Chapter 64

“No, I’ve not been there—but I can’t help knowing it—that’s my curse! Ask me even whether they make soup out of the rotten bones they get there. And not even the poison of the refuse-heap will inflame them; they lap it up and long for more! I can’t bear it if nothing is going to happen! Now you’ve pulled yourself out of the mire—and it’s the same with everybody who has accomplished anything—one after another—either because they are contented or because they are absorbed in their own pitiful affairs. Those who are of any use slink away, and only the needy are left.”

“I have never left you in the lurch,” said Pelle warmly. “You must realize that I haven’t.”

“It isn’t to be wondered at that they get weary,” Morten continued. “Even God loses patience with those who always let themselves be trampled upon. Last night I dreamed I was one of the starving. I was going up the street, grieving at my condition, and I ran up against God. He was dressed like an old Cossack officer, and had a knout hanging round his neck.

“‘Help me, dear God!’ I cried, and fell on my knees before him. ‘My brothers won’t help me.’

“‘What ails you?’ he asked, ‘and who are you?’

“‘I am one of Thy chosen folk, one of the poor,’ I answered. ‘I am starving!’

“‘You are starving and complain of your brothers, who have set forth food for you in abundance?’ he said angrily, pointing to all the fine shops. ‘You do not belong to my chosen people—away with you!’ And then he lashed me over the back with his knout.”

Morten checked himself and spoke no more; it was as though he neither saw nor heard; he had quite collapsed. Suddenly he turned away, without saying good-bye.

Pelle went home; he was vexed by Morten’s violence, which was, he felt, an attack upon himself. He knew this of himself—that he was not faithless; and no one had any right to grudge him the happiness of founding a family. He was quite indignant—for the first time for a long time. That they should taunt him, who had done more for the cause than most!—just because he looked after his own affairs for a time! Something unruly was rising within him; he felt a sudden need to lay about him; to fight a good stiff battle and shake the warm domesticity out of his bones.

Down by the canal they were engaged cutting the ice in order to clear the water. It was already spring tide, and the ice-cakes were drifting toward the sea, but with unbelievable slowness. After all, that’s the work for you, he told himself as he turned away. He was conscious of that which lay beneath the surface, but he would not let it rise.

As soon as he was between four walls again he grew calmer. Ellen sat by the stove busied with little Lasse, who lay sprawling on his belly in her lap.

“Only look what a sweet little roly-poly he is! There isn’t a trace of chafing anywhere!”

XVII

From his place at the window Pelle could look out over the canal and the bridge by the prison, where the prisoners lay on the rafts, washing wool. He recognized Ferdinand’s tall, powerful figure; shortly after Christmas they had captured him in an underground vault in the cemetery, where he had established himself; the snow had betrayed his hiding- place. And now he lay yonder, so near the “Ark” and his mother! From time to time he raised his closely-shorn head and looked thither.

Beyond the bridge toward the market, was the potter with his barge; he had piled up his Jutland wares on the quay, and the women from Kristianshavn came to deal with him. And behind at the back of all rose the mass of the “Ark.”

It was so huge that it did not give the impression of a barracks, but had rather the character of a fantastic village—as though a hundred hamlets had been swept together in one inextricable heap. Originally it had been a little frame building of one story with a gabled roof. Then it had gradually become an embryo town; it budded in all directions, upward as well, kaleidoscopically increasing to a vast mass of little bits of facade, high-pitched roofs, deep bays, and overhanging gables, all mingled together in an endless confusion, till in the middle it was five stories high. And there a bluish ring of vapor always hovered, revealing the presence of the well, that hidden ventilating shaft for the thronging inmates of the “Ark.” One could recognize Madam Frandsen’s garret with its chimney-cowl, and farther back, in a deep recess, which ran far into the mass of the building, Pelle could distinguish Hanne’s window. Otherwise he could not place many of the little windows. They stared like failing eyes. Even the coal-dealer, who was the deputy landlord of the “Ark,” was imperfectly acquainted with all its holes and corners.

He could see the inmates of the “Ark” running to and fro across the bridge, careless and myopic; they always rushed along, having started at the last moment. There was something tranquilizing about their negligence, which was evoked by privation; in the “Ark” a man began to worry about his food only when he sat down to table and discovered there wasn’t any!

And among them little groups of workmen wandered in and out across the bridge; that steady march from the North Bridge had travelled hither, as though seeking him out.

The masses were now no longer vaguely fermenting; a mighty will was in process of formation. Amid the confusion, the chaotic hubbub, definite lines became visible; a common consciousness came into being and assumed a direction; the thousands of workers controlled themselves in a remarkable way, and were now progressing, slowly and prudently, with the ideal of closing up the ranks. One whose hearing was a little dull might have received the impression that nothing was happening—that they were reconciled with their lot; but Pelle knew what was going on. He himself had put his shoulder to the wheel, and was secretly one of their number.

