Chapter 16

But out here in the country, where night lay upon the earth like great rest, his strength returned to him. All the indifference fell away, and he saw that like the piers of a bridge, his reality lay beneath the surface. Insignificant though he appeared, he rested upon an immense foundation. The solitude around him revealed it to him and made him feel his own power. While they overlooked his enterprise he would make it so strong that they would run their head against it when they awoke.

Pelle was glad he lived in the country, and it was a dream of his to move the workmen out there again some day. He disliked the town more and more, and never became quite familiar with it. It was always just as strange to go about in this humming hive, where each seemed to buzz on his own account, and yet all were subject to one great will—that of hunger. The town exerted a dull power over men’s minds, it drew the poor to it with lies about happiness, and when it once had them, held them fiendishly fast. The poisonous air was like opium; the most miserable beings dream they are happy in it; and when they have once got a taste for it, they had not the strength of mind to go back to the uneventful everyday life again. There was always something dreadful behind the town’s physiognomy, as though it were lying in wait to drag men into its net and fleece them. In the daytime it might be concealed by the multitudinous noises, but the darkness brought it out.

Every evening before Pelle went to bed he went out to the end of the house and gazed out into the night. It was an old peasant-custom that he had inherited from Father Lasse and his father before him. His inquiring gaze sought the town where his thoughts already were. On sunny days there was only smoke and mist to be seen, but on a dark night like this there was a cheerful glow above it. The town had a peculiar power of shedding darkness round about it, and lighting white artificial light in it. It lay low, like a bog with the land sloping down to it on all sides, and all water running into it. Its luminous mist seemed to reach to the uttermost borders of the land; everything came this way. Large dragon-flies hovered over the bog in metallic splendor; gnats danced above it like careless shadows. A ceaseless hum rose from it, and below lay the depth that had fostered them, seething so that he could hear it where he stood.

Sometimes the light of the town flickered up over the sky like the reflection from a gigantic forge-fire. It was like an enormous heart throbbing in panic in the darkness down there; his own caught the infection and contracted in vague terror. Cries would suddenly rise from down there, and one almost wished for them; a loud exclamation was a relief from the everlasting latent excitement. Down there beneath the walls of the city the darkness was always alive; it glided along like a heavy life-stream, flowing slowly among taverns and low music-halls and barracks, with their fateful contents of want and imprecations. Its secret doings inspired him with horror; he hated the town for its darkness which hid so much.

He had stopped in front of his house, and stood gazing downward. Suddenly he heard a sound from within that made him start, and he quickly let himself in. Ellen came out into the passage looking disturbed.

“Thank goodness you’ve come!” she exclaimed, quite forgetting to greet him. “Anna’s so ill!”

“Is it anything serious?” asked Pelle, hurriedly removing his coat.

“It’s the old story. I got a carriage from the farm to drive in for the doctor. It was dear, but Brun said I must. She’s to have hot milk with Ems salts and soda water. You must warm yourself at the stove before you go up to her, but make haste! She keeps on asking for you.”

The sick-room was in semi-darkness, Ellen having put a red shade over the lamp, so that the light should not annoy the child. Brun was sitting on a chair by her bed, watching her intently as she lay muttering in a feverish doze. He made a sign to Pelle to walk quietly. “She’s asleep!” he whispered. The old man looked unhappy.

Pelle bent silently over her. She lay with closed eyes, but was not asleep. Her hot breath came in short gasps. As he was about to raise himself again, she opened her eyes and smiled at him.

“What’s the matter with Sister? Is she going to be ill again?” he said softly. “I thought the sun had sent that naughty bronchitis away.”

The child shook her head resignedly. “Listen to the cellar-man!” she whispered. He was whistling as hard as he could down in her windpipe, and she listened to him with a serious expression. Then her hand stole up and she stroked her father’s face as though to comfort him.

Brun, however, put her hand down again immediately and covered her up close. “We very nearly lost that doll!” he said seriously. He had promised her a large doll if she would keep covered up.

“Shall I still get it?” she asked in gasps, gazing at him in dismay.

