That was a glorious stroke! The employers abandoned all further idea of
running the works without the Federation. The victory was the completer
in that the trades unions gave the foreign workers their passage-money,
and sent them off before they had time for reflection. They were
escorted to the steamers, and the workers saw them off with a comradely
“Hurrah!”
Pelle was the hero of the day. His doings were discussed in all the
newspapers, and even his opponents lowered their swords before him.
He took it all as a matter of course; he was striving with all his
might toward a fresh goal. There was no excuse for soaring into the
clouds; the lock-out was still the principal fact, and a grievous and
burdensome fact, and now he was feeling its whole weight. The armies of
workers were still sauntering about the streets, while the nation was
consuming its own strength, and there was no immediate prospect of a
settlement. But one day the springs would run dry—and what then?
He was too deeply immersed in the conflict to grow dizzy by reason of a
little flattery; and the general opinion more than ever laid the
responsibility for the situation on him. If this terrible struggle
should end in defeat, then his would be the blame! And he racked his
brains to find a means of breaking down the opposition of the enemy.
The masses were still enduring the conditions with patience, but how
much longer would this last? Rumors, which intended mischief, were
flying about; one day it was said that one of the leaders, who had been
entrusted with making collections, had run off with the cash-box; while
another rumor declared that the whole body of workers had been sold to
the employers! Something must happen! But what?
One afternoon he went home to see his family before going to a meeting.
The children were alone. “Where is mother?” he asked, taking Young
Lasse on his knee. Little Sister was sitting upright in her cradle,
playing.
“Mother made herself fine and went out into the city,” replied the
child. “Mother so fine!”
“So? Was she so fine?” Pelle went into the bed-room; he looked into the
wardrobe. Ellen’s wedding-dress was not there.
“That is curious,” he thought, and began to play with the children. The
little girl stretched her tiny arms toward him. He had to take her up
and sit with a child on either knee. The little girl kept on picking at
his upper lip, as though she wanted to say something. “Yes, father’s
moustache has fallen off, Little Sister,” said Young Lasse, in
explanation.
“Yes, it has flown away,” said Pelle. “There came a wind and—phew!—
away it went!” He looked into the glass with a little grimace—that
moustache had been his pride! Then he laughed at the children.
Ellen came home breathless, as though she had been running; a tender
rosiness lay over her face and throat. She went into the bedroom with
her cloak on. Pelle followed her. “You have your wedding-dress on,” he
said wonderingly.
“Yes, I wanted something done to it, so I went to the dressmaker, so
that she could see the dress on me. But run out now, I’ll come
directly; I only want to put another dress on.”
Pelle wanted to stay, but she pushed him toward the door. “Run away!”
she said, pulling her dress across her bosom. The tender red had spread
all over her bosom—she was so beautiful in her confusion!
After a time she came into the living-room and laid some notes on the
table before him.
“What’s this again?” he cried, half startled by the sight of all this
money.
“Yes, haven’t I wonderful luck? I’ve won in the lottery again! Haven’t
you a clever wife?” She was standing behind him with her arm across his
shoulders.
Pelle sat there for a moment, bowed down as though he had received a
blow on the head. Then he pushed her arm aside and turned round to her.
“You have won again already, you say? Twice? Twice running?” He spoke
slowly and monotonously, as though he wanted to let every word sink in.
“Yes; don’t you think it’s very clever of me?” She looked at him
uncertainly and attempted to smile.
“But that is quite impossible!” he said heavily. “That is quite
impossible!” Suddenly he sprang to his feet, seizing her by the throat.
“You are lying! You are lying!” he cried, raging. “Will you tell me the
truth? Out with it!” He pressed her back over the table, as though he
meant to kill her. Young Lasse began to cry.
She stared at him with wondering eyes, which were full of increasing
terror. He released her and averted his face in order not to see those
eyes; they were full of the fear of death. She made no attempt to rise,
but fixed him with an intolerable gaze, like that of a beast that is
about to be killed and does not know why. He rose, and went silently
over to the children, and busied himself in quieting them. He had a
horrible feeling in his hands, almost as when once in his childhood he
had killed a young bird. Otherwise he had no feeling, except that
everything was so loathsome. It was the fault of the situation … and
now he would go.
