The next day broke with a lofty, radiant Sabbath sky. There was
something about it that reminded one of Easter—Easter morning, with its
hymns and the pure winds of resurrection. _The Working Man_ rung in the
day with a long and serious leading article—a greeting to the rosy
dawn—and invited the working-classes to attend a giant assembly on the
Common during the afternoon. All through the forenoon great industry
prevailed—wardrobes had to be overhauled, provision-baskets packed, and
liquid refreshment provided. There was much running across landings and
up and down stairs, much lending and borrowing. This was to be not
merely a feast of victory; it was also intended as a demonstration—that
was quite clear. The world should see how well they were still holding
together after all these weeks of the lock-out! They were to appear in
full strength, and they must look their best.
In the afternoon the people streamed from all sides toward the Labor
Building; it looked as though the whole city was flocking thither. In
the big court-yard, and all along the wide street as far as High
Street, the trades unions were gathered about their banners. The great
review had all been planned beforehand, and all went as by clockwork by
those who were accustomed to handling great masses of men; there was no
running from side to side; every one found his place with ease. Pelle
and Stolpe, who had devised the programme, went along the ranks setting
all to rights.
With the men there were no difficulties; but the women and children had
of course misunderstood their instructions. They should have gone
direct to the Common, but had turned up here with all their
impedimenta. They stood crowding together on both the side-walks; and
when the procession got under way they broke up and attached themselves
to its sides. They had fought through the campaign, and their place was
beside their husbands and fathers! It was a bannered procession with a
double escort of women and children! Had the like ever been seen?
No, the city had never seen such a going forth of the people! Like a
giant serpent the procession unrolled itself; when its head was at the
end of the street the greater part of its body was still coiled
together. But what was the matter in front there? The head of the
procession was turning toward the wrong side—toward the city, instead
of taking the direct way to the Common, as the police had ordered! That
wouldn’t do! That would lead to a collision with the police! Make haste
and get Pelle to turn the stream before a catastrophe occurs!—Pelle?
But there he is, right in front! He himself has made a mistake as to
the direction! Ah, well, then, there is nothing to be said about it.
But what in the world was he thinking of?
Pelle marches in the front rank beside the standard-bearer. He sees and
hears nothing, but his luminous gaze sweeps over the heads of the
crowd. His skin is still blackened by the smoke of the fire; it is
peeling off his hands; his hair and moustache seem to have been cropped
very strangely; and the skin is drawn round the burn on his cheek. He
is conscious of one thing only: the rhythmic tread of fifty thousand
men! As a child he has known it in dreams, heard it like a surging out
of doors when he laid his head upon his pillow. This is the great
procession of the Chosen People, and he is leading them into the
Promised Land! And where should their road lie if not through the
capital?
At the North Wall the mounted police are drawn up, closing the inner
city. They are drawn up diagonally across the thoroughfare, and were
backing their horses into the procession, in order to force it to turn
aside. But they were swept aside, and the stream flowed on; nothing can
stop it.
It passes down the street with difficulty, like a viscous mass that
makes its way but slowly, yet cannot be held back. It is full of a
peaceful might. Who would venture to hew a way into it? The police are
following it like watchful dogs, and on the side-walks the people stand
pressed against the houses; they greet the procession or scoff at it,
according as they are friends or foes. Upstairs, behind the big
windows, are gaily clad ladies and gentlemen, quizzing the procession
with half- scornful, half-uneasy smiles. What weird, hungry, unkempt
world is this that has suddenly risen up from obscurity to take
possession of the highway? And behind their transparent lace curtains
the manufacturers gaze and grumble. What novel kind of demonstration is
this? The people have been forgiven, and instead of going quietly back
to their work they begin to parade the city as though to show how many
they are—yes, and how thin starvation has made them!
It is a curious procession in every way. If they wanted to demonstrate
how roughly they have been handled, they could not have done better!
They all bear the marks of battle—they are pale and sallow and ill-
clad; their Sunday best hangs in the great common wardrobe still; what
they wear to-day is patched and mended. Hunger has refined their
features; they are more like a procession of ghosts who have shaken off
the heavy bonds of earth and are ready to take possession of the world
of the spirit, than people who hope to conquer the Promised Land for
themselves and posterity. Such a procession of conquerors! They are all
limping! A flock with broken wings, that none the less are seeking to
fly. And whither are they going?