“Yes, of course you’ll get it, and if you make haste and get well, you shall have a carriage too with india rubber tires.”

Here Ellen came in. “Mr. Brun,” she said, “I’ve made your room all ready for you.” She laid a quieting hand upon the child’s anxious face.

The librarian rose unwillingly. “That’s to say Mr. Brun is to go to bed,” he said half in displeasure. “Well, well, goodnight then! I rely upon your waking me if things become worse.”

“How good he is!” said Ellen softly. “He’s been sitting here all the time to see that she kept covered up. He’s made us afraid to move because she’s to be kept quiet; but he can’t help chattering to her himself whenever she opens her eyes.”

Ellen had moved Lasse Frederik’s bed down into their bedroom and put up her own here so as to watch over the child. “Now you should go to bed,” she said softly to Pelle. “You must be tired to death after your journey, and you can’t have slept last night in the train either.”

He looked tired, but she could not persuade him; he meant to stay up there. “I can’t sleep anyhow as things are,” he whispered, “and to- morrow’s Sunday.”

“Then lie down on my bed! It’ll rest you a little.”

He lay down to please her, and stared up at the ceiling while he listened to the child’s short, rattling respiration. He could hear that she was not asleep. She lay and played with the rattling sound, making the cellar-man speak sometimes with a deep voice, sometimes with a high one. She seemed quite familiar with this dangerous chatter, which had already cost her many hours of illness and sounded so painful to Pelle’s ear. She bore her illness with the wonderful resignation that belonged to the dwellers in the back streets. She did not become unreasonable or exacting, but generally lay and entertained herself. It was as though she felt grateful for her bed; she was always in the best spirits when she was in it. The sun out here had made her very brown, but there must be something in her that it had not prevailed against. It was not so easy to move away from the bad air of the back streets.

Whenever she had a fit of coughing, Pelle raised her into a sitting posture and helped her to get rid of the phlegm. She was purple in the face with coughing, and looked at him with eyes that were almost starting out of her head with the violent exertion. Then Ellen brought her the hot milk and Ems salts, and she drank it with a resigned expression and lay down again.

“It’s never been so bad before,” whispered Ellen, “so what can be the use? Perhaps the country air isn’t good for her.”

“It ought to be though,” said Pelle, “or else she’s a poor little poisoned thing.”

Ellen’s voice rang with the possibility of their moving back again to the town for the sake of the child. To her the town air was not bad, but simply milder than out here. Through several generations she had become accustomed to it and had overcome its injurious effects; to her it seemed good as only the air of home can be. She could live anywhere, but nothing must be said against her childhood’s home. Then she became eager.

The child had wakened with their whispering, and lay and looked at them. “I shan’t die, shall I?” she asked.

They bent over her. “Now you must cover yourself up and not think about such things,” said Ellen anxiously.

But the child continued obstinately. “If I die, will you be as sorry about me as you were about Johanna?” she asked anxiously, with her eyes fixed upon them.

Pelle nodded. It was impossible for him to speak.

“Will you paint the ceiling black to show you’re sorry about me? Will you, father?” she continued inexorably, looking at him.

“Yes, yes!” said Ellen desperately, kissing her lips to make her stop talking. The child turned over contentedly, and in another moment she was asleep.

“She’s not hot now,” whispered Pelle. “I think the fever’s gone.” His face was very grave. Death had passed its cold hand over it; he knew it was only in jest, but he could not shake off the impression it had made.

They sat silent, listening to the child’s breathing, which was now quiet. Ellen had put her hand into Pelle’s, and every now and then she shuddered. They did not move, but simply sat and listened, while the time ran singing on. Then the cock crew below, and roused Pelle. It was three o’clock, and the child had slept for two hours. The lamp had almost burned dry, and he could scarcely see Ellen’s profile in the semi-darkness. She looked tired.

He rose noiselessly and kissed her forehead. “Go downstairs and go to bed,” he whispered, leading her toward the door.

Stealthy footsteps were heard outside. It was Brun who had been down to listen at the door. He had not been to bed at all. The lamp was burning in his sitting-room, and the table was covered with papers. He had been writing.

