Pelle came rushing home from Master Beck’s workshop, threw off his coat
and waistcoat, and thrust his head into a bucket of water. While he was
scrubbing himself dry, he ran over to the “Family.” “Would you care to
come out with me? I have some tickets for an evening entertainment—only
you must hurry up.”
The three children were sitting round the table, doing tricks with
cards. The fire was crackling in the stove, and there was a delicious
smell of coffee. They were tired after the day’s work and they didn’t
feel inclined to dress themselves to go out. One could see how they
enjoyed feeling that they were at home. “You should give Hanne and her
mother the tickets,” said Marie, “they never go out.”
Pelle thought the matter over while he was dressing. Well, why not?
After all, it was stupid to rake up an old story.
Hanne did not want to go with him. She sat with downcast eyes, like a
lady in her boudoir, and did not look at him. But Madam Johnsen was
quite ready to go—the poor old woman quickly got into her best clothes.
“It’s a long time since we two have been out together, Pelle,” she said
gaily, as they walked through the city. “You’ve been so frightfully
busy lately. They say you go about to meetings. That is all right for a
young man. Do you gain anything by it?”
“Yes, one could certainly gain something by it—if only one used one’s
strength!”
“What can you gain by it, then? Are you going to eat up the Germans
again, as in my young days, or what is it you are after?”
“We want to make life just a little happier,” said Pelle quietly.
“Oh, you don’t want to gain anything more than happiness? That’s easy
enough, of course!” said Madam Johnsen, laughing loudly. “Why, to be
sure, in my pretty young days too the men wanted to go to the capital
to make their fortunes. I was just sixteen when I came here for
purposes of my own—where was a pretty girl to find everything splendid,
if not here? One easily made friends—there were plenty to go walking
with a nice girl in thin shoes, and they wanted to give her all sorts
of fine things, and every day brought its happiness with it. But then I
met a man who wanted to do the best thing by me, and who believed in
himself, too. He got me to believe that the two of us together might
manage something lasting. And he was just such a poor bird as I was,
with empty hands—but he set to valiantly. Clever in his work he was,
too, and he thought we could make ourselves a quiet, happy life, cozy
between our four walls, if only we’d work. Happiness—pooh! He wanted to
be a master, at all costs—for what can a journeyman earn! And more than
once we had scraped a little together, and thought things would be
easier now; but misfortune always fell on us and took it all away. It’s
always hovering like a great bird over the poor man’s home; and you
must have a long stick if you want to drive it away! It was always the
same story whenever we managed to get on a little. A whole winter he
was ill. We only kept alive by pawning all we’d got, stick by stick.
And when the last thing had gone to the devil we borrowed a bit on the
pawn-ticket.” The old woman had to pause to recover her breath.
“Why are we hurrying like this?” she said, panting. “Any one would
think the world was trying to run away from us!”
“Well, there was nothing left!” she continued, shuffling on again. “And
he was too tired to begin all over again, so we moved into the ‘Ark.’
And when he’d got a few shillings he sought consolation—but it was a
poor consolation for me, who was carrying Hanne, that you may believe!
She was like a gift after all that misfortune; but he couldn’t bear
her, because our fancy for a little magnificence was born again in her.
She had inherited that from us—poor little thing!—with rags and dirt to
set it off. You should just have seen her, as quite a little child,
making up the fine folks’ world out of the rags she got together out of
the dustbins. ‘What’s that?’ Johnsen he said once—he was a little less
full than usual. ‘Oh, that’s the best room with the carpet on the
floor, and there by the stove is your room, father. But you mustn’t
spit on the floor, because we are rich people.’”
Madam Johnsen began to cry. “And then he struck her on the head. ‘Hold
your tongue!’ he cried, and he cursed and swore at the child something
frightful. ‘I don’t want to hear your infernal chatter!’ That’s the
sort he was. Life began to be a bit easier when he had drowned himself
in the sewer. The times when I might have amused myself he’d stolen
from me with his talk of the future, and now I sit there turning old
soldiers’ trousers that fill the room with filth, and when I do two a
day I can earn a mark. And Hanne goes about like a sleep-walker.
