Pelle was now a man; he was able to look after his own affairs and a
little more besides; and he was capable of weighing one circumstance
against another. He had thrust aside his horror concerning Due’s fate,
and once again saw light in the future. But this horror still lurked
within his mind, corroding everything else, lending everything a
gloomy, sinister hue. Over his brow brooded a dark cloud, as to which
he himself was not quite clear. But Ellen saw it and stroked it away
with her soft fingers, in order to make it disappear. It formed a
curious contrast to his fresh, ruddy face, like a meaningless threat
upon a fine spring day.
He began to be conscious of confidence like a sustaining strength. It
was not only in the “Ark” that he was idolized; his comrades looked up
to him; if there was anything important in hand their eyes
involuntarily turned to him. Although he had, thoughtlessly enough,
well-nigh wrecked the organism in order to come to grips with Meyer, he
had fully made up for his action, and the Union was now stronger than
ever, and this was his doing. So he could stretch his limbs and give a
little thought to his own affairs.
He and Ellen felt a warm longing to come together and live in their own
little home. There were many objections that might be opposed to such a
course, and he was not blind to them. Pelle was a valiant worker, but
his earnings were not so large that one could found a family on them;
it was the naked truth that even a good worker could not properly
support a wife and children. He counted on children as a matter of
course, and the day would come also when Father Lasse would no longer
be able to earn his daily bread. But that day lay still in the remote
future, and, on the other hand, it was no more expensive to live with a
companion than alone—if that companion was a good and saving wife. If a
man meant to enjoy some little share of the joy of life, he must close
his eyes and leap over all obstacles, and for once put his trust in the
exceptional.
“It’ll soon be better, too,” said Mason Stolpe. “Things look bad now in
most trades, but you see yourself, how everything is drawing to a great
crisis. Give progress a kick behind and ask her to hurry herself a
little—there’s something to be gained by that. A man ought to marry
while he’s still young; what’s the good of going about and hankering
after one another?”
Madam Stolpe was, as always, of his opinion. “We married and enjoyed
the sweetness of it while our blood was still young. That’s why we have
something now that we can depend on,” she said simply, looking at
Pelle.
So it was determined that the wedding should be held that spring. In
March the youngest son would complete his apprenticeship, so that the
wedding feast and the journeyman’s feast could be celebrated
simultaneously.
On the canal, just opposite the prison, a little two-roomed dwelling
was standing vacant, and this they rented. Mason Stolpe wanted to have
the young couple to live out by the North Bridge, “among respectable
people,” but Pelle had become attached to this quarter. Moreover, he
had a host of customers there, which would give him a foothold, and
there, too, were the canals. For Pelle, the canals were a window
opening on the outer world; they gave his mind a sense of liberty; he
always felt oppressed among the stone walls by the North Bridge. Ellen
let him choose—it was indifferent to her where they lived. She would
gladly have gone to the end of the world with him, in order to yield
herself.
She had saved a little money in her situation, and Pelle also had a
little put by; he was wise in his generation, and cut down all their
necessities. When Ellen was free they rummaged about buying things for
their home. Many things they bought second-hand, for cheapness, but not
for the bedroom; there everything was to be brand-new!
It was a glorious time, in which every hour was full of its own rich
significance; there was no room for brooding or for care. Ellen often
came running in to drag him from his work; he must come with her and
look at something or other—one could get it so cheap—but quickly,
quickly, before it should be gone! On her “off” Sundays she would
reduce the little home to order, and afterward they would walk arm in
arm through the city, and visit the old people.
Pelle had had so much to do with the affairs of others, and had given
so little thought to his own, that it was delightful, for once in a
way, to be able to rest and think of himself. The crowded outer world
went drifting far away from him; he barely glanced at it as he built
his nest; he thought no more about social problems than the birds that
nest in spring.
And one day Pelle carried his possessions to his new home, and for the
last time lay down to sleep in the “Ark.” There was no future for any
one here; only the shipwrecked sought an abiding refuge within these
walls. It was time for Pelle to move on. Yet from all this raggedness
and overcrowding rose a voice which one did not hear elsewhere; a
careless twittering, like that of unlucky birds that sit and plume
their feathers when a little sunlight falls on them. He looked back on
the time he had spent here with pensive melancholy.
