Chapter 90

The knowledge that everything was alive had a remarkable effect upon the two children. They always went about hand in hand, and kept carefully to the paths. All round them the earth was breaking and curious things coming up out of it. The beans had a bucket turned over them to protect them, and the lettuces put up folded hands as if they were praying for fine weather. Every morning when the children made their round of the garden, new things had come up. “’Oook, ’ook!” exclaimed Boy Comfort, pointing to the beds. They stood at a safe distance and talked to one another about the new wonders, bending over with their hands upon their backs as if afraid that the new thing would snatch at their fingers. Sometimes Boy Comfort’s chubby hand would come out involuntarily and want to take hold of things; but he withdrew it in alarm as if he had burnt himself, saying “Ow!” and then the two children would run as fast as they could up to the house.

For them the garden was a wonder-world full of delights—and full of terrors. They soon became familiar with the plants in their own way, and entered into a kind of mystic companionship with them, met them in a friendly way and exchanged opinions—like beings from different worlds, meeting on the threshold. There was always something mysterious about their new friends, which kept them at a distance; they did not give much information about themselves. When they were asked: “Who called you?” they answered quickly: “Mother Ellen!” But if they were asked what it looked like down in the earth, they made no answer whatever. The garden continued to be an inexhaustible world to the children, no matter how much they trotted about in it. Every day they went on new journeys of discovery in under elder and thorn bushes; there were even places which they had not yet got at, and others into which they did not venture at all. They went near to them many times in the course of the day, and peeped over the gooseberry bushes into the horrible darkness that sat in there like an evil being and had no name. Out in the brilliant sunshine on the path they stood and challenged it, Sister spitting until her chin and pinafore were wet, and Boy Comfort laboriously picking up stones and throwing them in. He was so fat that he could not bend down, but had to squat on his heels whenever he wanted to pick up anything. And then suddenly they would rush away to the house in a panic of fear.

It was not necessary to be a child to follow the life in the garden. A wonderful power of growing filled everything, and in the night it crackled and rustled out in the moonlight, branches stretched themselves in fresh growths, the sap broke through the old bark in the form of flowers and new “eyes.” It was as though Pelle and Ellen’s happy zeal had been infectious; the half-stifled fruit-trees that had not borne for many years revived and answered the gay voices by blossoming luxuriantly. It was a race between human beings and plants as to who should accomplish the most, and between the plants themselves as to which could make the best show. “The spring is lavishing its flowers and green things upon us,” said Pelle. He had never seen a nest that was so beautiful as his; he had at last made a home.

It was pleasant here. Virginia creeper and purple clematis covered the whole front of the house and hung down before the garden door, where Ellen liked to sit with her work, keeping an eye on the little ones playing on the grass, where she liked best to sit with Pelle on Sundays, when the Copenhagen families came wandering past on their little country excursions. They often stopped outside the hedge and exclaimed: “Oh, what a lovely home!”

The work in Pelle’s workshop began, as in all other places, at six in the morning; but it stopped at four, so that those who cared about it could easily make something of the day. Pelle had reduced the working hours to nine, and dared not venture any further for the present.

Some of the hands liked this arrangement, and employed the afternoon in going out with their wives and children; but others would rather have had an hour longer in bed in the morning. One day the latter came and declared that now they were in the majority and would have it changed.

“I can’t agree to that,” answered Pelle. “Being early up is the workman’s privilege, and I’m not going to give it up.”

“But we’ve taken the votes on it,” they said. “This is a democratic institution, isn’t it?”

“I’ve taken no oath to the vote,” Pelle answered quietly, “and in the meantime I should advise those who are dissatisfied with the conditions here to try somewhere else.”

There was always something like this going on, but he did not take it for more than it was worth. They had acquired consciousness of their power, but most of them had not yet discovered its aim. They used it blindly, in childish pleasure at seeing it unfold, like boys in unfurling their banner, tyrannized a little by way of a change, and took their revenge for the subjection of old times by systematically demanding the opposite to what they had. They reeled a little; the miracle of the voting-paper had gone to their heads. It was an intelligible transition; the feeling of responsibility would get hold of them in time.