Happiness! Is there a soul in the ‘Ark’ that didn’t begin with a firm
belief in something better? One doesn’t move from one’s own choice into
such a mixed louse’s nest, but one ends up there all the same. And is
there anybody here who is really sure of his daily bread? Yes, Olsens
with the warm wall, but they’ve got their daughter’s shame to thank for
that.”
“All the more reason to set to work,” said Pelle.
“Yes, you may well say that! But any one who fights against the
unconquerable will soon be tired out. No, let things be and amuse
yourself while you are still young. But don’t you take any notice of my
complaining—me—an old whimperer, I am—walking with you and being in the
dumps like this—now we’ll go and amuse ourselves!” And now she looked
quite contented again.
“Then take my arm—it’s only proper with a pair of sweethearts,” said
Pelle, joking. The old woman took his arm and went tripping youthfully
along. “Yes, if it had been in my young days, I would soon have known
how to dissuade you from your silly tricks,” she said gaily. “I should
have been taking you to the dance.”
“But you didn’t manage to get Johnsen to give them up,” said Pelle in
reply.
“No, because then I was too credulous. But no one would succeed in
robbing me of my youth now!”
The meeting was held in a big hall in one of the side streets by the
North Bridge. The entertainment, which was got up by some of the
agitators, was designed principally for young people; but many women
and young girls were present. Among other things a poem was read which
dealt with an old respectable blacksmith who was ruined by a strike.
“That may be very fine and touching,” whispered Madam Johnsen,
polishing her nose in her emotion, “but they really ought to have
something one can laugh over. We see misfortune every day.”
Then a small choir of artisans sang some songs, and one of the older
leaders mounted the platform and told them about the early years of the
movement. When he had finished, he asked if there was no one else who
had something to tell them. It was evidently not easy to fill out the
evening.
There was no spirit in the gathering. The women were not finding it
amusing, and the men sat watching for anything they could carp at.
Pelle knew most of those present; even the young men had hard faces, on
which could be read an obstinate questioning. This homely, innocent
entertainment did not appease the burning impatience which filled their
hearts, listening for a promise of better things.
Pelle sat there pained by the proceedings; the passion for progress and
agitation was in his very blood. Here was such an opportunity to strike
a blow for unification, and it was passing unused. The women only
needed a little rousing, the factory-girls and the married women too,
who held back their husbands. And they stood up there, frittering away
the time with their singing and their poetry-twaddle! With one leap he
stood on the platform.
“All these fine words may be very nice,” he cried passionately, “but
they are very little use to all those who can’t live on them! The
clergyman and the dog earn their living with their mouths, but the rest
of us are thrown on our own resources when we want to get anything. Why
do we slink round the point like cats on hot bricks, why all this
palaver and preaching? Perhaps we don’t yet know what we want? They say
we’ve been slaves for a thousand years! Then we ought to have had time
enough to think it out! Why does so little happen, although we are all
waiting for something, and are ready? Is there no one anywhere who has
the courage to lead us?”
Loud applause followed, especially from the young men; they stamped and
shouted. Pelle staggered down from the platform; he was covered with
sweat.
The old leader ascended the platform again and thanked his colleagues
for their acceptable entertainment. He turned also with smiling thanks
to Pelle. It was gratifying that there was still fire glowing in the
young men; although the occasion was unsuitable. The old folks had led
the movement through evil times; but they by no means wished to prevent
youth from testing itself.
Pelle wanted to stand up and make some answer, but Madam Johnsen held
him fast by his coat. “Be quiet, Pelle,” she whispered anxiously;
“you’ll venture too far.” She would not let go of him, so he had to sit
down again to avoid attracting attention. His cheeks were burning, and
he was as breathless as though he had been running up a hill. It was
the first time he had ventured on a public platform; excitement had
sent him thither.
The people began to get up and to mix together. “Is it over already?”
asked Madam Johnsen. Pelle could see that she was disappointed.
“No, no; now we’ll treat ourselves to something,” he said, leading the
old woman to a table at the back of the hall. “What can I offer you?”
“Coffee, please, for me! But you ought to have a glass of beer, you are
so warm!”
Pelle wanted coffee too. “You’re a funny one for a man!” she said,
laughing. “First you go pitching into a whole crowd of men, and then
you sit down here with an old wife like me and drink coffee! What a
crowd of people there are here; it’s almost like a holiday!” She sat
looking about her with shining eyes and rosy cheeks, like a young girl
at a dance. “Take some more of the skin of the milk, Pelle; you haven’t
got any. This really is cream!”