On the night before his wedding he lay restlessly tossing to and fro.
Something seemed to follow him in his sleep. At last he woke, and was
sensible of a stifled moaning, that came and went with long intervals
in between, as though the “Ark” itself were moaning in an evil dream.
Suddenly he stood up, lit the lamp, and began to polish his wedding-
boots, which were still on the lasts, so that they might retain their
handsome shape. Lasse was still asleep, and the long gangway outside
lay still in slumber.
The sound returned, louder and more long-drawn, and something about it
reminded him of Stone Farm, and awaked the horror of his childish days.
He sat and sweated at his work. Suddenly he heard some one outside—some
one who groped along the gangway and fumbled at his door. He sprang
forward and opened it. Suspense ran through his body like an icy
shudder. Outside stood Hanne’s mother, shivering in the morning cold.
“Pelle,” she whispered anxiously, “it’s so near now—would you run and
fetch Madam Blom from Market Street? I can’t leave Hanne. And I ought
to be wishing you happiness, too.”
The errand was not precisely convenient, nevertheless, he ran oft. And
then he sat listening, working still, but as quietly as possible, in
order not to wake Father Lasse. But then it was time for the children
to get up; for the last time he knocked on the wall and heard Marie’s
sleepy “Ye—es!” At the same moment the silence of night was broken; the
inmates tumbled out and ran barefooted to the lavatories, slamming
their doors. “The Princess is lamenting,” they told one another. “She’s
lamenting because she’s lost what she’ll never get again.” Then the
moaning rose to a loud shriek, and suddenly it was silent over there.
Poor Hanne! Now she had another to care for—and who was its father?
Hard times were in store for her.
Lasse was not going to work to-day, although the wedding-feast was not
to be held until the afternoon. He was in a solemn mood, from the
earliest morning, and admonished Pelle not to lay things cross-wise,
and the like. Pelle laughed every time.
“Yes, you laugh,” said Lasse, “but this is an important day—perhaps the
most important in your life. You ought to take care lest the first
trifling thing you do should ruin everything.”
He pottered about, treating everything as an omen. He was delighted
with the sun—it rose out of a sack and grew brighter and brighter in
the course of the day. It was never lucky for the sun to begin too
blazing.
Marie went to and fro, considering Pelle with an expression of
suppressed anxiety, like a mother who is sending her child into the
world, and strives hard to seem cheerful, thought Pelle. Yes, yes, she
had been like a mother to him in many senses, although she was only a
child; she had taken him into her nest as a little forsaken bird, and
with amazement had seen him grow. He had secretly helped her when he
could. But what was that in comparison with the singing that had made
his work easy, when he saw how the three waifs accepted things as they
were, building their whole existence on nothing? Who would help them
now over the difficult places without letting them see the helping
hand? He must keep watchful eye on them.
Marie’s cheeks were a hectic red, and her eyes were shining when he
held her roughened hands in his and thanked her for being such a good
neighbor. Her narrow chest was working, and a reflection of hidden
beauty rested upon her. Pelle had taught her blood to find the way to
her colorless face; whenever she was brought into intimate contact with
him or his affairs, her cheeks glowed, and every time a little of the
color was left behind. It was as though his vitality forced the sap to
flow upward in her, in sympathy, and now she stood before him, trying
to burst her stunted shell, and unfold her gracious capacities before
him, and as yet was unable to do so. Suddenly she fell upon his breast.
“Pelle, Pelle,” she said, hiding her face against him. And then she ran
into her own room.
Lasse and Pelle carried the last things over to the new home, and put
everything tidy; then they dressed themselves in their best and set out
for the Stoples’ home. Pelle was wearing a top-hat for the first time
in his life, and looked quite magnificent in it. “You are like a big
city chap,” said Lasse, who could not look at him often enough. “But
what do you think they’ll say of old Lasse? They are half-way fine
folks themselves, and I don’t know how to conduct myself. Wouldn’t it
perhaps be better if I were to turn back?”
“Don’t talk like that, father!” said Pelle.