He was happy in Ellen’s divided love, and all he undertook had reference to her and the child.

But now again the sound of footsteps echoed through his brain; and it would not be silenced. They had penetrated further than he himself could go. It was as though a deadening screen had suddenly been removed and whether he wished it or not, he heard every step of the wanderers outside.

The hard times forced them to proceed quietly, but work was being done in secret. The new ideas were in process of becoming current, the newspapers introduced them into the bosom of the family, and they were uttered from the speaker’s platform, or discussed at meal-times in workshop and factory. The contagion ran up staircases and went from door to door. Organizations which more than once had been created and broken up were created afresh—and this time to endure. The employers fought them, but could not defeat them; there was an inward law working upon the masses, making a structure behind which they must defend themselves.

They taxed themselves and stole the bread out of their own mouths in order to increase the funds of their organization, in the blind conviction that eventually something miraculous would come of it all. The poor achieved power by means of privation, tears, and self-denial, and had the satisfaction of feeling that they were rich through their organization. When many united together they tasted of the sweets of wealth; and, grateful as they were, they regarded that already as a result. A sense of well-being lifted them above the unorganized, and they felt themselves socially superior to the latter. To join the trades unions now signified a rise in the social scale. This affected many, and others were driven into the movement by the strong representations of their house-mates. The big tenement buildings were gradually leavened by the new ideas; those who would not join the Union must clear out. They were treated as the scum of society, and could only settle down in certain quarters of the city. It no longer seemed impossible to establish the organization of labor in a stable fashion, and to accomplish something for the workers—if only some courageous worker would place himself at the head of affairs. The fact that most of them worked at home in their lodgings could no longer make them invisible— the movement had eyes everywhere. Pelle, with surprise, caught himself sitting at his bench and making plans for the development of the movement.

He put the matter from him, and devoted his whole mind to Ellen and the child. What had he to do with the need of strangers, when these two called for all his ability and all his strength, if he was to provide them merely with necessities? He had tortured himself enough with the burden of poverty—and to no end. And now he had found his release in a blessed activity, which, if he was to neglect nothing, would entirely absorb him. What then was the meaning of this inward admonition, that seemed to tell him that he was sinning against his duty?

He silenced the inward voice by dwelling on his joy in his wife and child. But it returned insidiously and haunted his mind like a shadow.

At times, as he sat quietly working, something called him: “Pelle, Pelle!”—or the words throbbed in his ears in the depth of the night.

At such times he sat upright in bed, listening. Ellen and the child were fast asleep; he could hear a faint whistling as little Lasse drew his breath. He would go to the door and open it, although he shook his head at his own folly. It was surely a warning that some one near to him was in trouble!

At this time Pelle threw himself passionately into his life with Ellen and the child; he lived for them as wholly as though he had anticipated an immediate parting.

They had purchased a perambulator on the instalment system, and every Sunday they packed sandwiches under the apron and pushed it before them to the Common, or they turned into some beer-garden in the neighborhood of the city, where they ate their provisions and drank coffee. Often too they made their way along the coast road, and went right out into the forest. Lasse-Frederik, as Ellen called him, sat throned in all his splendor in the perambulator, like a little idol, Pelle and Ellen pushing him alternately. Ellen did not want to permit this. “It’s no work for a man, pushing a perambulator,” she would say. “You won’t see any other man doing it! They let their wives push the family coach.”

“What are other people to me?” replied Pelle. “I don’t keep a horse yet.”

She gave him a grateful look; nevertheless, she did not like it.

They spent glorious hours out there. Little Lasse was allowed to scramble about to his heart’s content, and it was wonderful how he tumbled about; he was like a frolicsome little bear. “I believe he can smell the earth under him,” said Pelle, recalling his own childish transports. “It’s a pity he has to live in that barrack there!” Ellen gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

They did not move about much; it contented them to lie there and to delight in the child, when he suddenly sat up and gazed at them in astonishment, as though he had just discovered them. “Now he’s beginning to think!” said Pelle, laughing.

“You take my word for it, he’s hungry.” And little Lasse scrambled straight up to his mother, striking at her breast with his clenched hands, and saying, “Mam, mam!” Pelle and the perambulator had to station themselves in front of her while he was fed.

When they reached home it was evening. If the doormat was displaced it meant that some one had been to call on them; and Ellen was able to tell, from its position, who the visitor had been. Once it stood upright against the wall.

“That’s Uncle Carpenter,” said Pelle quietly. Little Lasse was sleeping on his arm, his head resting on Pelle’s shoulder.