He realized, as he packed his things, that she was standing by the
table, crying softly. He realized it quite suddenly, but it was no
concern of his…. When he was ready and had kissed the children, a
shudder ran through her body; she stepped before him in her old
energetic way.
“Don’t leave me—you mustn’t leave me!” she said, sobbing. “Oh—I only
wanted to do what was best for you—and you didn’t see after anything.
No, that’s not a reproach—but our daily bread, Pelle! For you and the
children! I could no longer look on and see you go without everything—
especially you—Pelle! I love you so! It was out of love for you—above
all, out of love for you!”
It sounded like a song in his ears, like a strange, remote refrain; the
words he did not hear. He put her gently aside, kissed the boy once
more, and stroked his face. Ellen stood as though dead, gazing at his
movements with staring, bewildered eyes. When he went out to the door
she collapsed.
Pelle left his belongings downstairs with the mangling-woman, and he
went mechanically toward the city; he heard no sound, no echo; he went
as one asleep. His feet carried him toward the Labor House, and up the
stairs, into the room whence the campaign was directed. He took his
place among the others without knowing what he did, and there he sat,
gazing down at the green table-cloth.
The general mood showed signs of dejection. For a long time now the
bottom of the cash-box had been visible, and as more and more workers
were turned into the street the product of self-imposed taxation was
gradually declining. And the readiness of those outside the movement to
make sacrifices was rapidly beginning to fail. The public had now had
enough of the affair. Everything was failing, now they would have to
see if they could not come to some arrangement. Starvation was
beginning to thrust its grinning head among the fifty thousand men now
idle. The moment had come upon which capital was counting; the moment
when the crying of children for bread begins to break the will of the
workers, until they are ready to sacrifice honor and independence in
order to satisfy the little creatures’ hunger. And the enemy showed no
sign of wishing for peace!
This knowledge had laid its mark on all the members of the Council; and
as they sat there they knew that the weal or woe of hundreds of
thousands depended on them. No one dared accept the responsibility of
making a bold proposal in this direction or that. With things as they
stood, they would have, in a week or two, to give up the fight! Then
nearly a quarter of a million human beings would have suffered torment
for nothing! A terrible apathy would be the result of that suffering
and of the defeat; it would put them back many years. But if the
employers could not long withstand the pressure which the financial
world was beginning to exert on them, they would be throwing away the
victory if they gave up the fight now.
The cleverest calculations were useless here. A blind, monstrous Pate
would prevail. Who could say that he had lifted the veil of the future
and could point out the way?
No one! And Pelle, the blazing torch, who had shown them the road
regardless of all else—he sat there drowsing as though it meant nothing
to him! Apparently he had broken down under his monstrous labors.
The secretary came in with a newspaper marked with red pencil. He
passed it to the chairman, who stared for a while at the underlined
portion, then he rose and read it out; the paper was quivering in his
hands.
“About thirty working women—young and of good appearance—can during the
lock-out find a home with various bachelors. Good treatment guaranteed.
The office of the paper will give further information.”
Pelle sprang up out of his half-slumber; the horrible catastrophe of
his own home was blindingly clear now! “So it’s come to that!” he
cried. “Now capital has laid its fingers on our wives—now they are to
turn whore! We must fight on, fight, fight! We must strike one last
blow—and it must be a heavy one!”
“But how?” they asked.
Pelle was white with enforced calm. His mind had never been so
radiantly clear. Now Ellen should be revenged on those who took
everything, even the poor man’s one ewe lamb!
“In the first place we must issue an optimistic report—this very day!”
he said, smiling. “The cash-box is nearly empty—good! Then we will
state that the workers have abundant means to carry on the fight for
another year if need be, and then we’ll go for them!”
Born of anger, an old, forgotten phantasy had flashed into his mind as
a definite plan.
“Hitherto we have fought passively,” he continued, “with patience as
our chief weapon! We have opposed our necessities of life to the
luxuries of the other side; and if they strike at us in order to starve
us to skin and bone and empty our homes of our last possessions, we
answered them by refusing to do the work which was necessary to their
comfort! Let us for once strike at their vital necessities! Let us
strike them where they have struck us from the beginning! In the belly!