Lasse was monstrously pleased at the idea of attending the wedding-
feast, but he had all sorts of misgivings. These last years had made
him shy of strangers, and he liked to creep into corners. His holiday
clothes, moreover, were worn out, and his every-day things were patched
and mended; his long coat he had hired expressly for the occasion,
while the white collar and cuffs belonged to Peter. He did not feel at
all at home in his clothes, and looked like an embarrassed schoolboy
waiting for confirmation.
At the Stolpes’ the whole household was topsy-turvy. The guests who
were to go to the church had already arrived; they were fidgeting about
in the living-room and whistling to themselves, or looking out into the
street, and feeling bored. Stople’s writing-table had been turned into
a side-board, and the brothers were opening bottles of beer and
politely pressing everybody: “Do take a sandwich with it—you’ll get a
dry throat standing so long and saying nothing.”
In the best room Stolpe was pacing up and down and muttering. He was in
his shirtsleeves, waiting until it was his turn to use the bedroom,
where Ellen and her mother had locked themselves in. Prom time to time
the door was opened a little, and Ellen’s bare white arm appeared, as
she threw her father some article of attire. Then Pelle’s heart began
to thump.
On the window-sill stood Madam Stolpe’s myrtle; it was stripped quite
bare.
Now Stolpe came back; he was ready! Pelle had only to button his collar
for him. He took Lasse’s hand and then went to fetch _The Working Man_.
“Now you just ought to hear this, what they say of your son,” he said,
and began to read:
“Our young party-member, Pelle, to-day celebrates his nuptials with the
daughter of one of the oldest and most respected members of the party,
Mason Stolpe. This young man, who has already done a great deal of work
for the Cause, was last night unanimously proposed as President of his
organization. We give the young couple our best wishes for the future.”
“That speaks for itself, eh?” Stolpe handed the paper to his guests.
“Yes, that looks well indeed,” they said, passing the paper from hand
to hand. Lasse moved his lips as though he, too, were reading the
notice through. “Yes, devilish good, and they know how to put these
things,” he said, delighted.
“But what’s wrong with Petersen—is he going to resign?” asked Stolpe.
“He is ill,” replied Pelle. “But I wasn’t there last night, so I don’t
know anything about it.” Stolpe gazed at him, astonished.
Madam Stolpe came in and drew Pelle into the bedroom, where Ellen stood
like a snow-white revelation, with a long veil and a myrtle-wreath in
her hair. “Really you two are supposed not to see one another, but I
think that’s wrong,” she said, and with a loving glance she pushed them
into each other’s arms.
Frederik, who was leaning out of the window, in order to watch for the
carriage, came and thundered on the door. “The carriage is there,
children!” he roared, in quite a needlessly loud voice. “The carriage
is there!”
And they drove away in it, although the church was only a few steps
distant. Pelle scarcely knew what happened to him after that, until he
found himself back in the carriage; they had to nudge him every time he
had to do anything. He saw no one but Ellen.
She was his sun; the rest meant nothing to him. At the altar he had
seized her hand and held it in his during the whole service.
Frederik had remained at home, in order to admit, receive messages and
people who came to offer their congratulations. As they returned he
leaned out of the window and threw crackers and detonating pellets
under the horses’ feet, as a salute to the bridal pair.
People drank wine, touched glasses with the young couple, and examined
the wedding-presents. Stolpe looked to see the time; it was still quite
early. “You must go for a bit of a stroll, father,” said Madam Stolpe.
“We can’t eat anything for a couple of hours yet.” So the men went
across to Ventegodt’s beer-garden, in order to play a game of skittles,
while the women prepared the food.
Pelle would rather have stopped in the house with Ellen, but he must
not; he and Lasse went together. Lasse had not yet properly wished
Pelle happiness; he had waited until they should be alone.
“Well, happiness and all blessings, my boy,” he said, much moved, as he
pressed Pelle’s hand. “Now you, too, are a man with a family and
responsibilities. Now don’t you forget that the women are like
children. In serious matters you mustn’t be too ceremonious with them,
but tell them, short and plain. This is to be so! It goes down best
with them. If once a man begins discussing too much with them, then
they don’t know which way they want to go. Otherwise they are quite all
right, and it’s easy to get on with them—if one only treats them well.
