It still sometimes happened that Pelle awoke in the night not knowing
where he was. He was oppressed with a stifling anxiety, dreaming that
he was in prison, and fancying he could still smell the rank, mouldy
odor of the cell. He gradually came to his senses and knew where he
was; the sounds of breathing around him, and the warm influence of the
darkness itself, brought him back to his home. He sat up joyfully, and
struck a match to get a glimpse of Ellen and the little ones. He dared
not go to sleep again, for sleep would instantly take him back to the
prison; so he dressed quietly and stole out to see the day awaken.
It was strange with these dreams, for they turned everything upside
down. In the prison he always dreamed he was free and living happily;
nothing less would do there. There the day was bad and the night good,
and here it was the reverse. It was as though something within one
would always have everything. “That must be the soul!” he thought as he
wandered eastward to meet the first gleam of day. In the country at
home, the old people in his childhood believed that dreams were the
soul wandering about by itself; some had seen it as a white mouse
creeping out of the sleeper’s mouth to gather fresh experiences for
him. It was true, too, that through dreams the poor man had hitherto
had everything; they carried him out of his prison. Perhaps the _roles_
were exchanged during the darkness of night. Perhaps the rich man’s
soul came during the night and slipped into the poor man’s body to
gather suffering for his master.
There was spring in the air. As yet it was only perceptible to Pelle in
a feeling of elation, a desire to expand and burst all boundaries. He
walked with his face toward the opening day, and had a feeling of
unconquerable power. Whence this feeling came he knew not, but it was
there. He felt himself as something immense that was shut into a small
space and would blow up the world if it were let loose. He walked on
quickly. Above his head rose the first lark. Slowly the earth drew from
its face the wonderful veil of rest and mystery that was night.
Perhaps the feeling of strength came from his having taken possession
of his spirit and commanding a view of the world. The world had no
limits, but neither had his powers; the force that could throw him out
of his course did not exist. In his own footfall he heard the whole
future; the Movement would soon be concluded when it had taken in the
fact that the whole thing must be included. There was still a little
difficulty; from that side they still made it a condition for their
cooperation that Pelle should demand a public recognition of his good
character. Pelle laughed and raised his face to the morning breeze
which came like a cold shiver before the sunrise. Outsider! Yes, there
was some truth in it. He did not belong to the existing state of
things; he desired no civil rights there. That he was outside was his
stamp of nobility; his relations to the future were contained in that
fact. He had begun the fight as one of the lowest of the people, and as
such he would triumph. When he rose there should no longer be a pariah
caste.
As he walked along with the night behind him and his face to the light,
he seemed to have just entered into youth with everything before him—
everything to look forward to! And yet he seemed to have existed since
the morning of time, so thoroughly did he know the world of darkness
that he left. Was not man a wonderful being, both in his power to
shrink up and become nothing, and in his power to expand and fill
everything? He now understood Uncle Kalle’s smile on all occasions; he
had armed himself with it in order that life should not draw too deep
furrows in his gentle nature. The poor man had been obliged to dull
himself; he would simply bleed to death if he gave himself up to stern
reality. The dullness had been like a hard shell that protected the
poor; and now they came with their heart quite safe in spite of
everything. They could very well lead when times were good.
Pelle had always a vague feeling of being chosen. Even as a child it
made him look with courage in the face of a hard world, and filled his
bare limbs with elasticity. Poor and naked he came into the world,
apparently without a gift of any kind; and yet he came as a bright
promise to the elderly, work-bowed Father Lasse. Light radiated from
him, insignificant and ordinary though he was; God had given him the
spark, the old man always said, and he always looked upon the boy as a
little miracle of heaven. The boy Pelle wondered a little at it, but
was happy in his father’s pleasure. He himself knew some very different
miracles at that time, for instance the calf of the fair with two
heads, and the lamb with eight legs. He had his own demands to make of
life’s wonderful riches, and was not struck with surprise at a very
ordinary, big-eared urchin such as one might see any day.
And now he was just showing that Father Lasse had been right. The
greatest miracles were in himself—Pelle, who resembled hundreds of
millions of other workmen, and had never yet had more than just enough
for his food. Man was really the most wonderful of all. Was he not
himself, in all his commonplace naturalness, like a luminous spark,
sprung from the huge anvil of divine thought? He could send out his
inquiring thought to the uttermost borders of space, and back to the
dawn of time. And this all-embracing power seemed to have proceeded
from nothing, like God Himself! The mere fact that he, who made so much
noise, had to go to prison in order to comprehend the great object of
things, was a marvel! There must have been far-reaching plans deposited
in him, since he shut himself in.