Another day two of the most skilful workmen came and asked to have piece-work introduced again. “We won’t stand toiling to make money for our comrades,” they said.

“Are they idle?” asked Pelle.

“No, but we work quicker.”

“Then they’re more thorough on the whole. The one generally balances the other.”

“That’s all very well, but it doesn’t benefit us.”

“It benefits the consumers, and under the new conditions that’s the same thing. We must maintain the principle that all who do their duty are equally good; it’s in our own interests.”

They were satisfied for the time. They were two clever fellows, and it was only that they had not got hold of the new feature in the arrangement.

In this way there was considerable trouble. The workmen were short- sighted, and saw only from their hands to their own mouths. Impatience had also something to do with it. They had shorter hours and higher wages, but had not as much to do as in other places. It was new of course, and had to answer to their dreams; but there would be no fortunes to be made out of it as Pelle was working it. He was a little more precise than was necessary when you were pressed on all sides by vulgar competition.

There were, for instance, still a number of people who kept to the good old handsewn boots and shoes, and willingly paid half as much again for them. A good many small shoemakers availed themselves of this by advertising handsewn foot-wear, and then passed the measures on to a factory. It was a good business for both factory and shoemaker, but Pelle would have nothing to do with such transactions. He put his trade- mark on the sole of everything that went out of his workshop.

Pelle took all this with dignified calmness. What right had he to demand perspicuity of these people? It was _his_ business to educate them to it. If only they were willing, he was satisfied. Some day he supposed he would take them so far that they would be able to take over the business jointly, or make it self-supporting; but until then they would have to fall in with his plans.

Part of a great, far-off dream was nevertheless being realized in his undertaking, modest though it was at present; and if it were successful, the way to a new age for the petty tradesmen was open. And what was of still more importance, his own home was growing through this work. He had found the point where the happiness of the many lay in the lengthening of his own; he had got the right way now! Sometimes in the evening after a troublesome day he felt a little tired of the difficulties; but when he bicycled down toward the town in the early morning, while the mists of night drifted across the fields and the lark sang above his head, he was always in good spirits. Then he could follow the consequences of his labor, and see the good principles victorious and the work growing. Kindred enterprises sprang up in other parts of the town, in other towns, still farther out. In the far distance he could see that all production was in the hands of the working-men themselves.

Peter Dreyer supported him like a good comrade, and took a good deal of the worry off his shoulders. He unselfishly put all his strength into it, but he did not share Pelle’s belief in the enormous results that would come from it. “But, dear me, this is capitalistic too!” he said— “socialist capitalism! Just look up to the pavement! there goes a man with no soles to his shoes, and his feet are wet, but all the same he doesn’t come down here and get new shoes, for we want money for them just like all the others, and those who need our work most simply have none. That thing”—he went on, giving a kick to one of the machines— “turns ten men into the street! There you have the whole thing!”

Pelle defended his machines, but Peter would not give in. “The whole thing should have been altered first,” he said angrily. “As it is, they are inventions of the devil! The machines have come a day or two too early, and point their mouths at us, like captured cannons!”

“The machines make shoes for ten times as many people as we could make for with our hands,” said Pelle, “and that can hardly be called a misfortune. It’s only the distribution that’s all wrong.”

Peter Dreyer shrugged his shoulders; he would not discuss the question of distribution any more. If they meant to do anything to alter it he was willing to help. There had been enough nonsense talked about it. Those who had money could buy up all that they made, while the barefooted would be no better off than before. It was a deadlock. Did he think it would revolutionize the world if every man received the entire proceeds of his work? That only meant justice in the existing conditions, so long as diamonds continued to be more valuable than bread. “I don’t see that those who happen to have work should have a better right to live than those who can’t get any,” he said wrathfully. “Or perhaps you don’t know the curse of unemployment! Look at them wandering about in thousands, summer and winter, a whole army of shadows! The community provides for them so that they can just hang together. Good heavens, that isn’t helping the poor, with all respect to the honorable workman! Let him keep his vote, since it amuses him! It’s an innocent pleasure. Just think if he demanded proper food instead of it!”

