Chapter 27

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.

“Comrades!” Pelle began, in an easy tone, “I have been sent here to you with greetings from those outside there—from the comrades who used to stand next to you at work, from your friends and fellow-unionists. Where are our old comrades?—they are asking. We have fought so many battles by their side, we have shared good and evil with them—are we to enter into the new conditions without them? And your wives and children are asking after you! Outside there it is the spring! They don’t understand why they can’t pack the picnic basket and go out into the forest with father!”

“No, there’s no picnic basket!” said a heavy voice.

“There are fifty thousand men accepting the situation without grumbling,” Pelle earnestly replied. “And they are asking after you— they don’t understand why you demand more than they do. Have you done more for the movement than they have?—they ask. Or are you a lot of dukes, that you can’t quietly stand by the rank and file? And now it’s the spring out there!” he cried once more. “The poor man’s winter is past, and the bright day is coming for him! And here you go over to the wrong side and walk into prison! Do you know what the locked-out workers call you? They call you the locked-in workers!”

There were a few suppressed smiles at this. “That’s a dam’ good smack!” they told, one another. “He made that up himself!”

“They have other names for us as well!” cried a voice defiantly.

“Yes, they have,” said Pelle vigorously. “But that’s because they are hungry. People get unreasonable then, you know very well—and they grudge other folks their food!”

They thronged about him, pressing closer and closer. His words were scorching them, yet were doing them good. No one could hit out like Pelle, and yet at the same time make them feel that they were decent fellows after all. The foreign workers stood round about them, eagerly listening, in order that they, too, might catch a little of what was said.

Pelle had suddenly plunged into the subject of the famine, laying bare the year-long, endless despair of their families, so that they all saw what the others had suffered—saw really for the first time. They were amazed that they could have endured so much, but they knew that it was so; they nodded continually, in agreement; it was all literally true. It was Pelle’s own desperate struggle that was speaking through him now, but the refrain of suffering ran through it all. He stood before them radiant and confident of victory, towering indomitably over them all.

Gradually his words became keen and vigorous. He reproached them with their disloyalty; he reminded them how dearly and bitterly they had bought the power of cohesion, and in brief, striking phrases he awakened the inspiriting rhythm of the Cause, that lay slumbering in every heart. It was the old, beloved music, the well-known melody of the home and labor. Pelle sounded it with a new accent. Like all those that forsake their country, they had forgotten the voice of their mother—that was why they could not find their way home; but now she was calling them, calling them back to the old dream of a Land of Fortune! He could see it in their faces, and with a leap he was at them: “Do you know of anything more infamous than to sell your mother-country? That is what you have done—before ever you set foot in it—you have sold it, with your brothers, your wives, and your children! You have foresworn your religion—your faith in the great Cause! You have disobeyed orders, and have sold yourselves for a miserable Judas-price and a keg of brandy!”

He stood with his left hand on the big smith’s shoulder, his right hand he clenched and held out toward them. In that hand he was holding them; he felt that so strongly that he did not dare to let it sink, but continued to hold it outstretched. A murmuring wave passed through the ranks, reaching even to the foreign workers. They were infected by the emotion of the others, and followed the proceedings with tense attention, although they did not understand much of the language. At each sally they nodded and nudged one another, until now they stood there motionless, with expectant faces; they, too, were under the spell of his words. This was solidarity, the mighty, earth-encircling power! Pelle recognized the look of wonder on their faces; a cold shudder ran up and down his spine. He held them all in his hand, and now the blow was to be struck before they had time to think matters over. Now!

“Comrades!” he cried loudly. “I told those outside that you were honorable men, who had been led into the devil’s kitchen by want, and in a moment of misunderstanding. And I am going in to fetch your friends and comrades out, I said. They are longing to come out to you again, to come out into the spring! Did I lie when I spoke well of you?”

“No, that you didn’t!” they replied, with one voice. “Three cheers for Pelle! Three cheers for ‘Lightning’!”

“Come along, then!” Swiftly he leaped down from the anvil and marched through the workshop, roaring out the Socialist marching-song. They followed him without a moment’s consideration, without regret or remorse; the rhythm of the march had seized them; it was as though the warm spring wind were blowing them out into the freedom of Nature. The door was unlocked, the officials of the factory were pushed aside. Singing in a booming rhythm that seemed to revenge itself for the long days of confinement, they marched out into North Bridge Street, with Pelle at their head, and turned into the Labor Building.