When he looked out over the rising, he felt himself to be facing a
world-thought with extraordinarily long sight. The common people,
without knowing it, had been for centuries preparing themselves for an
entry into a new world; the migration of the masses would not be
stopped until they had reached their goal. A law which they did not
even know themselves, and could not enter into, led them the right way;
and Pelle was not afraid. At the back of his unwearied labor with the
great problem of the age was the recognition that he was one of those
on whom the nation laid the responsibility for the future; but he was
never in doubt as to the aim, nor the means. During the great lock-out
the foreseeing had feared the impossibility of leading all these crowds
into the fire. And then the whole thing had opened out of itself quite
naturally, from an apparently tiny cause to a steadily ordered battle
all along the line. The world had never before heard a call so great as
that which he and his followers brought forward! It meant nothing less
than the triumph of goodness! He was not fond of using great words, but
at the bottom of his heart he was convinced that everything bad
originated in want and misery. Distrust and selfishness came from
misusage; they were man’s defence against extortion. And the extortion
came from insecure conditions, from reminders of want or unconscious
fear of it. Most crimes could easily be traced back to the distressing
conditions, and even where the connection was not perceptible he was
sure that it nevertheless existed. It was his experience that every one
in reality was good: the evil in them could nearly always be traced
back to something definite, while the goodness often existed in spite
of everything. It would triumph altogether when the conditions became
secure for everybody. He was sure that even the crimes that were due to
abnormity would cease of themselves when there were no longer hidden
reminders of misery in the community.
It was his firm belief that he and his followers should renew the
world; the common people should turn it into a paradise for the
multitude, just as it had already made it a paradise for the few. It
would require a great and courageous mind for this, but his army had
been well tested. Those who, from time immemorial, had patiently borne
the pressure of existence for others, must be well fitted to take upon
themselves the leadership into the new age.
Pelle at last found himself in Strand Road, and it was too late to
return home. He was ravenously hungry and bought a couple of rolls at a
baker’s, and ate them on his way to work.
At midday Brun came into the works to sign some papers and go through
accounts with Pelle. They were sitting up in the office behind the
shop. Pelle read out the items and made remarks on them, while the old
man gave his half attention and merely nodded. He was longing to get
back to “Daybreak.”
“You won’t mind making it as short as possible?” he said, “for I don’t
feel quite well.” The harsh spring winds were bad for him and made his
breathing difficult. The doctor had advised a couple of months in the
Riviera—until the spring was over; but the old man could not make up
his mind. He had not the courage to set out alone.
The shop-bell rang, and Pelle went in to serve. A young sunburnt man
stood on the other side of the counter and laughed.
“Don’t you know me?” he asked, holding out his hand to Pelle. It was
Karl, the youngest of the three orphans in the “Ark.”
“Why, of course I know you!” answered Pelle, delighted. “I’ve been to
Adel Street to look for you; I was told you had your business there.”
That had been a long time ago! Now Karl Anker was manager of a large
supply association over on Funen. He had come over to order some boots
and shoes from Pelle for the association. “It’s only a trial,” he said.
“If it succeeds I’ll get you a connection with the cooperative
association, and that’s a customer that takes something, I can tell
you!”
Pelle had to make haste to take down the order, as Karl had to catch a
train.
“It’s a pity you haven’t got time to see our works,” said Pelle. “Do
you remember little Paul from the ‘Ark’? The factory-girl’s child that
she tied to the stove when she went to work? He’s become a splendid
fellow. He’s my head man in the factory. He’d like to see you!”
When Karl was gone and Pelle was about to go in to Brun in the office,
he caught sight of a small, somewhat deformed woman with a child,
walking to and fro above the workshop windows, and taking stolen
glances down. They timidly made way for people passing, and looked very
frightened. Pelle called them into the shop.
“Do you want to speak to Peter Dreyer?” he asked.
The woman nodded. She had a refined face with large, sorrowful eyes.
“If it won’t disturb him,” she said.
Pelle called Peter Dreyer and then went into the office, where he found
Brun had fallen asleep.
