Chapter 74

The man looked at him with a gaze that seemed to belong to another world. “Yes, I had to come over here, Pelle!” he said significantly. “I saw the poor wandering hither from the town and farther away, so I followed them, so that no harm should come to them. For you poor are the chosen people of God, who must wander and wander until they come into the Kingdom. Now the sea has stayed you here, and you can go no farther; so you think the Kingdom must lie here. God has sent me to tell you that you are mistaken. And you, Pelle, will you join us now? God is waiting and longing for you; he wants to use you for the good of all these little ones.” And he held Pelle’s hand in his, gazing at him compellingly; perhaps he thought Pelle had come in order to seek the shelter of his “Kingdom.”

Here was another who had the intention of leading the poor to the land of fortune! But Pelle had his own poor. “I have done what I could for them,” he said self-consciously.

“Yes, I know that well; but that is not the right way, the way you are following! You do not give them the bread of life!”

“I think they have more need of black bread. Look at them—d’you think they get too much to eat?”

“And can you give them food, then? I can give them the joy of God, so that they forget their hunger for a while. Can you do more than make them feel their hunger even more keenly?”

“Perhaps I can. But I’ve got no time to talk it over now; I came to look for my old father.”

“Your father, I have met in the streets lately, with a sack on his back —he did not look very cheerful. And I met him once over yonder with Sort the shoemaker; he wanted to come over here and spend his old age with his son.”

Pelle said nothing, but ran off. He clenched his fists in impotent wrath as he rushed out of the place. People went about jeering at him, one more eagerly than the other, and the naked truth was that he—young and strong and capable as he was in his calling—could not look after his wife and children and his old father, even when he had regular work. Yes, so damnable were the conditions that a man in the prime of his youth could not follow the bidding of nature and found a family without plunging those that were dependent on him into want and misery! Curse it all, the entire system ought to be smashed! If he had power over it he would want to make the best use of it!

In Stone Street he heard a hoarse, quavering voice singing in the central courtyard of one of the houses. It was Father Lasse. The rag-bag lay near him, with the hook stuck into it. He was clasping the book with one hand, while with the other he gesticulated toward the windows as he sang. The song made the people smile, and he tried to make it still more amusing by violent gestures which ill-suited his pitiful appearance.

It cut Pelle to the heart to see his wretched condition. He stepped into a doorway and waited until his father should have finished his song. At certain points in the course of the song Lasse took off his cap and smacked it against his head while he raised one leg in the air. He very nearly lost his equilibrium when he did this, and the street urchins who surrounded him pulled at his ragged coat-tails and pushed one another against him. Then he stood still, spoke to them in his quavering voice, and took up his song again.

“O listen to my song, a tale of woe: I came into the world as do so many: My mother bore me in the street below, And as for father, why, I hadn’t any! Till now I’ve faithfully her shame concealed: I tell it now to make my song complete. O drop a shilling down that I may eat, For eat I must, or soon to Death I yield.

“Into this world without deceit I came, That’s why you see me wear no stockings now. A poor old man who drudges anyhow, I have a wealthy brother, more’s the shame. But he and I are opposites in all; While I rake muck he rakes his money up: Much gold is his and many a jewelled cup, And all he fancies, that is his at call.

“My brother, he has built a palace splendid, And silver harness all his horses bear. Full twenty crowns an hour he gets, I hear, By twiddling thumbs and wishing day were ended! Gold comes to him as dirt to Lasse, blast him! And everywhere he turns there money lies. ’Twill all be mine when once my brother dies— If I but live—so help me to outlast him!

“Luck tried to help me once, but not again! Weary with toiling I was like to swoon. When God let fall milk-porridge ’stead of rain! And I, poor donkey, hadn’t brought a spoon! Yes, Heaven had meant to help me, me accurst! I saw my luck but couldn’t by it profit! Quickly my brother made a banquet of it— Ate my milk-porridge till he nearly burst!