“No, it will have been Cousin Anna,” said Ellen, opening the door. “Thank the Lord we weren’t at home, or we should have had such a business till late in the evening! They never eat anything at home on Sundays, they simply drink a mouthful of coffee and then go round eating their relations out of house and home.”

XVIII

Pelle often thought with concern of the three orphans in the “Ark.” They were learning nothing that would be of use to them in the future, but had all they could do to make a living. The bad times had hit them too, and little Karl in particular; people were stingy with their tips. In these days they were never more than a day ahead of destitution, and the slightest misfortune would have brought them face to face with it. But they let nothing of this be seen—they were only a little quieter and more solemn than usual. He had on several occasions made inquiries as to obtaining help for them, but nothing could be done without immediately tearing them asunder; all those who were in a position to help them cried out against their little household, and separation was the worst that could befall them.

When he went to see them Marie always had plenty to tell and to ask him; he was still her particular confidant, and had to listen to all her household cares and give her his advice. She was growing tall now, and had a fresher look than of old; and Pelle’s presence always filled her eyes with joy and brought the color to her cheeks. Father Lasse she eulogized, in a voice full of emotion, as though he were a little helpless child; but when she asked after Ellen a little malice glittered in her eyes.

One morning, as he sat working at home, while Ellen was out with the child, there was a knock at the door. He went out and opened it. In the little letter-box some one had thrust a number of _The Working Man_, with an invitation to take the paper regularly. He opened the paper eagerly, as he sat down to his bench again; an extraordinary feeling of distress caused him first of all to run through the “Accidents.”

He started up in his chair; there was a heading concerning a fourteen- year-old boy who worked in a tinplate works and had had the fingers of the right hand cut off. A premonition told him that this misfortune had befallen the little “Family”; he quickly drew on a coat and ran over to the “Ark.”

Marie met him anxiously. “Can you understand what has happened to Peter? He never came home last night!” she said, in distress. “Lots of boys roam about the streets all night, but Peter has never been like that, and I kept his supper warm till midnight. I thought perhaps he’d got into bad company.”

Pelle showed her _The Working Man_. In a little while the inmates of the “Ark” would see the report and come rushing up with it. It was better that he should prepare her beforehand. “But it’s by no means certain,” he said, to cheer her. “Perhaps it isn’t he at all.”

Marie burst into tears. “Yes, of course it is! I’ve so often gone about worrying when he’s been telling me about those sharp knives always sliding between their fingers. And they can’t take proper care of themselves; they must work quickly or they get the sack. Oh, poor dear Peter!” She had sunk into her chair and now sat rocking to and fro with her apron to her eyes, like an unhappy mother.

“Now be grown-up and sensible,” said Pelle, laying his hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps it’s not so bad after all; the papers always exaggerate. Now I’ll run out and see if I can trace him.”

“Go to the factory first, then,” said Marie, jumping to her feet, “for, of course, they’ll know best. But you mustn’t in any case say where we live—do you hear? Remember, we’ve not been to school, and he hasn’t been notified to the pastor for confirmation. We could be punished if they found that out.”

“I’ll take good care,” said Pelle, and he hurried away.

At the factory he received the information that Peter was lying in hospital. He ran thither, and arrived just at the time for visitors. Peter was sitting upright in bed, his hand in a sling; this gave him a curiously crippled appearance. And on the boy’s face affliction had already left those deep, ineradicable traces which so dismally distinguish the invalided worker. The terrible burden of the consequences of mutilation could already be read in his pondering, childish gaze.

He cheered up when he saw Pelle, made an involuntary movement with his right hand, and then, remembering, held out his left. “There—I must give you my left fist now,” he said, with a dismal smile. “That’ll seem queer to me for a bit. If I can do anything at all. Otherwise”—he made a threatening movement of the head—“I tell you this—I’ll never be a burden to Marie and Karl all my life. Take my word for it, I shall be able to work again.”

“We shall soon find something for you,” said Pelle, “and there are kind people, too. Perhaps some one will help you so that you can study.” He himself did not know just where that idea came from; he certainly had never seen such a case. The magical dreams of his childhood had been responsible for a whole class of ideas, which were nourished by the anecdotes of poor boys in the reading-books. He was confronted by the impossible, and quite simply he reached out after the impossible.

Peter had no reading-books at his back. “Kind people!” he cried scornfully—“they never have anything themselves, and I can’t even read —how should I learn how to study? Karl can read; he taught himself from the signs in the streets while he was running his errands; and he can write as well. And Hanne has taught Marie a little. But all my life I’ve only been in the factory.” He stared bitterly into space; it was melancholy to see how changed his face was—it had quite fallen in.