He heard them whispering in the shop. Peter was angry, and the woman
and the child cried; he could hear it in the tones of their whisper. It
did not last more than a minute, and then Peter let them out. Pelle
went quickly into the shop.
“If it was money,” he said hurriedly, “you know you’ve only got to tell
me.”
“No, it was the big meeting of unemployed this afternoon. They were
begging me to stop at home, silly creatures! Goodness knows what’s come
to them!” Peter was quite offended. “By the by—I suppose you haven’t
any objection to my going now? It begins in an hour’s time.”
“I thought it had been postponed,” said Pelle.
“Yes, but that was only a ruse to prevent its being prohibited. We’re
holding it in a field out by Nörrebro. You ought to come too; it’ll be
a meeting that’ll be remembered. We shall settle great matters to-day.”
Peter was nervous, and fidgeted with his clothes while he spoke.
Pelle placed his hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes.
“You’d better do what those two want,” he said earnestly. “I don’t know
them, of course; but if their welfare’s dependent on you, then they too
have a claim upon you. Give up what you were going to do, and go out
for a walk with those two! Everything’s budding now; take them to the
woods! It’s better to make two people happy than a thousand unhappy.”
Peter looked away. “We’re not going to do anything special, so what is
there to make such a fuss about?” he murmured.
“You _are_ going to do something to-day; I can see it in you. And if
you can’t carry it through, who’ll have to take the consequences? Why,
the women and children! You _can’t_ carry it through! Our strength
doesn’t lie in that direction.”
“You go your way and let me go mine,” said Peter, gently freeing
himself.
Two policemen were standing on the opposite pavement, talking together,
while they secretly kept an eye on the shop. Pelle pointed to them.
“The police don’t know where the meeting’s to be held, so they’re
keeping watch on me,” said Peter, shrugging his shoulders. “I can
easily put those two on the wrong track.”
The policemen crossed the street and separated outside the shop. One of
them stood looking at the articles exhibited in the window for a little
while, and then quickly entered the shop. “Is Peter Dreyer here?” he
asked haughtily.
“I’m he,” answered Peter, withdrawing behind the counter. “But I advise
you not to touch me! I can’t bear the touch of a policeman’s hands.”
“You’re arrested!” said the policeman shortly, following him.
Pelle laid his hand upon his arm. “You should go to work with a little
gentleness,” he said. But the man pushed him roughly away. “I’ll have
no interference from you!” he cried, blowing his whistle. Peter
started, and for a moment his thoughts were at a standstill; then he
leaped like a cat over the iron railing, of the workshop steps. But the
other policeman was there to receive him, and he sprang once more into
the shop, close up to his pursuer. He had his revolver in his hand.
“I’ve had enough of this, confound you!” he hissed.
Two shots sounded, one immediately after the other. The policeman just
managed to turn round, but fell forward with his head under the
counter, and Peter dropped upon the top of him. It looked as if he had
tripped over the policeman’s leg; but when Pelle went to help him up he
saw that the blood was trickling from a hole in his temple. The
policeman was dead.
Peter opened his eyes with difficulty when Pelle raised his head. “Take
me away!” he whispered, turning his head toward the dead man with an
expression of loathing. He still kept a convulsive hold upon his
revolver.
Pelle took it from him, and carried him in to the sofa in the office.
“Get me a little water!” said Pelle to the old librarian, who was
standing trembling at the door, but the old man did not hear him.
Peter made a sign that he needed nothing now. “But those two,” he
whispered. Pelle nodded. “And then—Pelle—comrade—” He tried to fix his
dying gaze upon Pelle, but suddenly started convulsively, his knees
being drawn right up to his chin. “Bloodhounds!” he groaned, his eyes
converging so strongly that the pupils disappeared altogether; but then
his features fell once more into their ordinary folds as his head sank
back, and he was dead.
The policeman came in. “Well, is he dead?” he asked maliciously. “He’s
made fools of us long enough!”
Pelle took him by the arm and led him to the door. “He’s no longer in
your district,” he said, as he closed the door behind him and followed
the man into the shop, where the dead policeman lay upon the counter.
His fellow-policeman had laid him there, locked the outer door, and
pulled down the blinds.
“Will you stop the work and tell the men what has happened?” said Pelle
quietly to Brun. “There’s something else I must see to. There’ll be no
more work done here to-day.”