One of their choirs breaks into song: “We are bound for the Land of
Fortune!”
And where does that land lie? has any of your watchers seen it? Or was
it not merely a deceitful dream, engendered by hunger? Eat enough,
really enough, for once, good people, and then let us talk together!
What is it yonder? The emptiness that gave birth to you and even yet
surges crazily in your starving blood? Or the land of the living? Is
this then the beginning of a new world for you? Or is the curse eternal
that brings you into the world to be slaves?
There is a peculiar, confident rhythm in their tread which drowns all
other sounds, and seems to say, “We are the masters, poor as we look to
the eye! We have used four million kroner in waging the war, and twenty
millions have been wasted because they brought the work of our hands to
a standstill! We come from the darkness, and we go toward the light,
and no one can hold us back! Behind us lie hunger and poverty,
ignorance and slavery, and before us lies a happy existence, radiant
with the rising sun of Freedom! From this day onward a new age begins;
we are its youthful might, and we demand power for ten thousand
families! The few have long enough prevailed!”
Imperturbably they march onward, despite the wounds that must yet be
smarting; for see, they limp! Why should they still doubt?
Listen, they are singing! Hoarsely the sound emerges from ten thousand
throats, as though the song had grown rusty, or must first tear itself
free. A new instrument this, that has not yet been tuned by the master—
its first notes are discords! But the song runs to and fro along the
procession in rhythmical waves, it is an army on the march, and their
eyes kindle and blaze with the growing sense of their power, the
consciousness that they are the many! And the sound grows mighty, a
storm that rolls above the housetops, “Brother, soon will dawn the
day!”
Touch not the humblest of them now! A vast, intoxicating power has
descended upon them; each one has grown beyond himself, and believes
himself capable of performing miracles. There are no loose particles;
the whole is a mighty avalanche. Touch but one of them and the might of
the mass will pour into him. He will be oblivious of consequences, but
will behave as though urged by destiny—as though the vast being of
which he forms a part will assume all responsibility, and constitutes
the law!
It is intoxicating to walk in the ranks, to be permitted to bear the
Union banners; even to look on fills one with strength and joy. Mothers
and children accompany the men, although they have for the most part to
walk in the gutters. It is great sport to fall out and watch the whole
mighty procession go by, and then, by taking a short cut, again to
station one’s self at the head. Stand at a street-corner, and it will
take hours for the whole to pass you. _Trapp, trapp! Trapp, trapp!_ It
gets into one’s blood, and remains there, like an eternal rhythm.
One Union passes and another comes up; the machinists, with the sturdy
Munck at their head, as standard-bearer, the same who struck the three
blows of doom that summoned five and forty thousand men to the battle
for the right of combination! Hurrah for Munck! Here are the house-
painters, the printers, the glove-makers, the tinsmiths, the cork-
cutters, the leather-dressers, and a group of seamen with bandy legs.
At the head of these last marches Howling Peter, the giant
transfigured! The copper-smiths, the coal-miners, the carpenters, the
journeymen bakers, and the coach-builders! A queer sort of procession
this! But here are the girdlers and there the plasterers, the
stucco-workers, and the goldsmiths, and even the sand-blasters are
here! The tailors and the shoemakers are easy to recognize. And there,
God bless me, are the slipper-makers, close at their heels; they
wouldn’t be left in the cold! The gilders, the tanners, the weavers,
and the tobacco-workers! The file-cutters, the bricklayers’-laborers,
the pattern-makers, the coopers, the book-binders, the joiners and
shipbuilders! What, is there no end to them? Hi, make way for the
journeymen glaziers! Yes, you may well smile—they are all their own
masters! And here come the gasworkers, and the water-company’s men, and
the cabinet-makers, who turn in their toes like the blacksmiths, and
march just in front of them, as though these had anything to learn from
them! Those are the skilful ivory-turners, and those the brush-makers;
spectacled these, and with brushes growing out of their noses—that is,
when they are old. Well, so it is all over at last! The tail consists
of a swarm of frolicsome youngsters.