Then perhaps they’ll turn submissive! Hitherto we have kept the most
important of the workers out of the conflict—those on whom the health
and welfare of the public depend, although we ourselves have benefited
nothing thereby. Why should we bake their bread? We, who haven’t the
means to eat it! Why should we look after their cleanliness? We, who
haven’t the means to keep ourselves clean! Let us bring the dustmen and
the street-cleaners into the line of fire! And if that isn’t enough
we’ll turn off their gas and water! Let us venture our last penny—let
us strike the last blow!”
Pelle’s proposal was adopted, and he went westward immediately to the
president of the Scavengers’ Union. He had just got up and was sitting
down to his midday meal. He was a small, comfortable little man, who
had always a twinkle in his eye; he came from the coal country. Pelle
had helped him at one time to get his organization into working order,
and he knew that he could count on him and his men.
“Do you remember still, how I once showed you that you are the most
important workers in the city, Lars Hansen?”
The president nodded. “Yes, one would have to be a pretty sort of fool
to forget that! No, as long as I live I shall never forget the effect
your words had on us despised scavengers! It was you who gave us faith
in ourselves, and an organization! And even if we aren’t quite the most
important people, still—”
“But that’s just what you are—and now it’s your turn to prove it! Could
you suspend work this night?”
Lars Hansen sat gazing thoughtfully into the lamp while he chewed his
food. “Our relations with the city are rather in the nature of a
contract,” he said slowly and at length. “They could punish us for it,
and compel us to resume work. But if you want it, irrespective, why of
course we’ll do it. There can be only one view as to that among
comrades! What you may gain by it you yourself know best.”
“Thanks!” said Pelle, holding out his hand. “Then that is settled—no
more carts go out. And we must bring the street-cleaners to a
standstill too!”
“Then the authorities will put other men on—there are plenty to be
found for that work.”
“They won’t do that—or we’ll put a stop to it if they do!”
“That sounds all right! It’ll be a nasty business for the swells! It’s
all the same to the poor, they haven’t anything to eat. But suppose the
soldiers are ordered to do it! Scavenging must be done if the city
isn’t to become pestilential!”
A flash of intelligence crossed Pelle’s face. “Now listen, comrade!
When you stop working, deliver up all the keys, so that the authorities
can’t touch you! Only put them all in a sack and give them a good
shake-up!”
Lars Hansen broke into a resounding laugh. “That will be the deuce of a
joke!” he groaned, smacking his thighs. “Then they’ll have to come to
us, for no one else will be able to sort them out again so quickly!
I’ll take them the keys myself—I’ll go upstairs as innocent as
anything!”
Pelle thanked him again. “You’ll save the whole Cause,” he said
quietly. “It’s the bread and the future happiness of many thousands
that you are now holding in your hands.” He smiled brightly and took
his leave. As soon as he was alone his smile faded and an expression of
deathly weariness took its place.
Pelle walked the streets, strolling hither and thither. Now all was
settled. There was nothing more to strive for. Everything within him
seemed broken; he had not even strength to decide what he should do
with himself. He walked on and on, came out into the High Street, and
turned off again into the side streets. Over the way, in the Colonial
Stores, he saw Karl, smiling and active, behind the counter serving
customers. “You ought really to go in and ask him how he’s getting on,”
he thought, but he strolled on. Once, before a tenement-house, he
halted and involuntarily looked up. No, he had already done his
business here—this was where the president of the Scavengers’ Union
lived. No, the day’s work was over now—he would go home to Ellen and
the children!
Home? No home for him now—he was forsaken and alone! And yet he went
toward the north; which road he went by he did not know, but after a
time he found himself standing before his own door and staring at the
rusty little letter box. Within there was a sound of weeping; he could
hear Ellen moving to and fro, preparing everything for the night. Then
he turned and hastened away, and did not breathe easily until he had
turned the corner of the street.
He turned again and again, from one side street into another. Inside
his head everything seemed to be going round, and at every step he felt
as if it would crack. Suddenly he seemed to hear hasty but familiar
steps behind him. Ellen! He turned round; there was no one there. So it
was an illusion! But the steps began again as soon as he went on. There
was something about those steps—it was as though they wanted to say
something to him; he could hear plainly that they wanted to catch up
with him. He stopped suddenly—there was no one there, and no one
emerged from the darkness of the side streets.