The leader came up to ask if he might make Pelle’s acquaintance. “I’ve
heard of you from the president of your Union,” he said, giving Pelle
his hand. “I am glad to make your acquaintance; you have done a pretty
piece of work.”
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” said Pelle, blushing. “But it really would be
fine if we could really get to work!”
“I know your impatience only too well,” retorted the old campaigner,
laughing. “It’s always so with the young men. But those who really want
to do something must be able to see to the end of the road.” He patted
Pelle on the shoulders and went.
Pelle felt that the people were standing about him and speaking of him.
God knows whether you haven’t made yourself ridiculous, he thought.
Close by him two young men were standing, who kept on looking at him
sideways. Suddenly they came up to him.
“We should much like to shake hands with you,” said one of them. “My
name is Otto Stolpe, and this is my brother Frederik. That was good,
what you said up there, we want to thank you for it!” They stood by for
some little while, chatting to Pelle. “It would please my father and
mother too, if they could make your acquaintance,” said Otto Stolpe.
“Would you care to come home with us?”
“I can’t very well this evening; I have some one with me,” replied
Pelle.
“You go with them,” said Madam Johnsen. “I see some folks from
Kristianshavn back there, I can go home with them.”
“But we were meaning to go on the spree a bit now that we’ve at last
come out!” said Pelle, smiling.
“God forbid! No, we’ve been on the spree enough for one evening, my old
head is quite turned already. You just be off; that’s a thing I haven’t
said for thirty years! And many thanks for bringing me with you.” She
laughed boisterously.
The Stolpe family lived in Elm Street, on the second floor of one of
the new workmen’s tenement houses. The stairs were roomy, and on the
door there was a porcelain plate with their name on it. In the entry an
elderly, well-dressed woman up to them.
“Here is a comrade, mother,” said Otto.
“Welcome,” she said, as she took Pelle’s hand. She held it a moment in
her own as she looked at him.
In the living room sat Stolpe, a mason, reading _The Working Man_. He
was in shirt sleeves, and was resting his heavy arms on the table. He
read whispering to himself, he had not noticed that a guest was in the
room.
“Here’s some one who would like to say how-d’ye-do to father,” said
Otto, laying his hand on his father’s arm.
Stolpe raised his head and looked at Pelle. “Perhaps you would like to
join the Union?” he asked, rising with difficulty, with one hand
pressed on the table. He was tall, his hair was sprinkled with gray;
his eyes were mottled from the impact of splinters of limestone.
“You and your Union!” said Madam Stolpe. “Perhaps you think there’s no
one in it but you!”
“No, mother; little by little a whole crowd of people have entered it,
but all the same I was the first.”
“I’m already in the Union,” said Pelle. “But not in yours. I’m a
shoemaker, you know.”
“Shoemaker, ah, that’s a poor trade for a journeyman; but all the same
a man can get to be a master; but to-day a mason can’t do that—there’s
a great difference there. And if one remains a journeyman all his life
long, he has more interest in modifying his position. Do you
understand? That’s why the organization of the shoemakers has never
been of more than middling dimensions. Another reason is that they work
in their own rooms, and one can’t get them together. But now there’s a
new man come, who seems to be making things move.”
“Yes, and this is he, father,” said Otto, laughing.
“The deuce, and here I stand making a fool of myself! Then I’ll say
how- d’ye-do over again! And here’s good luck to your plans, young
comrade.” He shook Pelle by the hand. “I think we might have a drop of
beer, mother?”
Pelle and Stolpe were soon engaged in a lively conversation; Pelle was
in his element. Until now he had never found his way to the heart of
the movement. There was so much he wanted to ask about, and the old man
incontinently told him of the growth of the organization from year to
year, of their first beginning, when there was only one trades unionist
in Denmark, namely, himself, down to the present time. He knew all the
numbers of the various trades, and was precisely informed as to the
development of each individual union. The sons sat silent, thoughtfully
listening. When they had something to say, they always waited until the
old man nodded his head to show that he had finished. The younger,
Frederik, who was a mason’s apprentice, never said “thou” to his
father; he addressed him in the third person, and his continual “father
says, father thinks,” sounded curious to Pelle’s ears.