“Want bears the sceptre here on earth below, And life is always grievous to the poor. But God, who rules the world, and ought to know, Says all will get their rights when life is o’er. Therefore, good people, hear me for His sake— A trifle for the poor man’s coffin give, Wherein his final journey he must take; Have mercy on my end while yet I live!

“Yet one thing God has given me—my boy. And children are the poor man’s wealth, I know. O does he think of me, my only joy, Who have no other treasure here below? Long time have we been parted by mishap: I’m tired of picking rags and sick of song; God who sees all reward you all ere long: O drop a trifle in poor Lasse’s cap!”

When Lasse had finished his song the people clapped and threw down coins wrapped in paper, and he went round picking them up. Then he took his sack on his back and stumped away, bent almost double, through the gateway.

“Father!” cried Pelle desperately. “Father!”

Lasse stood up with a jerk and peered through the gateway with his feeble eyes. “Is that you, lad? Ach, it sounded like your voice when you were a child, when any one was going to hurt you and you came to me for help.” The old man was trembling from head to foot. “And now I suppose you’ve heard the whole thing and are ashamed of your old father?” He dared not look at his son.

“Father, you must come home with me now—do you hear?” said Pelle, as they entered the street together.

“No, that I can’t do! There’s not enough even for your own mouths—no, you must let me go my own way. I must look after myself—and I’m doing quite well.”

“You are to come home with me—the children miss you, and Ellen asks after you day after day.”

“Yes, that would be very welcome…. But I know what folks would think if I were to take the food out of your children’s mouths! Besides—I’m a rag-picker now! No, you mustn’t lead me into temptation.”

“You are to come with me now—never mind about anything else. I can’t bear this, father!”

“Well, then, in God’s name, I must publish my shame before you, lad—if you won’t let me be! See now, I’m living with some one—with a woman. I met her out on the refuse-heaps, where she was collecting rubbish, just as I was. I had arranged a corner for myself out there—for the night, until I could find a lodging—and then she said I was to go home with her—it wouldn’t be so cold if there were two of us. Won’t you come home with me, so that you can see where we’ve both got to? Then you can see the whole thing and judge for yourself. We live quite close.”

They turned into a narrow lane and entered a gateway. In the backyard, in a shed, which looked like the remains of an old farm cottage, was Lasse’s home. It looked as though it had once been used as a fuel-shed; the floor was of beaten earth and the roof consisted of loose boards. Under the roof cords were stretched, on which rags, paper, and other articles from the dustbins were hung to dry. In one corner was a mean- looking iron stove, on which a coffee-pot was singing, mingling its pleasant fragrance with the musty stench of the rubbish. Lasse stretched himself to ease his limbs.

“Ach, I’m quite stiff!” he said, “and a little chilled. Well, here you see my little mother—and this is my son, Pelle, my boy.” He contentedly stroked the cheeks of his new life’s partner.

This was an old, bent, withered woman, grimy and ragged; her face was covered with a red eruption which she had probably contracted on the refuse-heaps. But a pair of kind eyes looked out of it, which made up for everything else.

“So that is Pelle!” she said, looking at him. “So that’s what he is like! Yes, one has heard his name; he’s one of those who will astonish the world, although he hasn’t red hair.”

Pelle had to drink a cup of coffee. “You can only have bread-and-butter with it; we old folks can’t manage anything else for supper,” said Lasse. “We go to bed early, both of us, and one sleeps badly with an over-full stomach.”

“Well, now, what do you think of our home?” said Father Lasse, looking proudly about him. “We pay only four kroner a month for it, and all the furniture we get for nothing—mother and I have brought it all here from the refuse-heaps, every stick of it, even the stove. Just look at this straw mattress, now—it’s really not bad, but the rich folks threw it away! And the iron bedstead—we found that there; I’ve tied a leg to it. And yesterday mother came in carrying those curtains, and hung them up. A good thing there are people who have so much that they have to throw it on the dust-heap!”

