say funny things with their mouths,” she said, “but with their fingers—that I don’t understand. Poor fellow, obliged to push his belly in front of him! It’s almost worse than when I was going to have Victor.”

“Cousin Victor, her youngest, who is so deucedly clever,” said Otto, in explanation, giving Pelle a meaning wink.

“Yes, indeed he is clever, if he is only six months old. The other day I took him downstairs with me when I went to buy some milk. Since then he won’t accept his mother’s left breast any more. The rascal noticed that the milkman drew skim milk from the left side of the cart and full-cream milk from the tap on the right side. And another time——”

“Now, mother, give over!” said Carpenter Stolpe; “don’t you see they’re sitting laughing at you? And we ought to see about getting home presently.” He looked a trifle injured.

“What, are you going already?” said Stolpe. “Why, bless my soul, it’s quite late already. But we must have another song first.”

“It’ll be daylight soon,” said Madam Stolpe; she was so tired that she was nodding.

When they had sung the Socialist marching song, the party broke up. Lasse had his pockets filled with sweets for the three orphans.

“What’s become of the Vanishing Man?” said Otto suddenly.

“Perhaps he’s been taken bad down in the yard,” said Stolpe. “Run down and see, Frederick.” They had quite forgotten him.

Frederik returned and announced that Albert Olsen was not in the yard— and the gate was locked.

“Surely he can’t have gone on the roof?” said one. They ran up the back stairs; the door of the loft was open, and the skylight also.

Otto threw off his coat and swung himself up through the opening. On the extreme end of the ridge of the roof sat Albert Olsen, snoring.

He was leaning against the edge of the party-wall, which projected upward about eighteen inches. Close behind him was empty space.

“For God’s sake don’t call him,” said Mother Stolpe, under her breath; “and catch hold of him before he wakes.”

But Otto went straight up to his comrade. “Hullo, mate! Time’s up!” he cried.

“Righto!” said the Vanisher, and he rose to his feet. He stood there a moment, swaying above the abyss, then, giving the preference to the way leading over the roof, he followed in Otto’s track and crept through the window.

“What the dickens were you really doing there?” asked Stolpe, laughing. “Have you been to work?”

“I just went up there and enjoyed the fresh air a bit. Have you got a bottle of beer? But what’s this? Everybody going home already?”

“Yes, you’ve been two hours sitting up there and squinting at the stars,” replied Otto.

Now all the guests had gone. Lasse and the young couple stood waiting to say farewell. Madam Stolpe had tears in her eyes. She threw her arms round Ellen. “Take good care of yourself, the night is so cold,” she said, in a choking voice, and she stood nodding after them with eyes that were blinded with tears.

“Why, but there’s nothing to cry about!” said Mason Stolpe, as he led her indoors. “Go to bed now—I’ll soon sing the Vanishing Man to sleep! Thank God for to-day, mother!”

XVI

Pelle had placed his work-bench against the wall-space between the two windows of the living-room. There was just room to squeeze past between the edge of the bench and the round table which stood in the middle of the room. Against the wall by the door stood an oak-stained sideboard, which was Ellen’s pride, and exactly opposite this, on the opposing wall, stood the chest of drawers of her girlhood, with a mirror above it and a white embroidered cover on the top. On this chest of drawers stood a polished wooden workbox, a few photographs, and various knick-knacks; with its white cover it was like a little altar.

Pelle went to Master Beck’s only every other day; the rest of the time he sat at home playing the little master. He had many acquaintances hereabouts, really poor folks, who wore their boots until their stockings appeared before they had them repaired; nevertheless, it was possible to earn a day’s pay among them. He obtained work, too, from Ellen’s family and their acquaintances. These were people of another sort; even when things went badly with them they always kept up appearances and even displayed a certain amount of luxury. They kept their troubles to themselves.