Yes, Pelle was well enough acquainted with the great hunger reserve; he had very nearly been transferred into it himself. But here he nevertheless caught a glimpse of the bottom. There was a peaceable strength in what he was doing that might carry them on a long way. Peter Dreyer acknowledged it himself by working so faithfully with him. It was only that he would not admit it.

At first they had to stand a good deal, but by degrees Pelle learned to turn things off. Peter, who was generally so good and amenable, spoke in an angry, vexed tone when the conversation touched upon social conditions; it was as though he was at the end of his patience. Though he earned a very good amount, he was badly dressed and looked as if he did not get sufficient food; his breakfast, which he ate together with the others in the workshop, generally consisted of bread and margarine, and he quenched his thirst at the water-tap. At first the others made fun of his prison fare, but he soon taught them to mind their own business: it was not safe to offend him. Part of his earnings he used for agitation, and his comrades said that he lived with a humpbacked woman and her mother. He himself admitted no one into his confidence, but grew more and more reticent. Pelle knew that he lived in one of the Vesterbro back streets, but did not know his address. When he stood silent at his work, his expression was always gloomy, sometimes terribly sad. He seemed to be always in pain.

The police were always after him. Pelle had once or twice received a hint not to employ him, but firmly refused to submit to any interference in his affairs. It was then arbitrarily decided that Peter Dreyer should report himself to the authorities every week.

“I won’t do it!” he said. “It’s quite illegal. I’ve only been punished for political offences, and I’ve been so careful that they shouldn’t be able to get at me for any formal mistake, and here they’re having this triumph! I won’t!” He spoke quietly and without excitement, but his hands shook.

Pelle tried an appeal to his unselfishness. “Do it for my sake then,” he said. “If you don’t they’ll shut you up, and you know I can’t do without you.”

“Would you go and report yourself then if you were told to?” Peter asked.

“Yes. No one need be ashamed of submitting to superior brute force.”

So he went. But it cost him an enormous effort, and on that day in the week it was better to leave him alone.

XII

Marie’s fate lay no longer like a heavy burden upon Pelle; time had taken the bitterness out of it. He could recall without self-reproach his life with her and her two brothers in the “Ark,” and often wondered what had become of the latter. No one could give him any information about them.

One day, during the midday rest, he went on his bicycle out to Morten with a message from Ellen. In Morten’s sitting-room, a hunched-up figure was sitting with its back to the window, staring down at the floor. His clothes hung loosely upon him, and his thin hair was colorless. He slowly raised a wasted face as he looked toward the door. Pelle had already recognized him from his maimed right hand, which had only the thumb and one joint of the forefinger. He no longer hid it away, but let it lie upon his thin knee.

“Why, good-day, Peter!” exclaimed Pelle in surprise, holding out his hand to take the other’s left hand. Peter drew the hand out of his pocket and held it out. It was a dead, maimed lump with some small protuberances like rudiments of knuckles, that Pelle found in his hand. Peter looked into his face without moving a muscle of his own, and there was only a little gleam in his eyes when Pelle started.

“What in the world are you starting for?” he said dryly. “I should think any one might have known that a fellow couldn’t mind a shearing-machine with one hand. I knew it just as well as everybody else in the factory, and expected it every day; and at last I had to shut my eyes. Confound it, I often thought, won’t there soon be an end to it? And then one day there it was!”

Pelle shivered. “Didn’t you get any accident insurance?” he asked in order to say something.