While they were still talking Madam Stolpe opened the door leading into
an even prettier room, and invited them to go in and to drink their
coffee. The living-room had already produced an extremely pleasant
impression on Pelle, with its oak-grained dining-room suite and its
horse-hair sofa. But here was a red plush suite, an octagonal table of
walnut wood, with a black inlaid border and twisted wooden feet, and an
étagère full of knick-knacks and pieces of china; mostly droll,
impudent little things. On the walls hung pictures of trades unions and
assemblies and large photographs of workshops; one of a building during
construction, with the scaffolding full of the bricklayers and their
mortar-buckets beside them, each with a trowel or a beer-bottle can in
his hand. On the wall over the sofa hung a large half-length portrait
of a dark, handsome man in a riding-cloak. He looked half a dreamy
adventurer, half a soldier.
“That’s the grand master,” said Stolpe proudly, standing at Pelle’s
side. “There was always a crowd of women at his heels. But they kept
themselves politely in the background, for a fire went out of him at
such times—do you understand? Then it was—Men to the front! And even
the laziest fellow pricked up his ears.”
“Then he’s dead now, is he?” asked Pelle, with interest.
Stolpe did not answer. “Well,” he said briefly, “shall we have our
coffee now?” Otto winked at Pelle; here evidently was a matter that
must not be touched upon.
Stolpe sat staring into his cup, but suddenly he raised his head.
“There are things one doesn’t understand,” he cried earnestly. “But
this is certain, that but for the grand master here I and a whole host
of other men wouldn’t perhaps be respectable fathers of families
to-day. There were many smart fellows among us young comrades, as is
always the case; but as a rule the gifted ones always went to the dogs.
For when a man has no opportunity to alter things, he naturally grows
impatient, and then one fine day he begins to pour spirit on the flames
in order to stop his mouth. I myself had that accursed feeling that I
must do something, and little by little I began to drink. But then I
discovered the movement, before it existed, I might venture to say; it
was in the air like, d’you see. It was as though something was coming,
and one sniffed about like a dog in order to catch a glimpse of it.
Presently it was, Here it is! There it is! But when one looked into it,
there was just a few hungry men bawling at one another about something
or other, but the devil himself didn’t know what it was. But then the
grand master came forward, and that was like a flash of light for all
of us. For he could say to a nicety just where the shoe pinched,
although he didn’t belong to our class at all. Since that time there’s
been no need to go searching for the best people—they were always to be
found in the movement! Although there weren’t very many of them, the
best people were always on the side of the movement.”
“But now there’s wind in the sails,” said Pelle.
“Yes, now there’s talk of it everywhere. But to whom is that due? God
knows, to us old veterans—and to him there!”
Stolpe began to talk of indifferent matters, but quite involuntarily
the conversation returned to the movement; man and wife lived and
breathed for nothing else. They were brave, honest people, who quite
simply divided mankind into two parts: those who were for and those who
were against the movement. Pelle seemed to breathe more freely and
deeply in this home, where the air was as though steeped in Socialism.
He noticed a heavy chest which stood against the wall on four twisted
legs. It was thickly ornamented with nail-heads and looked like an old
muniment chest.
“Yes—that’s the standard!” said Madam Stolpe, but she checked herself
in alarm. Mason Stolpe knitted his brows.
“Ah, well, you’re a decent fellow, after all,” he said. “One needn’t
slink on tiptoe in front of you!” He took a key out of a secret
compartment in his writing-table. “Now the danger’s a thing of the
past, but one still has to be careful. That’s a vestige of the times
when things used to go hardly with us. The police used to be down on
all our badges of common unity. The grand master himself came to me one
evening with the flag under his cloak, and said to me, ‘You must look
out for it, Stolpe, you are the most reliable of us all.’”
He and his wife unfolded the great piece of bunting. “See, that’s the
banner of the International. It looks a little the worse for wear, for
it has undergone all sorts of treatment. At the communist meetings out
in the fields, when the troops were sent against us with ball
cartridge, it waved over the speaker’s platform, and held us together.
When it flapped over our heads it was as though we were swearing an
oath to it. The police understood that, and they were mad to get it.
They went for the flag during a meeting, but nothing came of it, and
since then they’ve hunted for it so, it’s had to be passed from man to
man. In that way it has more than once come to me.”