“Are you going?” asked the old man anxiously.
“Yes, I’m going to take Peter’s meeting for him, now that he can’t do
it himself,” answered Pelle in a low voice.
They had gone down through the workshop, where the men were standing
about, looking at one another. They had heard the shots, but had no
idea what they meant. “Peter is dead!” said Pelle. His emotion
prevented him from saying anything more. Everything seemed suddenly to
rush over him, and he hastened out and jumped onto a tram-car.
Out on one of the large fields behind Nörrebro a couple of thousand
unemployed were gathered. The wind had risen and blew gustily from the
west over the field. The men tramped backward and forward, or stood
shivering in their thin clothes. The temper of the crowd was
threatening. Men continued to pour out from the side streets, most of
them sorry figures, with faces made older by want of work. Many of them
could no longer show themselves in the town for want of clothes, and
took this opportunity of joining the others.
There was grumbling among them because the meeting had not begun. Men
asked one another what the reason was, and no one could tell. Suppose
Peter Dreyer had cheated them too, and had gone over to the
corporation!
Suddenly a figure appeared upon the cart that was to be used as a
platform, and the men pressed forward on all sides. Who in the world
was it? It was not Peter Dreyer! Pelle? What smith? Oh, him from The
Great Struggle—“the Lightning”! Was he still to the fore? Yes, indeed
he was! Why, he’d become a big manufacturer and a regular pillar of
society. What in the world did he want here? He had plenty of cheek!
Suddenly a storm of shouts and hisses broke out, mingled with a little
applause.
Pelle stood looking out over the crowd with an expression of terrible
earnestness. Their demonstration against him did not move him; he was
standing here in the stead of a dead man. He still felt Peter’s heavy
head on his arm.
When comparative quiet was restored he raised his head. “Peter Dreyer
is dead!” he said in a voice that was heard by every one. Whispers
passed through the crowd, and they looked questioningly at one another
as though they had not heard correctly. He saw from their expression
how much would go to pieces in their lives when they believed it.
“It’s a lie!” suddenly cried a voice, relieving the tension. “You’re
hired by the police to entice us round the corner, you sly fellow!”
Pelle turned pale. “Peter Dreyer is lying in the factory with a bullet
through his head,” he repealed inexorably. “The police were going to
arrest him, and he shot both the policeman and himself!”
For a moment all the life in the crowd seemed to be petrified by the
pitiless truth, and he saw how they had loved Peter Dreyer. Then they
began to make an uproar, shouting that they would go and speak to the
police, and some even turned to go.
“Silence, people!” cried Pelle in a loud voice. “Are you grown men and
yet will get up a row beside the dead body of a comrade?”
“What do you know about it?” answered one. “You don’t know what you’re
talking about!”
“I do know at any rate that at a place out by Vesterbro there sits a
woman with a child, waiting for Peter, and he will not come. Would you
have more like them? What are you thinking of, wanting to jump into the
sea and drown yourselves because you’re wet through? Will those you
leave behind be well off? For if you think so, it’s your duty to
sacrifice yourselves. But don’t you think rather that the community
will throw you into a great common pit, and leave your widows and
fatherless children to weep over you?”
“It’s all very well for you to talk!” some one shouted. “Yours are safe
enough!”
“I’m busy making yours safe for you, and you want to spoil it by
stupidity! It’s all very well for me to talk, you say! But if there’s
any one of you who dares turn his face to heaven and say he has gone
through more than I have, let him come up here and take my place.”
He was silent and looked out over the crowd. Their wasted faces told
him that they were in need of food, but still more of fresh hope. Their
eyes gazed into uncertainty. A responsibility must be laid upon them—a
great responsibility for such prejudiced beings—if possible, great
enough to carry them on to the goal.
“What is the matter with you?” he went on. “You suffer want, but you’ve
always done that without getting anything for it; and now when there’s
some purpose in it, you won’t go any further. We aren’t just from
yesterday, remember! Wasn’t it us who fought the great battle to its
end together? Now you scorn it and the whole Movement and say they’ve
brought nothing; but it was then we broke through into life and won our
right as men.