I never found it any trouble, for they like a firm hand over them.
You’ve reason to be proud of your parents-in-law; they are capital
people, even if they are a bit proud of their calling. And Ellen will
make you a good wife—if I know anything of women. She’ll attend to her
own affairs and she’ll understand how to save what’s left over. Long in
the body she is, like a fruitful cow—she won’t fail you in the matter
of children.”
Outdoors in the beer-garden Swedish punch was served, and Lasse’s
spirits began to rise. He tried to play at skittles—he had never done
so before; and he plucked up courage to utter witticisms.
The others laughed, and Lasse drew himself up and came out of his
shell. “Splendid people, the Copenhageners!” he whispered to Pelle. “A
ready hand for spending, and they’ve got a witty word ready for
everything.”
Before any one noticed it had grown dark, and now they must be home!
At home the table was laid, and the rest of the guests had come. Madam
Stolpe was already quite nervous, they had stopped away so long. “Now
we’ll all wobble a bit on our legs,” whispered Stolpe, in the entry;
“then my wife will go for us! Well, mother, have you got a warm welcome
ready for us?” he asked, as he tumbled into the room.
“Ah, you donkey, do you think I don’t know you?” cried Madam Stolpe,
laughing. “No, one needn’t go searching in the taverns for my man!”
Pelle went straight up to Ellen in the kitchen and led her away. Hand
in hand they went round the rooms, looking at the last presents to
arrive. There was a table-lamp, a dish-cover in German silver, and some
enamelled cooking-utensils. Some one, too, had sent a little china
figure of a child in swaddling-clothes, but had forgotten to attach his
name.
Ellen led Pelle out into the entry, in order to embrace him, but there
stood Morten, taking off his things. Then they fled into the kitchen,
but the hired cook was in possession; at length they found an
undisturbed haven in the bedroom. Ellen wound her arms round Pelle’s
neck and gazed at him in silence, quite lost in happiness and longing.
And Pelle pressed the beloved, slender, girlish body against his own,
and looked deep in her eyes, which were dark and shadowy as velvet, as
they drank in the light in his. His heart swelled within him, and he
felt that he was unspeakably fortunate—richer than any one else in the
whole world—because of the treasure that he held in his arms. Silently
he vowed to himself that he would protect her and cherish her and have
no other thought than to make her happy.
An impatient trampling sounded from the other room. “The young couple—
the young couple!” they were calling. Pelle and Ellen hastened in, each
by a different door. The others were standing in their places at the
table, and were waiting for Pelle and Ellen to take their seats. “Well,
it isn’t difficult to see what she’s been about!” said Stolpe
teasingly. “One has only to look at the lass’s peepers—such a pair of
glowing coals!”
Otto Stolpe, the slater, was spokesman, and opened the banquet by
offering brandy. “A drop of spirits,” he said to each: “we must make
sure there’s a vent to the gutter, or the whole thing will soon get
stopped up.”
“Now, take something, people!” cried Stolpe, from the head of the
table, where he was carving a loin of roast pork. “Up with the bricks
there!” He had the young couple on his right and the newly-baked
journeyman on his left. On the table before him stood a new bedroom
chamber with a white wooden cover to it; the guests glanced at it and
smiled at one another. “What are you staring at?” he asked solemnly.
“If you need anything, let the cat out of the bag!”
“Ah, it’s the tureen there!” said his brother, the carpenter, without
moving a muscle. “My wife would be glad to borrow it a moment, she
says.”
His wife, taken aback, started up and gave him a thwack on the back.
“Monster!” she said, half ashamed, and laughing. “The men must always
make a fool of somebody!”
Then they all set to, and for a while eating stopped their mouths. From
time to time some droll remark was made. “Some sit and do themselves
proud, while others do the drudging,” said the Vanishing Man, Otto’s
comrade. Which was to say that he had finished his pork. “Give him one
in the mouth, mother!” said Stolpe.