But no—these are the milk-boys, these young vagabonds! And behind them
come the factory-girls and behind them it all begins again—the
pianoforte-makers, the millers, the saddlers, and the paper-hangers—
banners as far as one can see! How big and how gay the world is, after
all! How many callings men pursue, so that work shall never fail them!
Ah, here are the masons, with all the old veterans at their head—those
have been in the movement since the beginning! Look, how steady on his
leg is old Stolpe! And the slaters, with the Vanishing Man at their
head—they look as if they don’t much care about walking on the level
earth! And here are the sawyers, and the brewers, and the chair-makers!
Year by year their wages have been beaten down so that at the beginning
of the struggle they were earning only half as much as ten years ago;
but see how cheerful they look! Now there will be food in the larder
once more. Those faded-looking women there are weavers; they have no
banner; eight öre the hour won’t run to flags. And finally a handful of
newspaper-women from _The Working Man_. God how weary they look! Their
legs are like lead from going up and down so many stairs. Each has a
bundle of papers under her arm, as a sign of her calling.
_Trapp, trapp, trapp, trapp!_ On they go, with a slow, deliberate step.
Whither? Where Pelle wills. “_Brother, soon will dawn the day!_” One
hears the song over and over again; when one division has finished it
the next takes it up. The side-streets are spewing their contents out
upon the procession; shrunken creatures that against their will were
singed in the struggle, and cannot recover their feet again. But they
follow the procession with big eyes and break into fanatical
explanations.
A young fellow stands on the side-walk yonder; he has hidden himself
behind some women, and is stretching his neck to see. For his own Union
is coming now, to which he was faithless in the conflict. Remorse has
brought him hither. But the rhythm of the marching feet carries him
away, so that he forgets all and marches off beside them. He imagines
himself in the ranks, singing and proud of the victory. And suddenly
some of his comrades seize him and drag him into the ranks; they lift
him up and march away with him. A trophy, a trophy! A pity he can’t be
stuck on a pole and carried high overhead!
Pelle is still at the head of the procession, at the side of the sturdy
Munck. His aspect is quiet and smiling, but inwardly he is full of
unruly energy; never before has he felt so strong! On the side-walks
the police keep step with him, silent and fateful. He leads the
procession diagonally across the King’s New Market, and suddenly a
shiver runs through the whole; he is going to make a demonstration in
front of Schloss Amalienborg! No one has thought of that! Only the
police are too clever for them the streets leading to the castle are
held by troops.
Gradually the procession widens out until it fills the entire market-
place. A hundred and fifty trades unions, each with its waving
standard! A tremendous spectacle! Every banner has its motto or device.
Red is the color of all those banners which wave above the societies
which were established in the days of Socialism, and among them are
many national flags—blue, red, and white—the standards of the old
guilds and corporations. Those belong to ancient societies which have
gradually joined the movement. Over all waves the standard of the
millers, which is some hundreds of years old! It displays a
curious-looking scrawl which is the monogram of the first absolute
king!
But the real standard is not here, the red banner of the International,
which led the movement through the first troubled years. The old men
would speedily recognize it, and the young men too, they have heard so
many legends attaching to it. If it still exists it is well hidden; it
would have too great an effect on the authorities—would be like a red
rag to a bull.
And as they stand staring it suddenly rises in the air—slashed and
tattered, imperishable as to color. Pelle stands on the box of a
carriage, solemnly raising it in the air. For a moment they are taken
by surprise; then they begin to shout, until the shouts grow to a
tempest of sound. They are greeting the flag of brotherhood, the
blood-red sign of the International—and Pelle, too, who is raising it
in his blistered hands—Pelle, the good comrade, who saved the child
from the fire; Pelle, who has led the movement cause to victory!
And Pelle stands there laughing at them frankly, like a great child.
This would have been the place to give them all a few words, but he has
not yet recovered his mighty voice. So he waves it round over them with
a slow movement as though he were administering an oath to them all.
And he is very silent. This is an old dream of his, and at last it has
come to fulfillment!