“Of course I did! The whole council gathered on account of my humble self, and I was awarded three thousand krones (£170) as entirely invalided. Well, the master possessed nothing and had never insured me, so it never got beyond the paper. But anyhow it’s a great advance upon the last time, isn’t it? Our party has accomplished something!” He looked mockingly at Pelle. “You ought to give a cheer for paper reforms!”

Peter was a messenger and a kind of secretary in a revolutionary association for young men. He had taught himself to read and sat with other young men studying anarchistic literature. The others took care of him like brothers; but it was a marvel that he had not gone to the dogs. He was nothing but skin and bone, and resembled a fanatic that is almost consumed by his own fire. His intelligence had never been much to boast of, but there were not many difficulties in the problem that life had set him. He hated with a logic that was quite convincing. The strong community had passed a sham law, which was not even liable for the obligations that it admitted that it had with regard to him. He had done with it now and belonged to the destructionists.

He had come up to Morten to ask him to give a reading at the Club. “It’s not because we appreciate authors—you mustn’t imagine that,” he said with a gloomy look. “They live upon us and enjoy a meaningless respect for it. It’s only manual labor that deserves to be honored; everything else sponges on us. I’m only telling you so that you shan’t come imagining something different.”

“Thank you,” said Morten, smiling. “It’s always nice to know what you’re valued at. And still you think you can make use of me?”

“Yes, you’re one of the comparatively better ones among those who work to maintain the capitalists; but we’re agreed at the Club that you’re not a real proletariat writer, you’re far too much elaborated. There have never been proletariat writers; and it’s of no consequence either, for entertainment shouldn’t be made out of misery. It’s very likely you’ll hear all about that up there.”

“That’s all right. I’ll be sure to come,” answered Morten.

“And if you’ll write us a cantata for our anniversary festival—it’s the day of the great Russian massacre—I’ll see that it’s accepted. But it mustn’t be the usual hallelujah!”

“I’m glad I met you,” he said to Pelle with his unchanging expression of gloom. “Have you seen anything of Karl?”

“No, where is he?” asked Pelle eagerly.

“He’s a swell now. He’s got a business in Adel Street; but he won’t enjoy it long.”

“Why not? Is there anything wrong with his affairs?”

“Nothing more than that some day we’ll pull the whole thing down upon all your heads. There’ll soon be quite a number of us. I say, you might speak one evening in our association, and tell us something about your prison life. I think it would interest them. We don’t generally have outsiders, for we speak for ourselves; but I don’t think there’d be any difficulty in getting you introduced.”

Pelle promised.

“He’s a devil-may-care fellow, isn’t he?” exclaimed Morten when he had shut the door on Peter, “but he’s no fool. Did you notice that he never asked for anything? They never do. When they’re hungry they go up to the first person they meet and say: ‘Let me have something to eat!’ It’s all the same to them what’s put into their mouths so long as it’s satisfying, and they never thank gratefully. Nothing affects them. They’re men who put the thief above the beggar. I don’t dislike it really; there’s a new tone in it. Perhaps our well-behaved ruminant’s busy doing away with one stomach and making up the spare material into teeth and claws.”

“If only they’d come forward and do work!” said Pelle. “Strong words don’t accomplish much.”

“How’s it going with your peaceable revolution?” asked Morten with a twinkle in his eye. “Do you see any progress in the work?”

“Oh, yes, it’s slow but sure. Rome wasn’t built in a day. I didn’t think though that you were interested in it.”

“I think you’re on the right tack, Pelle,” answered Morten seriously. “But let the young ones light the fire underneath, and it’ll go all the quicker. That new eventualities crop up in this country is no disadvantage; the governing body may very well be made aware that there’s gunpowder under their seats. It’ll immensely strengthen their sense of responsibility! Would you like to see Johanna? She’s been wanting very much to see you. She’s ill again unfortunately.”

“Ellen sent me out to propose that she should come to stay with us in the country. She thinks the child must be a great trouble to you and cannot be properly looked after here either.”