Were these strange footsteps in his own mind, then? Pelle found them
incomprehensible; his heart began to thump; his terrible exhaustion had
made him helpless. And Ellen—what was the matter with her? That
reproachful weeping sounded in his ears! Understand—what was he to
understand? She had done it out of love, she had said! Ugh—away with it
all! He was too weary to justify her offence.
But what sort of wanderer was this? Now the footsteps were keeping time
with his now; they had a double sound. And when he thought, another
creature answered to him, from deep within him. There was something
persistent about this, as there was in Morten’s influence; an opinion
that made its way through all obstacles, even when reduced to silence.
What was wanted of him now—hadn’t he worked loyally enough? Was he not
Pelle, who had conducted the great campaign? Pelle, to whom all looked
up? But there was no joy in the thought now; he could not now hear the
march of his fifty thousand comrades in his own footsteps! He was left
in the lurch, left alone with this accursed Something here in the
deserted streets—and loneliness had come upon him! “You are afraid!” he
thought, with a bitter laugh.
But he did not wish to be alone; and he listened intently. The conflict
had taken all that he possessed. So there was a community—mournful as
it was—between him and the misery around him here. What had he to
complain of?
The city of the poor lay about him, terrible, ravaged by the battle of
unemployment—a city of weeping, and cold, and darkness, and want! From
the back premises sounded the crying of children—they were crying for
bread, he knew—while drunken men staggered round the corners, and the
screaming of women sounded from the back rooms and the back yards. Ugh—
this was Hell already! Thank God, victory was near!
Somewhere he could plainly hear voices; children were crying, and a
woman, who was moving to and fro in the room, was soothing them, and
was lulling the youngest to sleep—no doubt she had it in her arms. It
all came down to him so distinctly that he looked up. There were no
windows in the apartment! They were to be driven out by the cold, he
thought indignantly, and he ran up the stairs; he was accustomed to
taking the unfortunate by surprise.
“The landlord has taken out the doors and windows; he wanted to turn us
into the street, but we aren’t going, for where should we go? So he
wants to drive us out through the cold—like the bugs! They’ve driven my
husband to death—” Suddenly she recognized Pelle. “So it’s you, you
accursed devil!” she cried. “It was you yourself who set him on!
Perhaps you remember how he used to drink out of the bottle? Formerly
he always used to behave himself properly. And you saw, too, how we
were turned out of St. Hans Street—the tenants forced us to go—didn’t
you see that? Oh, you torturer! You’ve followed him everywhere, hunted
him like a wild beast, taunted him and tormented him to death! When he
went into a tavern the others would stand away from him, and the
landlord had to ask him to go. But he had more sense of honor than you!
‘I’m infected with the plague!’ he said, and one morning he hanged
himself. Ah, if I could pray the good God to smite you!” She was
tearless; her voice was dry and hoarse.
“You have no need to do that,” replied Pelle bitterly. “He has smitten
me! But I never wished your husband any harm; both times, when I met
him, I tried to help him. We have to suffer for the benefit of all—my
own happiness is shattered into fragments.” He suddenly found relief in
tears.
“They just ought to see that—the working men—Pelle crying! Then they
wouldn’t shout ‘Hurrah!’ when he appears!” she cried scornfully.
“I have still ten kroner—will you take them?” said Pelle, handing her
the money.
She took it hesitating. “You must need that for your wife and children—
that must be your share of your strike pay!”
“I have no wife and children now. Take it!”
“Good God! Has your home gone to pieces too? Couldn’t even Pelle keep
it together? Well, well, it’s only natural that he who sows should
reap!”
Pelle went his way without replying. The unjust judgment of this woman
depressed him more than the applause of thousands would have pleased
him. But it aroused a violent mental protest. Where she had struck him
he was invulnerable; he had not been looking after his own trivial
affairs; but had justly and honorably served the great Cause, and had
led the people to victory. The wounded and the fallen had no right to
abuse him. He had lost more than any one—he had lost everything!
With care-laden heart, but curiously calm, he went toward the North
Bridge and rented a room in a cheap lodging house.