The police are pushing into the crowd in squads, but the banner has
disappeared; Munck is standing with an empty stave in his hands, and is
on the point of fixing his Union banner on it.
“You must take care to get these people away from here, or we shall
hold you responsible for the consequences,” says the police inspector,
with a look that promises mischief. Pelle looks in the face. “He’d like
to throw me into prison, if only he had the courage,” he thought, and
then he sets the procession in motion again.
Out on the Common the great gathering of people rocked to and fro, in
restless confusion. From beyond its confines it looked like a dark,
raging sea. About each of the numerous speakers’ platforms stood a
densely packed crowd, listening to the leaders who were demonstrating
the great significance of the day. But the majority did not feel
inclined to-day to stand in a crowd about a platform. They felt a
longing to surrender themselves to careless enjoyment, after all the
hardships they had endured; to stand on their heads in the grass, to
play the clown for a moment. Group upon group lay all over the great
Common, eating and playing. The men had thrown off their coats and were
wrestling with one another, or trying to revive the gymnastic exercises
of their boyhood. They laughed more than they spoke; if any one
introduced a serious subject it was immediately suppressed with a
punning remark. Nobody was serious to-day!
Pelle moved slowly about, delighting in the crowd, while keeping a
look- out for Madam Johnsen and the child, who were to have met him out
here. Inwardly, at the back of everything, he was in a serious mood,
and was therefore quiet. It must be fine to lie on one’s belly here, in
the midst of one’s own family circle, eating hard-boiled eggs and
bread-and- butter—or to go running about with Young Lasse on his
shoulders! But what did it profit a man to put his trust in anything?
He could not begin over again with Ellen; the impossible stood between
them. To drive Young Lasse out of his thoughts—that would be the
hardest thing of all; he must see if he could not get him away from
Ellen in a friendly manner. As for applying to the law in order to get
him back, that he would not do.
The entire Stolpe family was lying in a big circle, enjoying a meal;
the sons were there with their wives and children; only Pelle and his
family were lacking.
“Come and set to!” said Stolpe, “or you’ll be making too long a day of
it.”
“Yes,” cried Madam Stolpe, “it is such a time since we’ve been
together. No need for us to suffer because you and Ellen can’t agree!”
She did not know the reason of the breach—at all events, not from
him—but was none the less friendly toward him.
“I am really looking for my own basket of food,” said Pelle, lying down
beside them.
“Now look here, you are the deuce of a fellow,” said Stolpe, suddenly
laughing. “You intended beforehand to look in and say how-d’ye-do to
Brother Christian,[1] hey? It wasn’t very wise of you, really—but
that’s all one to me. But what you have done to-day no one else could
do. The whole thing went like a dance! Not a sign of wobbling in the
ranks! You know, I expect, that they mean to put you at the head of the
Central Committee? Then you will have an opportunity of working at your
wonderful ideas of a world-federation. But there’ll be enough to do at
home here without that; at the next election we must win the city—and
part of the country too. You’ll let them put you up?”
[1] The king was so called.
“If I recover my voice. I can’t speak loudly at present.”
“Try the raw yolk of an egg every night,” said Madam Stolpe, much
concerned, “and tie your left-hand stocking round your throat when you
go to bed; that is a good way. But it must be the left-hand stocking.”
“Mother is a Red, you know,” said Stolpe. “If I go the right-hand side
of her she doesn’t recognize me!”
The sun must have set—it was already beginning to grow dark. Black
clouds were rising in the west. Pelle felt remorseful that he had not
yet found the old woman and her grandchild, so he took his leave of the
Stolpes.
He moved about, looking for the two; wherever he went the people
greeted him, and there was a light in their eyes. He noticed that a
policeman was following him at some little distance; he was one of the
secret hangers-on of the party; possibly he had something to
communicate to him. So Pelle lay down in the grass, a little apart from
the crowd, and the policeman stood still and gazed cautiously about
him. Then he came up to Pelle. When he was near he bent down as though
picking something up. “They are after you,” he said, under his breath;
“this afternoon there was a search made at your place, and you’ll be
arrested, as soon as you leave here.” Then he moved on.