When their hunger was satisfied the witticisms began to fly. Morten’s
present was a great wedding-cake. It was a real work of art; he had
made it in the form of a pyramid. On the summit stood a youthful
couple, made of sugar, who held one another embraced, while behind them
was a highly glazed representation of the rising sun. Up the steps of
the pyramid various other figures were scrambling to the top, holding
their arms outstretched toward the summit. Wine was poured out when
they came to the cake, and Morten made a little speech in Pelle’s
honor, in which he spoke of loyalty toward the new comrade whom he had
chosen. Apparently the speech concerned Ellen only, but Pelle
understood that his words were meant to be much more comprehensive;
they had a double meaning all the time.
“Thank you, Morten,” he said, much moved, and he touched glasses with
him.
Then Stolpe delivered a speech admonishing the newly-married pair. This
was full of precious conceits and was received with jubilation.
“Now you see how father can speak,” said Madam Stolpe. “When nothing
depends on it then he can speak!”
“What’s that you say, mother?” cried Stolpe, astonished. He was not
accustomed to criticism from that source. “Just listen to that now—
one’s own wife is beginning to pull away the scaffolding-poles from
under one!”
“Well, that’s what I say!” she rejoined, looking at him boldly. Her
face was quite heated with wine. “Does any one stand in the front of
things like father does? He was the first, and he has been always the
most zealous; he has done a good stroke of work, more than most men.
And to- day he might well have been one of the leaders and have called
the tune, if it weren’t for that damned hiccoughing. He’s a clever man,
and his comrades respect him too, but what does all that signify if a
man hiccoughs? Every time he stands on the speaker’s platform he has
the hiccoughs.”
“And yet it isn’t caused by brandy?” said the thick-set little
Vanishing Man, Albert Olsen.
“Oh, no, father has never gone in for bottle agitation,” replied Madam
Stolpe.
“That was a fine speech that mother made about me,” said Stolpe,
laughing, “and she didn’t hiccough. It is astonishing, though—there are
some people who can’t. But now it’s your turn, Frederik. Now you have
become a journeyman and must accept the responsibility yourself for
doing things according to plumb-line and square. We have worked on the
scaffold together and we know one another pretty well. Many a time
you’ve been a clown and many a time a sheep, and a box on the ears from
your old man has never been lacking. But that was in your fledgling
years. When only you made up your mind there was no fault to be found
with you. I will say this to your credit—that you know your trade—you
needn’t be shamed by anybody. Show what you can do, my lad! Do your
day’s work so that your comrades don’t need to take you in tow, and
never shirk when it comes to your turn!”
“Don’t cheat the drinker of his bottle, either,” said Albert Olsen,
interrupting. Otto nudged him in the ribs.
“No, don’t do that,” said Stolpe, and he laughed. “There are still two
things,” he added seriously. “Take care the girls don’t get running
about under the scaffold in working hours, that doesn’t look well; and
always uphold the fellowship. There is nothing more despicable than the
name of strikebreaker.”
“Hear, hear!” resounded about the table. “A true word!”
Frederik sat listening with an embarrassed smile.
He was dressed in a new suit of the white clothes of his calling, and
on his round chin grew a few dark downy hairs, which he fingered every
other moment. He was waiting excitedly until the old man had finished,
so that he might drink brotherhood with him.
“And now, my lad,” said Stolpe, taking the cover from the “tureen,”
“now you are admitted to the corporation of masons, and you are
welcome! Health, my lad.” And with a sly little twinkle of his eye, he
set the utensil to his mouth, and drank.
“Health, father!” replied Frederik, with shining eyes, as his father
passed him the drinking-bowl. Then it went round the table. The women
shrieked before they drank; it was full of Bavarian beer, and in the
amber fluid swam Bavarian sausages. And while the drinking-bowl made
its cheerful round, Stolpe struck up with the Song of the Mason:
“The man up there in snowy cap and blouse,
He is a mason, any fool could swear.
Just give him stone and lime, he’ll build a house
Fine as a palace, up in empty air!
Down in the street below stands half the town:
Ah, ah! Na, na!
The scaffold sways, but it won’t fall down!
“Down in the street he’s wobbly in his tread,
He tumbles into every cellar door;
That’s ’cause his home is in the clouds o’erhead,
Where all the little birds about him soar.
Up there he works away with peaceful mind:
Ah, ah. Na, na!