Lasse was quite cheerful; things seemed to be going well with him; and the old woman looked after him as if he had been the love of her youth. She helped him off with his boots and on with his list slippers, then she brought a long pipe out of the corner, which she placed between his lips; he smiled, and settled down to enjoy himself.

“Do you see this pipe, Pelle? Mother saved up for this, without my knowing anything about it—she has got such a long one I can’t light it myself! She says I look like a regular pope!” Lasse had to lean back in his chair while she lit the pipe.

When Pelle left, Lasse accompanied him across the yard. “Well, what do you think of it?” he said.

“I am glad to see things are going so well with you,” said Pelle humbly.

Lasse pressed his hand. “Thanks for that! I was afraid you would be strict about it. As quite a little boy, you used to be deucedly strict in that direction. And see now, of course, we could marry—there is no impediment in either case. But that costs money—and the times are hard. As for children coming, and asking to be brought into the world respectably, there’s no danger of that.”

Pelle could not help smiling; the old man was so much in earnest.

“Look in on us again soon—you are always welcome,” said Lasse. “But you needn’t say anything of this to Ellen—she is so peculiar in that respect!”

XXXIII

No, Pelle never told Ellen anything now. She had frozen his speech. She was like the winter sun; the side that was turned away from her received no share of her warmth. Pelle made no claims on her now; he had long ago satisfied himself that she could not respond to the strongest side of his nature, and he had accustomed himself to the idea of waging his fight alone. This had made him harder, but also more of a man.

At home the children were ailing—they did not receive proper care, and the little girl was restless, especially during the night. The complaining and coughing of the children made the home uncomfortable. Ellen was dumb; like an avenging fate she went about her business and cared for the children. Her expressive glance never encountered his; although he often felt that her eyes were resting on him. She had grown thin of late, which lent her beauty, a fanatical glow, and a touch of malice. There were times when he would have given his life for an honest, burning kiss as a token of this woman’s love.

He understood her less and less, and was often filled with inexplicable anxiety concerning her. She suffered terribly through the condition of the children; and when she quieted them, with a bleeding heart, her voice had a fateful sound that made him shudder. Sometimes he was driven home by the idea that she might have made away with herself and the children.

One day, when he had hurried home with this impression in his mind, she met him smiling and laid on the table five and twenty kroner.

“What’s that?” asked Pelle, in amazement.

“I’ve won that in the lottery!” she said.

So that was why her behavior had been so peculiarly mysterious during the last few days—as though there had been something which he must not on any account get to know. She had ventured her last shilling and was afraid he would find it out!

“But where did you get the money?” he asked.

“I borrowed it from my old friend, Anna—we went in for it together. Now we can have the doctor and medicine for the children, and we ourselves can have anything we want,” she said.

This money worked a transformation in Ellen, and their relations were once more warmly affectionate. Ellen was more lovingly tender in her behavior than ever before, and was continually spoiling him. Something had come over her that was quite new; her manner showed a sort of contrition, which made her gentle and loving, and bound Pelle to his home with the bonds of ardent desire. Now once more he hurried home. He took her manner to be an apology for her harsh judgment of him; for here, too, she was different, and began to interest herself in his work for the Cause, inciting him, by all sorts of allusions, to continue it. It was evident that in spite of her apparent coldness she had kept herself well informed concerning it. Her manner underwent a most extraordinary transformation. She, the hard, confident Ellen, became mild and uncertain in her manner. She no longer kept sourly out of things, and had learned to bow her head good-naturedly. She was no longer so self-righteous.

One day, toward evening, Pelle was sitting at home before the looking- glass, and shaving himself; he had cut off the whole of his fine big moustache and was now shaving off the last traces of it. Ellen was amused to see how his face was altered. “I can scarcely recognize you!” she said. He had thought she would have opposed its removal, and have put his moustache before the Cause; but she was pleasant about the whole matter. He could not at all understand this alteration in her.

When he had finished he stood up and went over to Young Lasse, but the child cried out in terror. Then he put on his old working-clothes, made his face and head black, and made his way to the machine-works.