XXXIV.

That was a glorious stroke! The employers abandoned all further idea of running the works without the Federation. The victory was the completer in that the trades unions gave the foreign workers their passage-money, and sent them off before they had time for reflection. They were escorted to the steamers, and the workers saw them off with a comradely “Hurrah!”

Pelle was the hero of the day. His doings were discussed in all the newspapers, and even his opponents lowered their swords before him.

He took it all as a matter of course; he was striving with all his might toward a fresh goal. There was no excuse for soaring into the clouds; the lock-out was still the principal fact, and a grievous and burdensome fact, and now he was feeling its whole weight. The armies of workers were still sauntering about the streets, while the nation was consuming its own strength, and there was no immediate prospect of a settlement. But one day the springs would run dry—and what then?

He was too deeply immersed in the conflict to grow dizzy by reason of a little flattery; and the general opinion more than ever laid the responsibility for the situation on him. If this terrible struggle should end in defeat, then his would be the blame! And he racked his brains to find a means of breaking down the opposition of the enemy. The masses were still enduring the conditions with patience, but how much longer would this last? Rumors, which intended mischief, were flying about; one day it was said that one of the leaders, who had been entrusted with making collections, had run off with the cash-box; while another rumor declared that the whole body of workers had been sold to the employers! Something must happen! But what?

One afternoon he went home to see his family before going to a meeting. The children were alone. “Where is mother?” he asked, taking Young Lasse on his knee. Little Sister was sitting upright in her cradle, playing.

“Mother made herself fine and went out into the city,” replied the child. “Mother so fine!”

“So? Was she so fine?” Pelle went into the bed-room; he looked into the wardrobe. Ellen’s wedding-dress was not there.

“That is curious,” he thought, and began to play with the children. The little girl stretched her tiny arms toward him. He had to take her up and sit with a child on either knee. The little girl kept on picking at his upper lip, as though she wanted to say something. “Yes, father’s moustache has fallen off, Little Sister,” said Young Lasse, in explanation.

“Yes, it has flown away,” said Pelle. “There came a wind and—phew!— away it went!” He looked into the glass with a little grimace—that moustache had been his pride! Then he laughed at the children.

Ellen came home breathless, as though she had been running; a tender rosiness lay over her face and throat. She went into the bedroom with her cloak on. Pelle followed her. “You have your wedding-dress on,” he said wonderingly.

“Yes, I wanted something done to it, so I went to the dressmaker, so that she could see the dress on me. But run out now, I’ll come directly; I only want to put another dress on.”

Pelle wanted to stay, but she pushed him toward the door. “Run away!” she said, pulling her dress across her bosom. The tender red had spread all over her bosom—she was so beautiful in her confusion!

After a time she came into the living-room and laid some notes on the table before him.

“What’s this again?” he cried, half startled by the sight of all this money.

“Yes, haven’t I wonderful luck? I’ve won in the lottery again! Haven’t you a clever wife?” She was standing behind him with her arm across his shoulders.

Pelle sat there for a moment, bowed down as though he had received a blow on the head. Then he pushed her arm aside and turned round to her. “You have won again already, you say? Twice? Twice running?” He spoke slowly and monotonously, as though he wanted to let every word sink in.

“Yes; don’t you think it’s very clever of me?” She looked at him uncertainly and attempted to smile.

“But that is quite impossible!” he said heavily. “That is quite impossible!” Suddenly he sprang to his feet, seizing her by the throat. “You are lying! You are lying!” he cried, raging. “Will you tell me the truth? Out with it!” He pressed her back over the table, as though he meant to kill her. Young Lasse began to cry.

She stared at him with wondering eyes, which were full of increasing terror. He released her and averted his face in order not to see those eyes; they were full of the fear of death. She made no attempt to rise, but fixed him with an intolerable gaze, like that of a beast that is about to be killed and does not know why. He rose, and went silently over to the children, and busied himself in quieting them. He had a horrible feeling in his hands, almost as when once in his childhood he had killed a young bird. Otherwise he had no feeling, except that everything was so loathsome. It was the fault of the situation … and now he would go.

He realized, as he packed his things, that she was standing by the table, crying softly. He realized it quite suddenly, but it was no concern of his…. When he was ready and had kissed the children, a shudder ran through her body; she stepped before him in her old energetic way.