The scaffold swings in the boisterous wind!
“What it is to be giddy no mason knows:
Left to himself he’d build for ever,
Stone upon stone, till in Heaven, I s’pose!
But up comes the Law, and says—Stop now, clever!
There lives the Almighty, so just come off!
Ah, ah! Na, na!
Sheer slavery this, but he lets them scoff!
“Before he knows it the work has passed:
He measures all over and reckons it up.
His wages are safe in his breeches at last,
And he clatters off home to rest and to sup.
And a goodly wage he’s got in his pocket:
Ah, ah! Na, na!
The scaffold creaks to the winds that rock it!”
The little thick-set slater sat with both arms on the table, staring
right in front of him with veiled eyes. When the song was over he
raised his head a little. “Yes, that may be all very fine—for those it
concerns. But the slater, he climbs higher than the mason.” His face
was purple.
“Now, comrade, let well alone,” said Stolpe comfortably. “It isn’t the
question, to-night, who climbs highest, it’s a question of amusing
ourselves merely.”
“Yes, that may be,” replied Olsen, letting his head sink again. “But
the slater, he climbs the highest.” After which he sat there murmuring
to himself.
“Just leave him alone,” whispered Otto. “Otherwise he’ll get in one of
his Berserker rages. Don’t be so grumpy, old fellow,” he said, laying
his arm on Olsen’s shoulders. “No one can compete with you in the art
of tumbling down, anyhow!”
The Vanishing Man was so called because he was in the habit—while lying
quite quietly on the roof at work—of suddenly sliding downward and
disappearing into the street below. He had several times fallen from
the roof of a house without coming to any harm; but on one occasion he
had broken both legs, and had become visibly bow-legged in consequence.
In order to appease him, Otto, who was his comrade, related how he had
fallen down on the last occasion.
“We were lying on the roof, working away, he and I, and damned cold it
was. He, of course, had untied the safety-rope, and as we were lying
there quite comfortably and chatting, all of a sudden he was off. ‘The
devil!’ I shouted to the others, ‘now the Vanishing Man has fallen down
again!’ And we ran down the stairs as quick as we could. We weren’t in
a humor for any fool’s tricks, as you may suppose. But there was no
Albert Olsen lying on the pavement. ‘Damn and blast it all, where has
the Vanisher got to?’ we said, and we stared at one another, stupefied.
And then I accidentally glanced across at a beer-cellar opposite, and
there, by God, he was sitting at the basement window, winking at us so,
with his forefinger to his nose, making signs to us to go down and have
a glass of beer with him. ‘I was so accursedly thirsty,’ was all he
said; ‘I couldn’t wait to run down the stairs!’”
The general laughter appeased the Vanishing Man. “Who’ll give me a
glass of beer?” he said, rising with difficulty. He got his beer and
sat down in a corner.
Stolpe was sitting at the table playing with his canary, which had to
partake of its share in the feast. The bird sat on his red ear and
fixed its claws in his hair, then hopped onto his arm and along it onto
the table. Stolpe kept on asking it, “What would you like to smoke,
Hansie?” “Peep!” replied the canary, every time. Then they all laughed.
“Hansie would like a pipe!”
“How clever he is, to answer like that!” said the women.
“Clever?—ay, and he’s sly too! Once we bought a little wife for him;
mother didn’t think it fair that he shouldn’t know what love is. Well,
they married themselves very nicely, and the little wife lay two eggs.
But when she wanted to begin to sit Hansie got sulky; he kept on
calling to her to come out on the perch. Well, she wouldn’t, and one
fine day, when she wanted to get something to eat, he hopped in and
threw the eggs out between the bars! He was jealous—the rascal! Yes,
animals are wonderfully clever—stupendous it is, that such a little
thing as that could think that out! Now, now, just look at him!”
Hansie had hopped onto the table and had made his way to the remainder
of the cake. He was sitting on the edge of the dish, cheerfully
flirting his tail as he pecked away. Suddenly something fell upon the
table- cloth. “Lord bless me,” cried Stolpe, in consternation, “if that
had been any one else! Wouldn’t you have heard mother carry on!”