“Before that time we have for centuries borne our blind hope safely
through oppression and want. Is there any other class of society that
has a marching route like ours? Forced by circumstances, we prepared
for centuries of wandering in the desert and never forgot the country;
the good God had given us some of His own infinite long-suffering to
carry us through the toilsome time. And now, when we are at the border,
you’ve forgotten what we were marching for, and sacrifice the whole
thing if only _you_ can be changed from thin slaves to fat slaves!”
“There are no slaves here!” was the threatening cry on all sides.
“You’re working horses, in harness and with blinkers on! Now you demand
good feeding. When will the scales fall from your eyes, so that you
take the responsibility upon yourselves? You think you’re no end of
fine fellows when you dare to bare your chest to the bayonets, but are
we a match for brutality? If we were, the future would not be ours.”
“Are you scoffing at Peter Dreyer?” asked a sullen voice.
“No, I am not. Peter Dreyer was one of those who go on in advance, and
smear the stones on the road with their hearts’ blood, so that the rest
of us may find our way. But you’ve no right to compare yourselves with
him. He sank under the weight of a tremendous responsibility; and what
are you doing? If you want to honor Peter’s memory as it deserves, go
quietly home, and join the Movement again. There you have work to do
that will transform the world when you all set about it. What will it
matter if your strength ebbs and you suffer hunger for a little longer
while you’re building your own house? You were hungry too when you were
building for others.
“You referred to Peter Dreyer, but we are none of us great martyrs; we
are everyday, ordinary men, and there’s where our work lies. Haven’t
the thousands who have suffered and died in silence a still greater
claim to be followed? They have gone down peacefully for the sake of
the development, and have the strongest right to demand our belief in a
peaceable development. It is just we that come from the lowest stratum
who must preserve the historic development; never has any movement had
so long and sad a previous history as ours! Suffering and want have
taught us to accept the leadership, when the good has justice done to
it; and you want to throw the whole thing overboard by an act of
violence.”
They listened to him in silence now. He had caught their minds, but it
was not knowledge they absorbed. At present they looked most like weary
people who are told that they still have a long way to go. But he
_would_ get them through!
“Comrades!” he cried earnestly, “perhaps we who are here shall not live
to see the new, but it’s through us that it’ll some day become reality.
Providence has stopped at us, and has appointed us to fight for it. Is
that not an honor? Look! we come right from the bottom of everything—
entirely naked; the old doesn’t hang about our clothes, for we haven’t
any; we can clothe ourselves in the new. The old God, with His
thousands of priests as a defence against injustice, we do not know;
the moral of war we have never understood—we who have always been its
victims. We believe in the Good, because we know that without the
victory of goodness there will be no future. Our mind is light and can
receive the light; we will lift up our little country and show that it
has a mission on the earth. We who are little ourselves will show how
the little ones keep up and assert themselves by the principle of
goodness. We wish no harm to any one, therefore the good is on our
side. Nothing can in the long run keep us down! And now go home! Your
wives and children are perhaps anxious on your account.”
They stood for a moment as though still listening, and then dispersed
in silence.
When Pelle sprang down from the cart, Morten came up and held out his
hand. “You are strong, Pelle!” he said quietly.
“Where have you come from?” exclaimed Pelle in glad surprise.
“I came by the steamer this afternoon, and went straight up to the
works. Brun told me what had happened and that you were here. It must
have been a threatening meeting! There was a detachment of police over
there in one of the side streets. What was going on?”
“They’d planned some demonstration or other, and would in that case
have met with harsh treatment, I suppose,” said Pelle gravely.
“It was well you got them to change their minds. I’ve seen these
demonstrations in the South, where the police and the soldiers ride
over the miserable unemployed. It’s a sad sight.”
They walked up across the fields toward “Daybreak.” “To think that
you’re home again!” said Pelle, with childlike delight. “You never
wrote a word about coming.”
“Well, I’d meant to stay away another couple of months. But one day I
saw the birds of passage flying northward across the Mediterranean, and
I began to be so homesick. It was just as well I came too, for now I
can see Brun before he goes.”
“Oh, is he going away, after all? That’s been settled very quickly.
This morning he couldn’t make up his mind.”
“It’s this about Peter. The old man’s fallen off very much in the last
six months. But let’s walk quicker! I’m longing to see Ellen and the
children. How’s the baby?”
“He’s a little fatty!” said Pelle proudly. “Nine pounds without his
clothes! Isn’t that splendid? He’s a regular sunshine baby.”