“Yes, and once the police broke in here and took father away as we were
sitting at supper. They turned the whole place upside down, and dragged
him off to the cells without a word of explanation. The children were
little then, and you can imagine how miserable it seemed to me. I
didn’t know when they would let him out again.”
“Yes, but they didn’t get the colors,” said Stolpe, and he laughed
heartily. “I had already passed them on, they were never very long in
one place in those days. Now they lead a comparatively quiet life, and
mother and the rest of us too!”
The young men stood in silence, gazing at the standard that had seen so
many vicissitudes, and that was like the hot red blood of the movement.
Before Pelle a whole new world was unfolding itself; the hope that had
burned in the depths of his soul was after all not so extravagant. When
he was still running, wild at home, playing the games of childhood or
herding the cows, strong men had already been at work and had laid the
foundations of the cause…. A peculiar warmth spread through him and
rose to his head. If only it had been he who had waved the glowing
standard in the face of the oppressor—he, Pelle!
“And now it lies here in the chest and is forgotten!” he said
dejectedly.
“It is only resting,” said Stolpe. “Forgotten, yes; the police have no
idea that it still exists. But fix it on a staff, and you will see how
the comrades flock about it! Old and young alike. There’s fire in that
bit of cloth! True fire, that never goes out!”
Carefully they folded the colors and laid them back in the chest. “It
won’t do even now to speak aloud of the colors! You understand?” said
Stolpe.
There was a knock, and Stolpe made haste to lock the chest and hide the
key, while Frederik went to the door. They looked at one another
uneasily and stood listening.
“It is only Ellen,” said Frederik, and he returned, followed by a tall
dark girl with an earnest bearing. She had a veil over her face, and
before her mouth her breath showed like a pearly tissue.
“Ah, that’s the lass!” cried Stolpe, laughing. “What folly—we were
quite nervous, just as nervous as in the old days. And you’re abroad in
the streets at this hour of night! And in this weather?” He looked at
her affectionately; one could see that she was his darling. Outwardly
they were very unlike.
She greeted Pelle with the tiniest nod, but looked at him earnestly.
There was something still and gracious about her that fascinated him.
She wore dark clothes, without the slightest adornment, but they were
of good sound stuff.
“Won’t you change?” asked the mother, unbuttoning her cloak. “You are
quite wet, child.”
“No, I must go out again at once,” Ellen replied. “I only wanted to
peep in.”
“But it’s really very late,” grumbled Stolpe. “Are you only off duty
now?”
“Yes, it’s not my going-out day.”
“Not to-day again? Yes, it’s sheer slavery, till eleven at night!”
“That’s the way things are, and it doesn’t make it any better for you
to scold me,” said Ellen courageously.
“No, but you needn’t go out to service. There’s no sense in our
children going out to service in the houses of the employers. Don’t you
agree with me?” He turned to Pelle.
Ellen laughed brightly. “It’s all the same—father works for the
employers as well.”
“Yes, but that’s a different thing. It’s from one fixed hour to
another, and then it’s over. But this other work is a home; she goes
from one home to another and undertakes all the dirty work.”
“Father’s not in a position to keep me at home.”
“I know that very well, but all the same I can’t bear it. Besides, you
could surely get some other kind of work.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to! I claim the right to dispose of myself!” she
replied heatedly.
The others sat silent, looking nervously at one another. The veins
swelled on Stolpe’s forehead; he was purple, and terribly angry. But
Ellen looked at him with a little laugh. He got up and went grumbling
into the other room.
Her mother shook her head at Ellen. She was quite pale. “Oh, child,
child!” she whispered.
After a while Stolpe returned with some old newspapers, which he wanted
to show Pelle. Ellen stood behind his chair, looking down at them; she
rested her arm on his shoulders and idly ruffled his hair. The mother
pulled at her skirt. The papers were illustrated, and went back to the
stirring times.
The clock struck the half-hour; it was half-past eleven. Pelle rose in
consternation; he had quite forgotten the time.
“Take the lass with you,” said Stolpe. “You go the same way, don’t you,
Ellen? Then you’ll have company. There’s no danger going with her, for
she’s a saint.” It sounded as though he wanted to make up for his
scolding. “Come again soon; you will always be welcome here.”