Pelle lay there some minutes before he could understand the matter. A
search—but what was there at his house that every one might not know
of? Suddenly he thought of the wood block and the tracing of the
ten-kroner note. They had sought for some means of striking at him and
they had found the materials of a hobby!
He rose heavily and walked away from the crowd. On the East Common he
stood still and gazed back hesitatingly at this restless sea of
humanity, which was now beginning to break up, and would presently melt
away into the darkness. Now the victory was won and they were about to
take possession of the Promised Land—and he must go to prison, for a
fancy begotten of hunger! He had issued no false money, nor had he ever
had any intention of doing so. But of what avail was that? He was to be
arrested—he had read as much in the eyes of the police-inspector. Penal
servitude—or at best a term in prison!
He felt that he must postpone the decisive moment while he composed his
mind. So he went back to the city by way of the East Bridge. He kept to
the side-streets, in order not to be seen, and made his way toward St.
Saviour’s churchyard; the police were mostly on the Common.
For a moment the shipping in the harbor made him think of escape. But
whither should he flee? And to wander about abroad as an outlaw, when
his task and his fate lay here could he do it? No, he must accept his
fate!
The churchyard was closed; he had to climb over the wall in order to
get in. Some one had put fresh flowers on Father Lasse’s grave. Maria,
he thought. Yes, it must have been she! It was good to be here; he no
longer felt so terribly forsaken. It was as though Father Lasse’s
untiring care still hovered protectingly about him.
But he must move on. The arrest weighed upon his mind and made him
restless. He wandered through the city, keeping continually to the
narrow side-streets, where the darkness concealed him. This was the
field of battle—how restful it was now! Thank God, it was not they who
condemned him! And now happiness lay before them—but for him!
Cautiously he drew near his lodging—two policemen in plain clothes were
patrolling to and fro before the house. After that he drew back again
into the narrow side-streets. He drifted about aimlessly, fighting
against the implacable, and at last resigning himself.
He would have liked to see Ellen—to have spoken kindly to her, and to
have kissed the children. But there was a watch on his home too—at
every point he was driven back into the solitude to which he was a
stranger. That was the dreadful part of it all. How was he going to
live alone with himself, he who only breathed when in the company of
others? Ellen was still his very life, however violently he might deny
it. Her questioning eyes still gazed at him enigmatically, from
whatever corner of existence he might approach. He had a strong feeling
now that she had held herself ready all this time—that she had sat
waiting for him, expecting him. How would she accept this?
From Castle Street he saw a light in Morten’s room. He slipped into the
yard and up the stairs. Morten was reading.
“It’s something quite new to see you—fireman!” he said, with a kindly
smile.
“I have come to say good-bye,” said Pelle lightly.
Morten looked at him wonderingly. “Are you going to travel?”
“Yes … I—I wanted….” he said, and sat down.
He gazed on the floor in front of his feet. “What would you do if the
authorities were sneaking after you?” he asked suddenly. Morten stared
at him for a time. Then he opened a drawer and took out a revolver. “I
wouldn’t let them lay hands on me,” he said blackly. “But why do you
ask me?”
“Oh, nothing…. Will you do me a favor, Morten? I have promised to take
up a collection for those poor creatures from the ‘Ark,’ but I’ve no
time for it now. They have lost all their belongings in the fire. Will
you see to the matter?”
“Willingly. Only I don’t understand——”
“Why, I have got to go away for a time,” said Pelle, with a grim laugh.
“I have always wanted to travel, as you know. Now there’s an
opportunity.”
“Good luck, then!” said Morten, looking at him curiously as he pressed
his hand. How much he had guessed Pelle did not know. There was
Bornholm blood in Morten’s veins; he was not one to meddle in another’s
affairs.
And then he was in the streets again. No, Morten’s way out was of no
use to him—and now he would give in, and surrender himself to the
authorities! He was in the High Street now; he had no purpose in hiding
himself any longer.
In North Street he saw a figure dealing with a shop-door in a very
suspicious manner; as Pelle came up it flattened itself against the
door. Pelle stood still on the pavement; the man, too, was motionless
for a while, pressing himself back into the shadow; then, with an angry
growl, he sprang out, in order to strike Pelle to the ground.