“Don’t leave me—you mustn’t leave me!” she said, sobbing. “Oh—I only wanted to do what was best for you—and you didn’t see after anything. No, that’s not a reproach—but our daily bread, Pelle! For you and the children! I could no longer look on and see you go without everything— especially you—Pelle! I love you so! It was out of love for you—above all, out of love for you!”

It sounded like a song in his ears, like a strange, remote refrain; the words he did not hear. He put her gently aside, kissed the boy once more, and stroked his face. Ellen stood as though dead, gazing at his movements with staring, bewildered eyes. When he went out to the door she collapsed.

Pelle left his belongings downstairs with the mangling-woman, and he went mechanically toward the city; he heard no sound, no echo; he went as one asleep. His feet carried him toward the Labor House, and up the stairs, into the room whence the campaign was directed. He took his place among the others without knowing what he did, and there he sat, gazing down at the green table-cloth.

The general mood showed signs of dejection. For a long time now the bottom of the cash-box had been visible, and as more and more workers were turned into the street the product of self-imposed taxation was gradually declining. And the readiness of those outside the movement to make sacrifices was rapidly beginning to fail. The public had now had enough of the affair. Everything was failing, now they would have to see if they could not come to some arrangement. Starvation was beginning to thrust its grinning head among the fifty thousand men now idle. The moment had come upon which capital was counting; the moment when the crying of children for bread begins to break the will of the workers, until they are ready to sacrifice honor and independence in order to satisfy the little creatures’ hunger. And the enemy showed no sign of wishing for peace!

This knowledge had laid its mark on all the members of the Council; and as they sat there they knew that the weal or woe of hundreds of thousands depended on them. No one dared accept the responsibility of making a bold proposal in this direction or that. With things as they stood, they would have, in a week or two, to give up the fight! Then nearly a quarter of a million human beings would have suffered torment for nothing! A terrible apathy would be the result of that suffering and of the defeat; it would put them back many years. But if the employers could not long withstand the pressure which the financial world was beginning to exert on them, they would be throwing away the victory if they gave up the fight now.

The cleverest calculations were useless here. A blind, monstrous Pate would prevail. Who could say that he had lifted the veil of the future and could point out the way?

No one! And Pelle, the blazing torch, who had shown them the road regardless of all else—he sat there drowsing as though it meant nothing to him! Apparently he had broken down under his monstrous labors.

The secretary came in with a newspaper marked with red pencil. He passed it to the chairman, who stared for a while at the underlined portion, then he rose and read it out; the paper was quivering in his hands.

“About thirty working women—young and of good appearance—can during the lock-out find a home with various bachelors. Good treatment guaranteed. The office of the paper will give further information.”

Pelle sprang up out of his half-slumber; the horrible catastrophe of his own home was blindingly clear now! “So it’s come to that!” he cried. “Now capital has laid its fingers on our wives—now they are to turn whore! We must fight on, fight, fight! We must strike one last blow—and it must be a heavy one!”

“But how?” they asked.

Pelle was white with enforced calm. His mind had never been so radiantly clear. Now Ellen should be revenged on those who took everything, even the poor man’s one ewe lamb!

“In the first place we must issue an optimistic report—this very day!” he said, smiling. “The cash-box is nearly empty—good! Then we will state that the workers have abundant means to carry on the fight for another year if need be, and then we’ll go for them!”

Born of anger, an old, forgotten phantasy had flashed into his mind as a definite plan.

“Hitherto we have fought passively,” he continued, “with patience as our chief weapon! We have opposed our necessities of life to the luxuries of the other side; and if they strike at us in order to starve us to skin and bone and empty our homes of our last possessions, we answered them by refusing to do the work which was necessary to their comfort! Let us for once strike at their vital necessities! Let us strike them where they have struck us from the beginning! In the belly! Then perhaps they’ll turn submissive! Hitherto we have kept the most important of the workers out of the conflict—those on whom the health and welfare of the public depend, although we ourselves have benefited nothing thereby. Why should we bake their bread? We, who haven’t the means to eat it! Why should we look after their cleanliness? We, who haven’t the means to keep ourselves clean! Let us bring the dustmen and the street-cleaners into the line of fire! And if that isn’t enough we’ll turn off their gas and water! Let us venture our last penny—let us strike the last blow!”