He could have obtained plenty of journeyman work, but he preferred this arrangement, which laid the foundation of a certain independence; there was more chance of a future in it. And there was a peculiar feeling about work done with his home as the background. When he lifted his eyes from his work as he sat at home a fruitful warmth came into his heart; things looked so familiar; they radiated comfort, as though they had always belonged together. And when the morning sun shone into the room everything wore a smile, and in the midst of it all Ellen moved busily to and fro humming a tune. She felt a need always to be near him, and rejoiced over every day which he spent at home. On those days she hurried through her work in the kitchen as quickly as possible, and then sat down to keep him company. He had to teach her how to make a patch, and how to sew a sole on, and she helped him with his work.

“Now you are the master and I’m the journeyman!” she would say delightedly. She brought him customers too; her ambition was to keep him always at home. “I’ll help you all I can. And one fine day you’ll have so much work you’ll have to take an apprentice—and then a journeyman.” Then he would take her in his arms, and they worked in emulation, and sang as they worked.

Pelle was perfectly happy, and had cast off all his cares and burdens. This was his nest, where every stick and stone was worth more than all else in the world besides. They had their work cut out to keep it together and feed themselves a little daintily; and Pelle tackled his work as joyfully as though he had at last found his true vocation. Now and again a heavy wave came rolling up from the struggling masses, making his heart beat violently, and then he would break out into fiery speech; or his happiness would weave radiant pictures before his eyes, and he would describe these to Ellen. She listened to him proudly, and with her beloved eyes upon him he would venture upon stronger expression and more vivid pictures, as was really natural to him. When at last he was silent she would remain quietly gazing at him with those dark eyes of hers that always seemed to be looking at something in him of which he himself was unaware.

“What are you thinking of now?” Pelle would ask, for he would have enjoyed an exposition of the ideas that filled his mind. There was no one for him but Ellen, and he wanted to discuss the new ideas with her, and to feel the wonderful happiness of sharing these too with her.

“I was thinking how red your lips are when you speak! They certainly want to be kissed!” she replied, throwing her arms round his neck.

What happened round about her did not interest her; she could only speak of their love and of what concerned herself. But the passionate gaze of her eyes was like a deep background to their life. It had quite a mysterious effect upon his mind; it was like a lure that called to the unknown depths of his being. “The Pelle she sees must be different to the one I know,” he thought happily. There must be something fine and strong in him for her to cling to him so closely and suffer so when parted from him only for a moment. When she had gazed at him long enough she would press herself against him, confused, and hide her face.

Without his remarking it, she directed his energies back to his own calling. He could work for two when she sat at the bench facing him and talked to him as she helped him. Pelle really found their little nest quite comfortable, but Ellen’s mind was full of plans for improvement and progress. His business was to support a respectable home with dainty furniture and all sorts of other things; she was counting on these already. This home, which to him was like a beloved face that one cannot imagine other than it is, was to her only a temporary affair, which would by degrees be replaced by something finer and better. Behind her intimate gossip of every-day trivialities she concealed a far-reaching ambition. He must do his utmost if he was to accomplish all she expected of him!

Ellen by no means neglected her housekeeping, and nothing ever slipped through her fingers. When Pelle was away at the workshop she turned the whole place upside down, sweeping and scrubbing, and had always something good on the table for him. In the evening she was waiting for him at the door of the workshop. Then they would take a stroll along the canal, and across the green rampart where the children played. “Oh, Pelle, how I’ve longed for you to-day!” she would say haltingly. “Now, I’ve got you, and yet I’ve still got quite a pain in my breasts; they don’t know yet that you’re with me!”

“Shan’t we work a little this evening—just a quarter of an hour?” she would say, when they had eaten, “so that you can become a master all the sooner and make things more comfortable for yourself.” Pelle perhaps would rather have taken a walk through the city with her, or have gone somewhere where they could enjoy the sunset, but her dark eyes fixed themselves upon him.

She was full of energy from top to toe, and it was all centered on him. There was something in her nature that excluded the possibility of selfishness. In relation to herself, everything was indifferent; she only wanted to be with him—and to live for him. She was beneficent and intact as virgin soil; Pelle had awakened love in her—and it took the shape of a perpetual need of giving. He felt, humbly, that she brought all she had and was to him as a gift, and all he did was done to repay her generosity.