He became very cheerful when he heard that the attack was over. “I think you ought rather to treat us to a cup of coffee,” he answered, when Ellen scolded him because he was not asleep.

Ellen went down and made the coffee, and they drank it in Brun’s room. The doors were left ajar so that they could hear the child.

“It’s been a long night,” said Pelle, passing his hand across his forehead.

“Yes, if there are going to be more like it, we shall certainly have to move back into town,” said Ellen obstinately.

“It would be a better plan to begin giving her a cold bath in the morning as soon as she’s well again, and try to get her hardened,” said Pelle.

“Do you know,” said Ellen, turning to Brun, “Pelle thinks it’s the bad air and the good air fighting for the child, and that’s the only reason why she’s worse here than in town.”

“So it is,” said Brun gravely; “and a sick child like that gives one something to think about.”

XVIII

The next day they were up late. Ellen did not wake until about ten, and was quite horrified; but when she got up she found the fire on and everything in order, for Lasse Frederik had seen to it all. She could start on breakfast at once.

Sister was quite bright again, and Ellen moved her into the sitting-room and made up a bed on the sofa, where she sat packed in with pillows, and had her breakfast with the others.

“Are you sorry Sister’s getting well, old man?” asked Boy Comfort.

“My name isn’t ‘old man.’ It’s ‘grandfather’ or else ‘Mr. Brun,’” said the librarian, laughing and looking at Ellen, who blushed.

“Are you sorry Sister’s getting well, grandfather?” repeated the boy with a funny, pedantic literalness.

“And why should I be sorry for that, you little stupid?”

“Because you’ve got to give money!”

“The doll, yes! That’s true! You’ll have to wait till tomorrow, Sister, because to-day’s Sunday.”

Anna had eaten her egg and turned the shell upside down in the egg-cup so that it looked like an egg that had not been touched. She pushed it slowly toward Brun.

“What’s the matter now?” he exclaimed, pushing his spectacles up onto his forehead. “You haven’t eaten your egg!”

“I can’t,” she said, hanging her head.

“Why, there must be something wrong with her!” said the old man, in amazement. “Such a big, fat egg too! Very well, then _I_ must eat it.” And he began to crack the egg, Anna and Boy Comfort following his movements with dancing eyes and their hands over their mouths, until his spoon went through the shell and he sprang up to throw it at their heads, when their merriment burst forth. It was a joke that never suffered by repetition.

While breakfast was in progress, the farmer from the hill farm came in to tell them that they must be prepared to move out, as he meant to sell the house. He was one of those farmers of common-land, whom the city had thrown off their balance. He had lived up there and had seen one farm after another grow larger and make their owners into millionaires, and was always expecting that his turn would come. He neglected the land, and even the most abundant harvest was ridiculously small in comparison with his golden dreams; so the fields were allowed to lie and produce weeds.

Ellen was just as dismayed as Pelle at the thought of having to leave “Daybreak.” It was their home, their nest too; all their happiness and welfare were really connected with this spot.

“You can buy the house of course,” said the farmer. “I’ve had an offer of fifteen thousand (L850) for it, and I’ll let it go for that.”

After he had gone they sat and discussed the matter. “It’s very cheap,” said Brun. “In a year or two you’ll have the town spreading in this direction, and then it’ll be worth at least twice as much.”

“Yes, that may be,” said Pelle; “but you’ve both to get the amount and make it yield interest.”

“There’s eight thousand (L450) in the first mortgage, and the loan institution will lend half that. That’ll make twelve thousand (L675). That leaves three thousand (L175), and I’m not afraid of putting that in as a third mortgage,” said Brun.

Pelle did not like that. “There’ll be need for your money in the business,” he said.

“Yes, yes! But when you put the house into repair and have it re-valued, I’m certain you can get the whole fifteen thousand in the Loan Societies,” said Brun. “I think it’ll be to your advantage to do it.”

Ellen had taken pencil and paper, and was making calculations. “What percentage do you reckon for interest and paying off by instalments?” she asked.