“It’s very kind of your wife to think of it, but hasn’t she enough to do already?”

“Oh, Ellen can manage a great deal,” said Pelle heartily. “You would be giving her a pleasure.”

“Then I’ll say ‘Thank you’ for the offer,” exclaimed Morten. “It’ll be a great relief to me, if only she can stand the moving. It isn’t that she gives me any trouble now, for we get on capitally together. Johanna is good and manageable, really a splendid character in spite of her spoiling. You won’t have any difficulty with her. And I think it’ll be good for her to be away from me here, and be somewhere where there’s a woman to see to her—and children. She doesn’t get much attention here.”

They went in to her and found her asleep, her pale face covered with large drops of moisture. “It’s exhaustion,” whispered Morten. “She’s not got much strength yet.” Their presence made her sleep disturbed, and she tossed from side to side and then, suddenly opening her eyes, gazed about her with an expression of wild terror. In a moment she recognized them and smiled; and raising herself a little she held out both her hands to Pelle with a charming expression of childish coquetry.

“Tell me about the house out there and Boy Comfort,” she said, making room for him on the edge of the bed. “It’s so tiresome here, and Mr. Morten’s so serious.” And she threw a glance of defiance at him.

“Is he?” said Pelle. “That must be because he writes books.”

“No, but I must keep up a little dignity,” said Morten, assuming a funny, schoolmasterish expression. “This young lady’s beginning to be saucy!”

Johanna lay and laughed to herself, her eyes travelling from one to the other of them. “He ought to have a pair of spectacles, and then he’d be like a real one,” she said. She spoke hardly above a whisper, it was all she had strength for; but her voice was mischievous.

“You must come to us if he’s so bad,” said Pelle, “and then you can play with the children and lie in the sunshine out in the garden. You don’t know how lovely it is there now? Yes, I’m really in earnest,” he continued, as she still smiled. “Ellen asked me to come and say so.”

She suddenly became grave and looked from the one to the other; then looking down, and with her face turned away, she asked: “Will Morten be there too?”

“No, Johanna, I must stay here, of course; but I’ll come out to see you.”

“Every day?” Her face was turned to the wall, and she scratched the paper with her nails.

“I shall come and see my little sweetheart just as often as I can,” said Morten, stroking her hair.

The red blood suffused her neck in a sudden wave, and was imperceptibly absorbed in the paleness of her skin, like a dying ember. Hanne’s blood came and went in the same way for the merest trifle. Johanna had inherited her mother’s bashfulness and unspeakable charm, and also her capricious temper.

She lay with her back turned toward them and made no reply to their persuasions. It was not easy to say whether she even heard them, until suddenly she turned to Morten with an expression of hatred on her face. “You don’t need to trouble,” she said, with glowing eyes; “you can easily get rid of me!”

Morten only looked at her sorrowfully, but Pelle was angry. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself for taking it like that,” he said. “Is that all the thanks Morten gets for what he’s done? I must say you’re a grateful child!”

Johanna took the scolding without moving a muscle of her face, but when he ceased she quietly took his hand and laid it over her delicate, thin face, which it quite covered. There she lay peeping out at him and Morten between the large fingers, with a strangely resigned expression that was meant to be roguish. “I know it was horrid of me,” she said dully, moving Pelle’s middle finger backward and forward in front of her eyes so that she squinted; “but I’ll do what you tell me. Elle-Pelle, Morten-Porten—I can talk the P-language!” And she laughed an embarrassed laugh.

“You don’t know how much better and happier you’ll be when you get out to Pelle’s,” said Morten.

“I could easily get up and do the work of the house, so that you didn’t need to have a woman,” she whispered, gazing at him passionately with her big eyes. “I’m well enough now.”

“My dear child, that’s not what I mean at all! It’s for your sake. Don’t you understand that?” said Morten earnestly, bending over her.

Johanna’s gaze wandered round hopelessly, as if she had given up all thought of being understood any more.