Pelle the Conqueror, Vol 3 by Martin Anderson Nexo

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"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.

XXXV

The final instructions issued to the workers aroused terrible
indignation in the city. At one blow the entire public was set against
them; the press was furious, and full of threats and warnings. Even the
independent journals considered that the workers had infringed the laws
of human civilization. But _The Working Man_ quietly called
attention to the fact that the conflict was a matter of life or death
for the lower classes. They were ready to proceed to extremities; they
still had it in their power to cut off the water and gas--the means of
the capital's commercial and physical life!

Then the tide set in against the employers. Something had to give
somewhere! And what was the real motive of the conflict? Merely a
question of power! They wanted to have the sole voice--to have their
workers bound hand and foot. The financiers, who stood at the back of
the big employers, had had enough of the whole affair. It would be an
expensive game first and last, and there would be little profit in
destroying the cohesion of the workers if the various industries were
ruined at the same time.

Pelle saw how the crisis was approaching while he wandered about the
lesser streets in search of Father Lasse. Now the Cause was progressing
by its own momentum, and he could rest. An unending strain was at last
lifted from his shoulders, and now he wanted time to gather together the
remnants of his own happiness--and at last to do something for one who
had always sacrificed himself for him. Now he and Lasse would find a
home together, and resume the old life in company together; he rejoiced
at the thought. Father Lasse's nature never clashed with his; he had
always stood by him through everything; his love was like a mother's.

Lasse was no longer living in his lair behind Baker Street. The old
woman with whom he was living had died shortly before this, and Lasse
had then disappeared.

Pelle continued to ask after him, and, well known as he was among the
poor, it was not difficult for him to follow the old man's traces, which
gradually led him out to Kristianshavn. During his inquiries he
encountered a great deal of misery, which delayed him. Now, when the
battle was fighting itself to a conclusion, he was everywhere confronted
by need, and his old compassion welled up in his heart. He helped where
he could, finding remedies with his usual energy.

Lasse had not been to the "Ark" itself, but some one there had seen him
in the streets, in a deplorable condition; where he lived no one knew.
"Have you looked in the cellar of the Merchant's House over yonder?" the
old night watchman asked him. "Many live there in these hard times.
Every morning about six o'clock I lock the cellar up, and then I call
down and warn them so that they shan't be pinched. If I happen to turn
away, then they come slinking up. It seems to me I heard of an old man
who was said to be lying down there, but I'm not sure, for I've wadding
in my ears; I'm obliged to in my calling, in order not to hear too
much!" He went to the place with Pelle.

The Merchant's House, which in the eighteenth century was the palace of
one of the great mercantile families of Kristianshavn, was now used as a
granary; it lay fronting on one of the canals. The deep cellars, which
were entirely below the level of the canal, were now empty. It was pitch
dark down there, and impracticable; the damp air seemed to gnaw at one's
vocal cords. They took a light and explored among the pillars, finding
here and there places where people had lain on straw. "There is no one
here," said the watchman. Pelle called, and heard a feeble sound as of
one clearing his throat. Far back in the cellars, in one of the cavities
in the wall, Father Lasse was lying on a mattress. "Yes, here I lie,
waiting for death," he whispered. "It won't last much longer now; the
rats have begun to sniff about me already." The cold, damp air had taken
his voice away.

He was altogether in a pitiful condition, but the sight of Pelle put
life into him in so far as he was able to stand on his feet. They took
him over to the "Ark," the old night watchman giving up his room and
going up to Widow Johnsen;--there he slept in the daytime, and at night
went about his duties; a possible arrangement, although there was only
one bed.

When Lasse was put into a warm bed he lay there shivering; and he was
not quite clear in his mind. Pelle warmed some beer; the old man must go
through a sweating cure; from time to time he sat on the bed and gazed
anxiously at his father. Lasse lay there with his teeth chattering; he
had closed his eyes; now and again he tried to speak, but could not.

The warm drink helped him a little, and the blood flowed once more into
his dead, icy hands, and his voice returned.

"Do you think we are going to have a hard winter?" he said suddenly,
turning on his side.

"We are going on toward the summer now, dear father," Pelle replied.
"But you must not lie with your back uncovered."

"I'm so terribly cold--almost as cold as I was in winter; I wouldn't
care to go through that again. It got into my spine so. Good God, the
poor folks who are at sea!"

"You needn't worry about them--you just think about getting well again;
to-day we've got the sunshine and it's fine weather at sea!"