They did not speak much on the way home. Pelle was embarrassed, and he
had a feeling that she was considering him and thinking him over as
they walked, wondering what sort of a fellow he might be. When he
ventured to say something, she answered briefly and looked at him
searchingly. And yet he found it was an interesting walk. He would
gladly have prolonged it.
“Many thanks for your company,” he said, when they stood at her house-
door. “I should be very glad to see you again.”
“You will if we meet,” she said taciturnly; but she gave him her hand
for a moment.
“We are sure to meet again! Be sure of that!” cried Pelle jovially.
“But you are forgetting to reward me for my escort?” He bent over her.
She gazed at him in astonishment—with eyes that were turning him to
stone, he thought. Then she slowly turned and went indoors.
X
One day, after his working hours, Pelle was taking some freshly
completed work to the Court shoemaker’s. The foreman took it and paid
for it, and proceeded to give out work to the others, leaving Pelle
standing. Pelle waited impatiently, but did no more than clear his
throat now and again. This was the way of these people; one had to put
up with it if one wanted work. “Have you forgotten me?” he said at
last, a little impatiently.
“You can go,” said the foreman. “You’ve finished here.”
“What does that mean?” asked Pelle, startled.
“It means what you hear. You’ve got the sack—if you understand that
better.”
Pelle understood that very well, but he wanted to establish the fact of
his persecution in the presence of his comrades. “Have you any fault to
find with my work?” he asked.
“You mix yourself up too much with things that don’t concern you, my
good fellow, and then you can’t do the work you ought to do.”
“I should like very much to know what fault you have to find with my
work,” said Pelle obstinately.
“Go to the devil! I’ve told you already!” roared the foreman.
The Court shoemaker came down through the door of the back room and
looked about him. When he saw Pelle, he went up to him.
“You get out of here, and that at once!” he cried, in a rage. “Do you
think we give bread to people that undermine us? Out, out of my place
of business, Mossoo Trades-Unionist!”
Pelle stood his ground, and looked his employer in the eyes; he would
have struck the man a blow in the face rather than allow himself to be
sent away. “Be cool, now; be cool!” he said to himself. He laughed, but
his features were quivering. The Court shoemaker kept a certain
distance, and continued to shout, “Out with him! Here, foreman, call
the police at once!”
“Now you can see, comrades, how they value one here,” said Pelle,
turning his broad back on Meyer. “We are dogs; nothing more!”
They stood there, staring at the counter, deaf and dumb in their dread
of taking sides. Then Pelle went.
He made his way northward. His heart was full of violent emotion.
Indignation raged within him like a tempest, and by fits and starts
found utterance on his lips. Meyer’s work was quite immaterial to him;
it was badly paid, and he only did it as a stop-gap. But it was
disgusting to think they could buy his convictions with badly-paid
work! And there they stood not daring to show their colors, as if it
wasn’t enough to support such a fellow with their skill and energy!
Meyer stood there like a wall, in the way of any real progress, but he
needn’t think he could strike at Pelle, for he’d get a blow in return
if he did!
He went straight to Mason Stolpe, in order to talk the matter over with
him; the old trades unionist was a man of great experience.
“So he’s one of those who go in for the open slave-trade!” said Stolpe.
“We’ve had a go at them before now. ‘We’ve done with you, my good man;
we can make no use of agitators!’ And if one steals a little march on
them ‘Off you go; you’re done with here!’ I myself have been like a
hunted cur, and at home mother used to go about crying. I could see
what she was feeling, but when I put the matter before her she said,
‘Hold out, Stolpe, you shan’t give in!’ ‘You’re forgetting our daily
bread, mother,’ I say. ‘Oh, our daily bread. I can just go out
washing!’ That was in those days—they sing another tune to us now! Now
the master politely raises his hat to old Stolpe! If he thinks he can
allow himself to hound a man down, an embargo must be put on him!”
Pelle had nothing to say against that. “If only it works,” he said.
“But our organization looks weak enough as yet.”
“Only try it; in any case, you can always damage him. He attacks your
livelihood in order to strike at your conscience, so you hit back at
his purse—that’s where his conscience is! Even if it does no good, at
least it makes him realize that you’re not a slave.”
Pelle sat a while longer chatting. He had secretly hoped to meet Ellen
again, but he dared not ask whether that was her day for coming home.