Old Lasse was near exploding at this. He had never before been in such
pleasant company. “It’s just as if one had come upon a dozen of Brother
Kalle’s sort,” he whispered to Pelle. Pelle smiled absently. Ellen was
holding his hand in her lap and playing with his fingers.
A telegram of congratulation came for Pelle from his Union, and this
brought the conversation back to more serious matters. Morten and
Stolpe became involved in a dispute concerning the labor movement;
Morten considered that they did not sufficiently consider the
individual, but attached too much importance to the voice of the
masses. In his opinion the revolution must come from within.
“No,” said Stolpe, “that leads to nothing. But if we could get our
comrades into Parliament and obtain a majority, then we should build up
the State according to our own programme, and that is in every respect
a legal one!”
“Yes, but it’s a question of daily bread,” said Morten, with energy.
“Hungry people can’t sit down and try to become a majority; while the
grass grows the cow starves! They ought to help themselves. If they do
not, their self-consciousness is imperfect; they must wake up to the
consciousness of their own human value. If there were a law forbidding
the poor man to breathe the air, do you think he’d stop doing so? He
simply could not. It’s painful for him to look on at others eating when
he gets nothing himself. He is wanting in physical courage. And so
society profits by his disadvantage. What has the poor man to do with
the law? He stands outside all that! A man mustn’t starve his horse or
his dog, but the State which forbids him to do so starves its own
workers. I believe they’ll have to pay for preaching obedience to the
poor; we are getting bad material for the now order of society that we
hope to found some day.”
“Yes, but we don’t obey the laws out of respect for the commands of a
capitalist society,” said Stolpe, somewhat uncertainly, “but out of
regard for ourselves. God pity the poor man if he takes the law into
his own hands!”
“Still, it keeps the wound fresh! As for all the others, who go hungry
in silence, what do they do? There are too few of them, alas—there’s
room in the prisons for them! But if every one who was hungry would
stick his arm through a shop window and help himself—then the question
of maintenance would soon be solved. They couldn’t put the whole nation
in prison! Now, hunger is yet another human virtue, which is often
practised until men die of it—for the profit of those who hoard wealth.
They pat the poor, brave man on the back because he’s so obedient to
the law. What more can he want?”
“Yes, devil take it, of course it’s all topsy-turvy,” replied Stolpe.
“But that’s precisely the reason why——No, no, you won’t persuade me, my
young friend! You seem to me a good deal too ‘red.’ It wouldn’t do! Now
I’ve been concerned in the movement from the very first day, and no one
can say that Stolpe is afraid to risk his skin; but that way wouldn’t
suit me. We have always held to the same course, and everything that we
have won we have taken on account.”
“Yes, that’s true,” interrupted Frau Stolpe. “When I look back to those
early years and then consider these I can scarcely believe it’s true.
Then it was all we could do to find safe shelter, even among people of
our own standing; they annoyed us in every possible way, and hated
father because he wasn’t such a sheep as they were, but used to concern
himself about their affairs. Every time I went out of the kitchen door
I’d find a filthy rag of dishcloth hung over the handle, and they
smeared much worse things than that over the door—and whose doing was
it? I never told father; he would have been so enraged he would have
torn the whole house down to find the guilty person. No, father had
enough to contend against already. But now: ‘Ah, here comes Stolpe—
Hurrah! Long live Stolpe! One must show respect to Stolpe, the
veteran!’”
“That may be all very fine,” muttered Albert Olsen, “but the slater, he
climbs the highest.” He was sitting with sunken head, staring angrily
before him.
“To be sure he climbs highest,” said the women. “No one says he
doesn’t.”
“Leave him alone,” said Otto; “he’s had a drop too much!”
“Then he should take a walk in the fresh air and not sit there and make
himself disagreeable,” said Madam Stolpe, with a good deal of temper.
The Vanishing Man rose with an effort. “Do you say a walk in the fresh
air, Madam Stolpe? Yes, if any one can stand the air, by God, it’s
Albert Olsen. Those big-nosed masons, what can they do?” He stood with
bent head, muttering angrily to himself. “Yes, then we’ll take a walk
in the fresh air. I don’t want to have anything to do with your fools’
tricks.” He staggered out through the kitchen door.