The factory was in full swing now; they were working alternate shifts, day and night, with the help of interned strike-breakers, the “locked- in” workers, as the popular wit called them.

The iron-masters had followed up their victory and had managed to set yet another industry in motion again. If this sort of thing went much further the entire iron industry would one day be operated without the locked-out workers, who could stand outside and look on. But now a blow was about to be struck! Pelle’s heart was full of warmth and joy as he left home, and he felt equal for anything.

He slipped through the pickets unnoticed, and succeeded in reaching the door of the factory. “They’re asleep—the devils!” he thought angrily, and was very near spoiling the whole thing by administering a reprimand. He knocked softly on the door and was admitted. The doorkeeper took him to the foreman, who was fortunately a German.

Pelle was given employment in the foundry, with very good wages. He was also promised that he should receive a bonus of twenty-five kroner when he had been there a certain time. “That’s the Judas money,” said the foreman, grinning. “And then as soon as the lock-out is over you’ll of course be placed in the forefront of the workers. Now you are quite clear about this—that you can’t get out of here until then. If you want to send something to your wife, we’ll see to that.”

He was shown to a corner where a sack full of straw lay on the floor; this was his dwelling-place and his refuge for the night.

In the factory the work went on as best it might. The men rushed at their work as in a frolic, drifted away again, lounged about the works, or stood here and there in groups, doing as they chose. The foremen did not dare to speak to them; if they made a friendly remark they were met with insults. The workers were taking advantage of the fact that they were indispensable; their behavior was sheer tyranny, and they were continually harping on the fact that they would just as soon go as stay. These words made them the masters of the situation.

They were paid big wages and received abundance to eat and to drink. And the working day or shift was shorter than usual. They did not understand the real significance of this change of life, but went about playing the bally. But there was a peculiar hesitation visible in their faces, as though they were not quite sure of one another. The native workers, who were in the minority, kept to themselves—as though they felt an inward contempt for those fellows who had travelled so far to fish in the troubled waters of their distress.

They were working three shifts, each of eight hours’ duration.

“Oho!” thought Pelle, “why, this, good God, is the eight-hours’ day! This is surely the State of the future!” At the very moment of his arrival one shift was completed, and the men immediately proceeded to make the most infernal uproar, hammering on metal and shouting for food and brandy. A huge cauldron full of beef and potatoes was dragged in. Pelle was told off to join a mess of ten men.

“Eat, matey!” they said. “Hungry, ain’t you? How long had you been out of work before you gave in?”

“Three months,” said Pelle.

“Then you must be peckish. Here with the beef! More beef here!” they cried, to the cook’s mate. “You can keep the potatoes and welcome! We’ve eaten enough potatoes all our lives!”—“This is Tom Tiddler’s land, with butter sauce into the bargain! This is how we’ve always said it ought to be—good wages and little to do, lots to eat and brandy to drink! Now you can see it was a good thing we held out till it came to this—now we get our reward! Your health! Here, damme, what’s your name, you there?”

“Karlsen,” said Pelle.

“Here’s to you, Karlsen! Well, and how are things looking outside? Have you seen my wife lately? She’s easy to recognize—she’s a woman with seven children with nothing inside their ribs! Well, how goes it with the strikers?”

After eating they sat about playing cards, and drinking, or they loafed about and began to quarrel; they were a sharp-tongued crew; they went about actuated by a malicious longing to sting one another. “Come and have a game with us, mate—and have a drink!” they cried to Pelle. “Damn it all, how else should a man kill the time in this infernal place? Sixteen hours’ sleep a day—no, that’s more than a chap can do with!”

There was a deafening uproar, as though the place had been a vast tavern, with men shouting and abusing one another; each contributed to the din as though he wanted to drown it by his own voice. They were able to buy drink in the factory, and they drank what they earned. “That’s their conscience,” thought Pelle. “At heart they are good comrades.” There seemed to be some hope of success for his audacious maneuver. A group of Germans took no part in the orgy, but had set up a separate colony in the remotest corner of the hall. They were there to make money!