Madam Stolpe invited him to stay and to have supper with them she was
only waiting for her sons. But Pelle had no time; he must be off to
think out instructions for the embargo. “Then come on Sunday,” said the
mother; “Sunday is Ellen’s birthday.”
With rapid strides he went off to the president of the Union; the
invitation for the following Sunday had dissipated the remains of his
anger. The prospect of a tussle with Meyer had put him in the best of
tempers. He was certain of winning the president, Petersen, for his
purpose, if only he could find him out of bed; he himself had in his
time worked for wholesale shoemakers, and hated them like the plague.
It was said that Petersen had worked out a clever little invention—a
patent button for ladies’ boots—which he had taken to Meyer, as he
himself did not know how to exploit it. But Meyer had, without more
ado, treated the invention as his own, inasmuch as it was produced by
one of his workmen. He took out a patent and made a lot of money by it,
trifling as the thing was. When Petersen demanded a share of the
profits, he was dismissed. He himself never spoke of the matter; he
just sat in his cellar brooding over the injustice, so that he never
managed to recover his position. Almost his whole time had been devoted
to the Union, so that he might revenge himself through it; but it never
really made much progress. He fired up passionately enough, but he was
lacking in persistence. And his lungs were weak.
He trembled with excitement when Pelle explained his plan. “Great God
in heaven, if only we could get at him!” he whispered hoarsely,
clenching his skinny fists which Death had already marked with its
dusky shadows. “I would willingly give my miserable life to see the
scoundrel ruined! Look at that!” He bent down, whispering, and showed
Pelle a file ground to a point, which was fastened into a heavy handle.
“If I hadn’t the children, he would have got that between his ribs long
before this!” His gray, restless eyes, which reminded Pelle of Anker,
the crazy clockmaker, had a cold, piercing expression.
“Yes, yes,” said Pelle, laying his hand soothingly on the other’s; “but
it’s no use to do anything stupid. We shall only do what we want to do
if we all stand together.”
The day was well spent; on the very next evening the members of the
Union were summoned to a meeting. Petersen spoke first, and beginning
with a fiery speech. It was like the final efforts of a dying man. “You
organize the struggle,” said Petersen. “I’m no good nowadays for that—
and I’ve no strength. But I’ll sound the assault—ay, and so that they
wake up. Then you yourself must see to keeping the fire alight in
them.” His eyes burned in their shadowy sockets; he stood there like a
martyr upholding the necessity of the conflict. The embargo was agreed
upon unanimously!
Then Pelle came forward and organized the necessary plan of campaign.
It was his turn now. There was no money in the chest, but every man had
to promise a certain contribution to be divided among those who were
refusing to work. Every man must do his share to deprive Meyer of all
access to the labor market. And there was to be no delirious enthusiasm
—which they would regret when they woke up next morning. It was
essential that every man should form beforehand a clear conception of
the difficulties, and must realize what he was pledging himself to. And
then—three cheers for a successful issue!
This business meant a lot of running about. But what of that! Pelle,
who had to sit such a lot, wouldn’t suffer from getting out into the
fresh air! He employed the evenings in making up for lost time. He got
work from the small employers in Kristianshavn, who were very busy in
view of Christmas, which made up for that which he had lost through the
Court shoemaker.
On the second day after his dismissal, the declaration of the embargo
appeared under the “Labor Items” in _The Working Man_. “Assistance
strictly prohibited!” It was like the day’s orders, given by Pelle’s
own word of mouth. He cut the notice out, and now and again, as he sat
at his work, he took it out and considered it. This was Pelle—although
it didn’t say so—Pelle and the big employer were having a bit of a
tussle! Now they should see which was the stronger!
Pelle went often to see Stolpe. Strangely enough, his visits always
coincided with Ellen’s days off. Then he accompanied her homeward, and
they walked side by side talking of serious things. There was nothing
impetuous about them—they behaved as though a long life lay before
them. His vehemence cooled in the conflict with Meyer. He was sure of
Ellen’s character, unapproachable though she was. Something in him told
him that she ought to be and would remain so. She was one of those
natures to whom it is difficult to come out of their shell, so as to
reveal the kernel within; but he felt that there was something that was
growing for him within that reserved nature, and he was not impatient.