“Five,” said the old man. “You do all the work of keeping it up yourselves.”

“Then I would venture,” she said, looking dauntlessly at them. “It would be nice to own the house ourselves, don’t you think so, Pelle?”

“No, I think it’s quite mad,” Pelle answered. “We shall be saddled with a house-rent of seven hundred and fifty kroner (over £40).”

Ellen was not afraid of the house-rent; the house and garden would bear that. “And in a few years we can sell the ground for building and make a lot of money.” She was red with excitement.

Pelle laughed. “Yes, speculation! Isn’t that what the hill farmer has gone to pieces over?” Pelle had quite enough on his hands and had no desire to have property to struggle with.

But Ellen became only more and more bent upon it. “Then buy it yourself!” said Pelle, laughing. “I’ve no desire to become a millionaire.”

Ellen was quite ready to do it. “But then the house’ll be _mine_,” she declared. “And if I make money on it, I must be allowed to spend it just as I like. It’s not to go into your bottomless common cash-box!” The men laughed.

“Brun and I are going for a walk,” said Pelle, “so we’ll go in and write a contract note for you at once.”

They went down the garden and followed the edge of the hill to the south. The weather was clear; it had changed to slight frost, and white rime covered the fields. Where the low sun’s rays fell upon them, the rime had melted and the withered green grass appeared. “It’s really pretty here,” said Brun. “See how nice the town looks with its towers— only one shouldn’t live there. I was thinking of that last night when the child was lying there with her cough. The work-people really get no share of the sun, nor do those who in other respects are decently well off. And then I thought I’d like to build houses for our people on the ridge of the hill on both sides of ‘Daybreak.’ The people of the new age ought to live in higher and brighter situations than others. I’ll tell you how I thought of doing it. I should in the meantime advance money for the plots, and the business should gradually redeem them with its surplus. That is quite as practical as dividing the surplus among the workmen, and we thereby create values for the enterprise. Talking of surplus—you’ve worked well, Pelle! I made an estimate of it last night and found it’s already about ten thousand (£555) this year. But to return to what we were talking about—mortgage loans are generally able to cover the building expenses, and with amortization the whole thing is unencumbered after some years have passed.”

“Who’s to own it?” asked Pelle. He was chewing a piece of grass and putting his feet down deliberately like a farmer walking on ploughed land.

“The cooperative company. It’s to be so arranged that the houses can’t be made over to others, nor encumbered with fresh loan. Our cooperative enterprises must avoid all form of speculation, thereby limiting the field for capital. The whole thing should be self-supporting and be able to do away with private property within its boundaries. You see it’s your own idea of a community within the community that I’m building upon. At present it’s not easy to find a juridical form under which the whole thing can work itself, but in the meantime you and I will manage it, and Morten if he will join us. I expect he’ll come home with renewed strength.”

“And when is this plan to be realized? Will it be in the near future?”

“This very winter, I had thought; and in this way we should also be able to do a little for the great unemployment. Thirty houses! It would be a beginning anyhow. And behind it lies the whole world, Pelle!”

“Shall you make the occupation of the houses obligatory for our workmen?”

“Yes, cooperation makes it an obligation. You can’t be half outside and half inside! Well, what do you think of it?”

“It’s a strong plan,” said Pelle. “We shall build our own town here on the hill.”

The old man’s face shone with delight. “There’s something in me after all, eh? There’s old business-blood in my veins too. My forefathers built a world for themselves, and why should I do less than they? I ought to have been younger, Pelle!”

They walked round the hill and came to the farm from the other side. “The whole piece wouldn’t really be too large if we’re to have room to extend ourselves,” said Pelle, who was not afraid of a large outlay when it was a question of a great plan.

“I was thinking the same thing,” answered Bran. “How much is there here? A couple of hundred acres? There’ll be room for a thousand families if each of them is to have a fair-sized piece of land.”

They then went in and took the whole for a quarter of a million (£14,000).

“But Ellen!” exclaimed Pelle, when they were on their way home again. “How are we going to come to terms with her?”