In one of the groups a dispute broke out between the players; they were reviling one another in no measured language, and their terms of abuse culminated in the term “strike-breaker.” This made them perfectly furious. It was as though an abscess had broken; all their bottled-up shame and anger concerning their infamous position burst forth. They began to use knives and tools on one another. The police, who kept watch on the factory day and night, were called in, and restored tranquillity. A wounded smith was bandaged in the office, but no arrest was made. Then a sudden slackness overcame them.

They constantly crowded round Pelle. He was a new man; he came from outside. “How are things going out there?” was the constant question.

“Things are going very well out there. It’s a worse lookout for us in here,” said Pelle.

“Going very well, are they? We’ve been told they are near giving in.”

“Who told you that?”

“The bosses of the factory here.”

“Then they were fooling you, in order to keep you here.”

“That’s a lie! And what d’you mean by saying it’s a worse look-out for us? Out with it, now!”

“We shall never get regular work again. The comrades are winning—and when they begin work again they’ll demand that we others shall be locked out.”

“The devil—and they’ve promised us the best positions!” cried a great smith. “But you’re a liar! That you are! And why did you come here if they are nearly winning outside? Answer me, damn it all! A man doesn’t come slinking into this hell unless he’s compelled!”

“To leave his comrades in the lurch, you might add,” replied Pelle harshly. “I wanted to see how it feels to strike the bread away from the mouths of the starving.”

“That’s a lie! No one would be so wicked! You are making fools of us, you devil!”

“Give him a thrashing,” said another. “He’s playing a crooked game. Are you a spy, or what do you want here? Do you belong to those idiots outside?”

It had been Pelle’s plan to put a good face on a crooked job, and cautiously to feel his way; but now he grew angry.

“You had better think what you’re doing before you call honorable men idiots,” he retorted violently. “Do you know what you are? Swine! You lie there eating your fill and pouring the drink down your throats and living easy on the need of your comrades! Swine, that you are—Judases, who have sold a good cause for dirty money! How much did you get? Five and twenty kroner, eh? And out there they are loyally starving, so that all of us—yes, you too—can live a little more like human beings in the future!”

“You hold your jaw!” said the big smith. “You’ve no wife and children— you can easily talk!”

“Aren’t you the fellow who lives in Jaegersborg Street?” Pelle demanded. “Perhaps you are sending what you earn to your wife and children? Then why are they in want? Yesterday they were turned out of doors; the organization took them in and found a roof to go over their heads— although they were a strike-breaker’s family!” Pelle himself had made this possible.

“Send—damn and blast it all—I’ll send them something! But if one lives this hell of a life in here the bit of money one earns all goes in rot- gut! And now you’re going to get a thrashing!” The smith turned up his shirt-sleeves so that his mighty muscles were revealed. He was no longer reasonable, but glared at Pelle like an angry bull.

“Wait a bit,” said an older man, stepping up to Pelle. “I think I’ve seen you before. What is your real name, if I may make bold to ask?”

“My name? You are welcome to know it. I am Pelle.”

This name produced an effect like that of an explosion. They were dazzled. The smith’s arms fell slack; he turned his head aside in shame. Pelle was among them! They had left him in the lurch, had turned their backs on him, and now he stood there laughing at them, not the least bit angry with them. What was more, he had called them comrades; so he did not despise them! “Pelle is here!” they said quietly; further and further spread the news, and their tongues dwelt curiously on his name. A murmur ran through the shops. “What the devil—has Pelle come?” they cried, stumbling to their legs.

Pelle had leaped onto a great anvil. “Silence!” he cried, in a voice of thunder; “silence!” And there was silence in the great building. The men could hear their own deep breathing.

The foremen came rushing up and attempted to drag him down. “You can’t make speeches here!” they cried.

“Let him speak!” said the big smith threateningly. “You aren’t big enough to stop his mouth, not by a long chalk!” He seized a hammer and stationed himself at the foot of the anvil.