One evening he had as usual accompanied her to the door, and they stood
there bidding one another good night. She gave him her hand in her shy,
awkward manner, which might even mean reluctance, and was then about to
go indoors.
“But are we going on like this all our lives?” said Pelle, holding her
fingers tightly. “I love you so!”
She stood there a while, with an impenetrable expression, then advanced
her face and kissed him mechanically, as a child kisses, with tightly
closed lips. She was already on her way to the house when she suddenly
started back, drew him to herself, and kissed him passionately and
unrestrainedly. There was something so violent, so wild and fanatical
in her demeanor, that he was quite bewildered. He scarcely recognized
her, and when he had come to himself she was already on her way up the
kitchen steps. He stood still, as though blinded by a rain of fire, and
heard her running as though pursued.
Since that day she had been another creature. Her love was like the
spring that comes in a single night. She could not be without him for a
day; when she went out to make purchases, she came running over to the
“Ark.” Her nature had thrown off its restraint; there was tension in
her manner and her movements; and this tension now and again escaped
from within in little explosions. She did not say very much; when they
were together, she clung to him passionately as though to deaden some
pain, and hid her face; if he lifted it, she kept her eyes persistently
closed. Then she breathed deeply, and sat down smiling and humming to
herself when he spoke to her.
It was as though she was delving deep into his inmost being, and Pelle,
who felt the need to reach and to know that inner nature, drew
confidence from her society. No matter what confronted him, he had
always sought in his inner self for his natural support, anxiously
listening for that which came to the surface, and unconsciously
doubting and inquiring. And now, so surely as she leaned silently on
his arm, she confirmed something deep within him, and her steadfast
gaze vibrated within him like a proud vocation, and he felt himself
infinitely rich. She spoke to something deep within him when she gazed
at him so thoughtfully. But what she said he did not know—nor what
answer she received. When he recalled her from that gaze of hers, as of
one bewitched, she only sighed like one awaking, and kissed him.
Ellen was loyal and unselfish and greatly valued by her employers.
There was no real development to be perceived in her—she longed to
become his—and that was all. But the future was born on Pelle’s own
lips under her dreamy gaze, as though it was she who inspired him with
the illuminating words. And then she listened with an absent smile—as
to something delightful; but she herself seemed to give no thought to
the future. She seemed full of a hidden devotion, that filled Pelle
with an inward warmth, so that he held up his head very high toward the
light. This constant devotion of Ellen’s made the children “Family”
teasingly call her “the Saint.”
It gave him much secret pleasure to be admitted to her home, where the
robust Copenhagen humor concealed conditions quite patriarchal in their
nature. Everything was founded on order and respect for the parents,
especially the father, who spoke the decisive word in every matter, and
had his own place, in which no one else ever sat. When he came home
from his work, the grown-up sons would always race to take him his
slippers, and the wife always had some extra snack for him. The younger
son, Frederik, who was just out of his apprenticeship, was as delighted
as a child to think of the day when he should become a journeyman and
be able to drink brotherhood with the old man.
They lived in a new, spacious, three-roomed tenement with a servant’s
room thrown in; to Pelle, who was accustomed to find his comrades over
here living in one room with a kitchen, this was a new experience. The
sons boarded and lodged at home; they slept in the servant’s room. The
household was founded on and supported by their common energies;
although the family submitted unconditionally to the master of the
house, they did not do so out of servility; they only did as all others
did. For Stolpe was the foremost man in his calling, an esteemed worker
and the veteran of the labor movement. His word was unchallenged.
Ellen was the only one who did not respect his supremacy, but
courageously opposed him, often without any further motive than that of
contradiction. She was the only girl of the family, and the favorite;
and she took advantage of her position. Sometimes it looked as though
Stolpe would be driven to extremities; as though he longed to pulverize
her in his wrath; but he always gave in to her.
He was greatly pleased with Pelle. And he secretly admired his daughter
more than ever. “You see, mother, there’s something in that lass! She
understands how to pick a man for himself!” he would cry
enthusiastically.
“Yes; I’ve nothing against him, either,” Madam Stolpe would reply. “A
bit countrified still, but of course he’s growing out of it.”
“Countrified? He? No, you take my word, he knows what he wants. She’s
really found her master there!” said Stolpe triumphantly.
In the two brothers Pelle found a pair of loyal comrades, who could not
but look up to him.