"Let a little sunshine in here to me, then," said Lasse peevishly.

"There's a great wall in front of the window, father," said Pelle,
bending down over him.

"Well, well, it'll soon be over, the little time that's still left me!
It's all the same to the night watchman--he wakes all night and yet he
doesn't see the sun. That is truly a curious calling! But it is good
that some one should watch over us while we sleep." Lasse rocked his
head restlessly to and fro.

"Yes, otherwise they'd come by night and steal our money," said Pelle
jestingly.

"Yes, that they would!" Lasse tried to laugh. "And how are things going
with you, lad?"

"The negotiations are proceeding; yesterday we held the first meeting."

Lasse laughed until his throat rattled. "So the fine folks couldn't
stomach the smell any longer! Yes, yes, I heard the news of that when I
was lying ill down there in the darkness. At night, when the others came
creeping in, they told me about it; we laughed properly over that idea
of yours. But oughtn't you to be at your meeting?"

"No, I have excused myself--I don't want to sit there squabbling about
the ending of a sentence. Now I'm going to be with you, and then we'll
both make ourselves comfortable."

"I am afraid we shan't have much more joy of one another, lad!"

"But you are quite jolly again now. To-morrow you will see--"

"Ah, no! Death doesn't play false. I couldn't stand that cellar."

"Why did you do it, father? You knew your place at home was waiting for
you."

"Yes, you must forgive my obstinacy, Pelle. But I was too old to be able
to help in the fight, and then I thought at least you won't lay a burden
on them so long as this lasts! So in that way I have borne my share. And
do you really believe that something will come of it?"

"Yes, we are winning--and then the new times will begin for the poor
man!"

"Yes, yes; I've no part in such fine things now! It was as though one
served the wicked goblin that stands over the door: Work to-day, eat to-
morrow! And to-morrow never came. What kindness I've known has been from
my own people; a poor bird will pull out its own feathers to cover
another. But I can't complain; I have had bad days, but there are folks
who have had worse. And the women have always been good to me. Bengta
was a grumbler, but she meant it kindly; Karna sacrificed money and
health to me--God be thanked that she didn't live after they took the
farm from me. For I've been a landowner too; I had almost forgotten that
in all my misery! Yes, and old Lise--Begging Lise, as they called her--
she shared bed and board with me! She died of starvation, smart though
she was. Would you believe that? 'Eat!' she used to say; 'we have food
enough!' And I, old devil, I ate the last crust, and suspected nothing,
and in the morning she was lying dead and cold at my side! There was not
a scrap of flesh on her whole body; nothing but skin over dry bones. But
she was one of God's angels! We used to sing together, she and I. Ach,
poor people take the bread out of one another's mouths!"

Lasse lay for a time sunk in memories, and began to sing, with the
gestures he had employed in the courtyard. Pelle held him down and
endeavored to bring him to reason, but the old man thought he was
dealing with the street urchins. When he came to the verse which spoke
of his son he wept.

"Don't cry, father!" said Pelle, quite beside himself, and he laid his
heavy head against that of the old man. "I am with you again!"

Lasse lay still for a time, blinking his eyes, with his hand groping to
and fro over his son's face.

"Yes, you are really here," he said faintly, "and I thought you had gone
away again. Do you know what, Pelle? You have been the whole light of my
life! When you came into the world I was already past the best of my
years; but then you came, and it was as though the sun had been born
anew! 'What may he not bring with him?' I used to think, and I held my
head high in the air. You were no bigger than a pint bottle! 'Perhaps
he'll make his fortune,' I thought, 'and then there'll be a bit of luck
for you as well!' So I thought, and so I've always believed--but now I
must give it up. But I've lived to see you respected. You haven't become
a rich man--well, that need not matter; but the poor speak well of you!
You have fought their battles for them without taking anything to fill
your own belly. Now I understand it, and my old heart rejoices that you
are my son!"

When Lasse fell asleep Pelle lay on the sofa for a while. But he did not
rest long; the old man slept like a bird, opening his eyes every moment.
If he did not see his son close to his bed he lay tossing from side to
side and complaining in a half-slumber. In the middle of the night he
raised his head and held it up in a listening attitude. Pelle awoke.

"What do you want, father?" he asked, as he tumbled onto his feet.

"Ach, I can hear something flowing, far out yonder, beyond the sea-
line.... It is as though the water were pouring into the abyss. But
oughtn't you to go home to Ellen now? I shall be all right alone
overnight, and perhaps she's sitting worrying as to where you are."

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