“What’s he going to do there?” cried Madam Stolpe, in alarm.
“Oh, he’ll just go down into the yard and turn himself inside out,”
said Otto. “He’s a brilliant fellow, but he can’t carry much.”
Pelle, still sitting at table, had been drawing with a pencil on a
scrap of paper while the others were arguing. Ellen leaned over his
shoulder watching him. He felt her warm breath upon his ear and smiled
happily as he used his pencil. Ellen took the drawing when he had
finished and pushed it across the table to the others. It showed a
thick-set figure of a man, dripping with sweat, pushing a wheelbarrow
which supported his belly. “Capitalism—when the rest of us refuse to
serve him any longer!” was written below. This drawing made a great
sensation. “You’re a deuce of a chap!” cried Stolpe. “I’ll send that to
the editor of the humorous page—I know him.”
“Yes, Pelle,” said Lasse proudly, “there’s nothing he can’t do; devil
knows where he gets it from, for he doesn’t get it from his father.”
And they all laughed.
Carpenter Stolpe’s good lady sat considering the drawing with
amazement, quite bewildered, looking first at Pelle’s fingers and then
at the drawing again. “I can understand how people can say funny things
with their mouths,” she said, “but with their fingers—that I don’t
understand. Poor fellow, obliged to push his belly in front of him!
It’s almost worse than when I was going to have Victor.”
“Cousin Victor, her youngest, who is so deucedly clever,” said Otto, in
explanation, giving Pelle a meaning wink.
“Yes, indeed he is clever, if he is only six months old. The other day
I took him downstairs with me when I went to buy some milk. Since then
he won’t accept his mother’s left breast any more. The rascal noticed
that the milkman drew skim milk from the left side of the cart and
full-cream milk from the tap on the right side. And another time——”
“Now, mother, give over!” said Carpenter Stolpe; “don’t you see they’re
sitting laughing at you? And we ought to see about getting home
presently.” He looked a trifle injured.
“What, are you going already?” said Stolpe. “Why, bless my soul, it’s
quite late already. But we must have another song first.”
“It’ll be daylight soon,” said Madam Stolpe; she was so tired that she
was nodding.
When they had sung the Socialist marching song, the party broke up.
Lasse had his pockets filled with sweets for the three orphans.
“What’s become of the Vanishing Man?” said Otto suddenly.
“Perhaps he’s been taken bad down in the yard,” said Stolpe. “Run down
and see, Frederick.” They had quite forgotten him.
Frederik returned and announced that Albert Olsen was not in the yard—
and the gate was locked.
“Surely he can’t have gone on the roof?” said one. They ran up the back
stairs; the door of the loft was open, and the skylight also.
Otto threw off his coat and swung himself up through the opening. On
the extreme end of the ridge of the roof sat Albert Olsen, snoring.
He was leaning against the edge of the party-wall, which projected
upward about eighteen inches. Close behind him was empty space.
“For God’s sake don’t call him,” said Mother Stolpe, under her breath;
“and catch hold of him before he wakes.”
But Otto went straight up to his comrade. “Hullo, mate! Time’s up!” he
cried.
“Righto!” said the Vanisher, and he rose to his feet. He stood there a
moment, swaying above the abyss, then, giving the preference to the way
leading over the roof, he followed in Otto’s track and crept through
the window.
“What the dickens were you really doing there?” asked Stolpe, laughing.
“Have you been to work?”
“I just went up there and enjoyed the fresh air a bit. Have you got a
bottle of beer? But what’s this? Everybody going home already?”
“Yes, you’ve been two hours sitting up there and squinting at the
stars,” replied Otto.
Now all the guests had gone. Lasse and the young couple stood waiting
to say farewell. Madam Stolpe had tears in her eyes. She threw her arms
round Ellen. “Take good care of yourself, the night is so cold,” she
said, in a choking voice, and she stood nodding after them with eyes
that were blinded with tears.
“Why, but there’s nothing to cry about!” said Mason Stolpe, as he led
her indoors. “Go to bed now—I’ll soon sing the Vanishing Man to sleep!
Thank God for to-day, mother!”