At that very moment the two men recognized one another. The stranger
was Ferdinand.
“What, are you still at liberty?” he cried, in amazement. “I thought
they had taken you!”
“How did you know that?” asked Pelle.
“Ach, one knows these things—it’s part of one’s business. You’ll get
five to six years, Pelle, till you are stiff with it. Prison, of course
—not penal servitude.”
Pelle shuddered.
“You’ll freeze in there,” said Ferdinand compassionately. “As for me, I
can settle down very well in there. But listen, Pelle—you’ve been so
good, and you’ve tried to save me—next to mother you are the only
person I care anything about. If you would like to go abroad I can soon
hide you and find the passage-money.”
“Where will you get it?” asked Pelle, hesitating.
“Ach, I go in for the community of goods,” said Ferdinand with a broad
smile. “The prefect of police himself has just five hundred kroner
lying in his desk. I’ll try to get it for you if you like.”
“No,” said Pelle slowly, “I would rather undergo my punishment. But
thanks for your kind intentions—and give my best wishes to your old
mother. And if you ever have anything to spare, then give it to Widow
Johnsen. She and the child have gone hungry since Hanne’s death.”
And then there was nothing more to do or say; it was all over…. He went
straight across the market-place toward the court-house. There it
stood, looking so dismal! He strolled slowly past it, along the canal,
in order to collect himself a little before going in. He walked along
the quay, gazing down into the water, where the boats and the big live-
boxes full of fish were just visible. By Holmens Church he pulled
himself together and turned back—he must do it now! He raised his head
with a sudden resolve and found himself facing Marie. Her cheeks glowed
as he gazed at her.
“Pelle,” she cried, rejoicing, “are you still at liberty? Then it
wasn’t true! I have been to the meeting, and they said there you had
been arrested. Ach, we have been so unhappy!”
“I shall be arrested—I am on the way now.”
“But, Pelle, dear Pelle!” She gazed at him with tearful eyes. Ah, he
was still the foundling, who needed her care! Pelle himself had tears
in his eyes; he suddenly felt weak and impressible. Here was a human
child whose heart was beating for him—and how beautiful she was, in her
grief at his misfortune!
She stood before him, slender, but generously formed; her hair—once so
thin and uncared-for—fell in heavy waves over her forehead. She had
emerged from her stunted shell into a glorious maturity. “Pelle,” she
said, with downcast eyes, gripping both his hands, “don’t go there to-
night—wait till tomorrow! All the others are rejoicing over the victory
to-night—and so should you! … Come with me, to my room, Pelle, you are
so unhappy.” Her face showed him that she was fighting down her tears.
She had never looked so much a child as now.
“Why do you hesitate? Come with me! Am I not pretty? And I have kept it
all for you! I have loved you since the very first time I ever saw you,
Pelle, and I began to grow, because I wanted to be beautiful for you. I
owe nothing to any one but you, and if you don’t want me I don’t want
to go on living!”
No, she owed nothing to any one, this child from nowhere, but was
solely and entirely her own work. Lovely and untouched she came to him
in her abandonment, as though she were sent by the good angel of
poverty to quicken his heart. Beautiful and pure of heart she had grown
up out of wretchedness as though out of happiness itself, and where in
the world should he rest his head, that was wearied to death, but on
the heart of her who to him was child and mother and beloved?
“Pelle, do you know, there was dancing to-day in the Federation
building after the meeting on the Common, and we young girls had made a
green garland, and I was to crown you with it when you came into the
hall. Oh, we did cry when some one came up and called out to us that
they had taken you! But now you have won the wreath after all, haven’t
you? And you shall sleep sweetly and not think of to-morrow!”
And Pelle fell asleep with his head on her girlish bosom. And as she
lay there gazing at him with the eyes of a mother, he dreamed that
Denmark’s hundred thousand workers were engaged in building a splendid
castle, and that he was the architect. And when the castle was finished
he marched in at the head of the army of workers; singing they passed
through the long corridors, to fill the shining halls. But the halls
were not there —the castle had turned into a prison! And they went on
and on, but could not find their way out again.