“Bless my soul! Why, it was her business we went upon! And now we’ve done business for ourselves! Well, I suppose she’ll give in when she hears what’s been done.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Pelle, laughing. “Perhaps when you tackle her.”

“Well, did you get the house?” asked Ellen, from the house door, where she was standing to receive them.

“Yes, we got much more,” said Brun airily. “We bought the whole concern.”

“Is that a fact, Pelle?”

Pelle nodded.

“What about my house then?” she asked slowly.

“Well, we bought that together with all the rest,” said Brun. “But as far as that goes it can easily be separated from the rest, only it’s rather soon to break up the cooperation before it’s started.” He waited a little, expecting that Ellen would say something, and when she continued silent he went on, rather shortly: “Well, then there’s nothing more to be said about that? Fair play’s a jewel, and to-morrow I’ll make arrangements for the conveyance of the house to you for the fifteen thousand (£850). And then we must give up the whole concern, Pelle. It won’t do for the man at the head of it to live on his private property; so that plan’s come to nothing!”

“Unless Ellen and I live in separate houses,” said Pelle slyly. “I might build just the other side of the boundary, and then we could nod to one another at any rate.”

Ellen looked at him gravely. “I only think it’s rather strange that you settle my affairs without asking me first,” she said at length.

“Yes, it was inconsiderate of us,” answered Brun, “and we hope you’ll forget all about it. You’ll give up the house then?”

“I’m pretty well obliged to when Pelle threatens to move out,” Ellen answered with a smile. “But I’m sorry about it. I’m certain that in a short time there’d have been money to make over it.”

“It’ll be nice, won’t it, if the women are going to move into our forsaken snail-shells?” said Brun half seriously.

“Ellen’s always been an incorrigible capitalist,” Pelle put in.

“It’s only that I’ve never had so much money that I shouldn’t know what it was worth,” answered Ellen, with ready wit.

Old Brun laughed. “That was one for Mr. Brun!” he said. “But since you’ve such a desire for land-speculation, Mistress Ellen, I’ve got a suggestion to make. On the ground we’ve bought there’s a piece of meadow that lies halfway in to town, by the bog. We’ll give you that. It’s not worth anything at present, and will have to be filled in to be of any value; but it won’t be very long before the town is out there wanting more room.”

Ellen had no objection to that. “But then,” she said, “I must be allowed to do what I like with what comes out of it.”

XIX

The sun held out well that year. Remnants of summer continued to hang in the air right into December. Every time they had bad weather Ellen said, “Now it’ll be winter, I’m sure!” But the sun put it aside once more; it went far down in the south and looked straight into the whole sitting- room, as if it were going to count the pictures.

The large yellow Gloire de Dijon went on flowering, and every day Ellen brought in a large, heavy bunch of roses and red leaves. She was heavy herself, and the fresh cold nipped her nose—which was growing sharper— and reddened her cheeks. One day she brought a large bunch to Pelle, and asked him: “How much money am I going to get to keep Christmas with?”

It was true! The year was almost ended!

After the new year winter began in earnest. It began with much snow and frost, and made it a difficult matter to keep in communication with the outside world, while indoors people drew all the closer to one another. Anna should really have been going to school now, but she suffered a good deal from the cold and was altogether not very strong, so Pelle and Ellen dared not expose her to the long wading through the snow, and taught her themselves.

Ellen had become a little lazy about walking, and seldom went into town; the two men made the purchases for her in the evening on their way home. It was a dull time, and no work was done by artificial light, so they were home early. Ellen had changed the dinner-hour to five, so that they could all have it together. After dinner Brun generally went upstairs to work for another couple of hours. He was busy working out projects for the building on the Hill Farm land, and gave himself no rest. Pelle’s wealth of ideas and energy infected him, and his plans grew and assumed ever-increasing dimensions. He gave no consideration to his weak frame, but rose early and worked all day at the affairs of the coöperative works. He seemed to be vying with Pelle’s youth, and to be in constant fear that something would come up behind him and interrupt his work.