“Don’t worry now,” said Pelle confidently: “we shall soon find something.”

“Only spare me the poor-relief! Don’t you go begging for me—that’s all!” said Peter angrily. “And, Pelle,” he whispered, so that no one in the room should hear, “it really isn’t nice here. Last night an old man lay there and died—close to me. He died of cancer, and they didn’t even put a screen round him. All the time he lay there and stared at me! But in a few days I shall be able to go out. Then there’ll be something to be paid—otherwise the business will come before the Poor Law guardians, and then they’ll begin to snuff around—and I’ve told them fibs, Pelle! Can’t you come and get me out? Marie has money for the house-rent by her—you can take that.”

Pelle promised, and hurried back to his work. Ellen was at home; she was moving about and seemed astonished. Pelle confided the whole affair to her. “Such a splendid fellow he is,” he said, almost crying. “A little too solemn with all his work—and now he’s a cripple! Only a child, and an invalided worker already—it’s horrible to think of!”

Ellen went up to him and pulled his head against her shoulder; soothingly she stroked his hair. “We must do something for him, Ellen,” he said dully.

“You are so good, Pelle. You’d like to help everybody; but what can we do? We’ve paid away all our savings over my lying-in.”

“We must sell or pawn some of our things.”

She looked at him horrified. “Pelle, our dear home! And there’s nothing here but just what is absolutely necessary. And you who love our poor little belongings so! But if you mean that, why, of course! Only you are doing something for him already in sacrificing your time.”

After that he was silent. She several times referred to the matter again, as something that must be well deliberated, but he did not reply. Her conversation hurt him—whether he replied to it or was silent.

In the afternoon he invented an errand in the city, and made his way to the factory. He made for the counting-house, and succeeded in seeing the manufacturer himself. The latter was quite upset by the occurrence, but pleaded in vindication that the accident was entirely the result of negligence. He advised Pelle to make a collection among the workers in the factory, and he opened it himself with a contribution of twenty kroner. He also held out the prospect that Peter, who was a reliable lad, might take a place as messenger and collector when he was well again.

Peter was much liked by his comrades; a nice little sum was collected. Pelle paid his hospital dues, and there was so much left that he would be able to stay at home and rest with an easy mind until his hand was healed and he could take the place of messenger at the factory. The young invalid was in high spirits, knowing that his living was assured; he passed the time in lounging about the town, wherever there was music to be heard, in order to learn fresh tunes. “This is the first holiday I’ve had since I went to the factory,” he told Pelle.

He did not get the place as messenger—some one stole a march on him; but he received permission to go back to his old work! With the remains of his right hand he could hold the sheet of tin-plate on the table, while the left hand had to accustom itself to moving among the threatening knives. This only demanded time and a little extra watchfulness.

This accident was branded on Pelle’s soul, and it aroused his slumbering resentment. Chance had given him the three orphans in the place of brothers and sisters, and he felt Peter’s fate as keenly as if it had been his own. It was a scandal that young children should be forced to earn their living by work that endangered their lives, in order to keep the detested Poor Law guardians at bay. What sort of a social order was this? He felt a suffocating desire to strike out, to attack it.

The burden of Due’s fate, aggravated by this fresh misfortune, was once more visible in his face; Ellen’s gentle hand, could not smooth it away. “Don’t look so angry, now—you frighten the child so!” she would say, reaching him the boy. And Pelle would try to smile; but it was only a grim sort of smile.

He did not feel that it was necessary to allow Ellen to look into his bleeding soul; he conversed with her about indifferent things. At other times he sat gazing into the distance, peering watchfully at every sign; he was once more full of the feeling that he was appointed to some particular purpose. He was certain that tidings of some kind were on the way to him.

And then Shoemaker Petersen died, and he was again asked to take over the management of the Union.

“What do you say to that?” he asked Ellen, although his mind was irrevocably made up.

“You must know that yourself,” she replied reservedly. “But if it gives you pleasure, why, of course!”

“I am not doing it to please myself,” said Pelle gloomily. “I am not a woman!”

He regretted his words, and went over to Ellen and kissed her. She had tears in her eyes, and looked at him in astonishment.

XIX

There was plenty to be done. The renegades must be shepherded back to the organization—shepherded or driven; Pelle took the most willing first, allowing numbers to impress the rest. Those who were quite stubborn he left to their own devices for the time being; when they were isolated and marked men into the bargain, they could do no further mischief.

He felt well rested, and went very methodically to work. The feeling that his strength would hold out to the very end lent him a quiet courage that inspired confidence. He was not over-hasty, but saw to everything from the foundations upward; individual questions he postponed until the conditions for solving them should be at hand. He knew from previous experience that nothing could be accomplished unless the ranks were tightly knit together.