Pelle the Conqueror Part 126

"Things are going badly here now," said Morten, looking at him with a peculiar smile.

"Yes, I know very well you can't stand it--all the same, they must hold together."

"And supposing they don't get better conditions?"

"Then they must accept the consequences. That's better than the whole Cause should go to the wall!"

"Are those the new ideas? I think the ignorant have always had to take the consequences! And there has never been lacking some one to spit on them!" said Morten sadly.

"But, listen!" cried Pelle, springing to his feet. "You'll please not blame me for spitting at anybody--the others did that!" He was very near losing his temper again, but Morten's quiet manner mastered him.

"The others--that was nothing at all! But it was you who spat seven times over into the poor devil's face--I was standing in the shop, and saw it."

Pelle stared at him, speechless. Was this the truth-loving Morten who stood there lying?

"You say you saw me spit at him?"

Morten nodded. "Do you want to accept the applause and the honor, and sneak out of the beastliness and the destruction? You have taken a great responsibility on yourself, Pelle. Look, how blindly they follow you--at the sight of your bare face, I'm tempted to say. For I'm not myself quite sure that you give enough of yourself. There is blood on your hands--but is any of it your own blood?"

Pelle sat there heavily pondering; Morten's words always forced his thoughts to follow paths they had never before known. But now he understood him; and a dark shadow pa.s.sed over his face, which left its traces behind it. "This business has cost me my home," he said quietly.

"Ellen cares nothing for me now, and my children are being neglected, and are drifting away from me. I have given up splendid prospects for the future; I go hungry every day, and I have to see my old father in want and wretchedness! I believe no one can feel as homeless and lonely and forsaken as I do! So it has cost me something--you force me to say it myself." He smiled at Morten, but there were tears in his eyes.

"Forgive me, my dear friend!" said Morten. "I was afraid you didn't really know what you were doing. Already there are many left on the field of battle, and it's grievous to see them--especially if it should all lead to nothing."

"Do you condemn the Movement, then? According to you, I can never do anything wise!"

"Not if it leads to an end! I myself have dreamed of leading them on to fortune--in my own way; but it isn't a way after their own heart. You have power over them--they follow you blindly--lead them on, then! But every wound they receive in battle should be yours as well--otherwise you are not the right man for the place. And are you certain of the goal?"

Yes, Pelle was certain of that. "And we are reaching it!" he cried, suddenly inspired. "See how cheerfully they approve of everything, and just go forward!"

"But, Pelle!" said Morten, with a meaning smile, laying his hand on his shoulder, "a leader is not Judge Lynch. Otherwise the parties would fight it out with clubs!"

"Ah, you are thinking of what happened just now!" said Pelle. "That had nothing to do with the Movement! He said my father was going about the backyards fis.h.i.+ng things out of dustbins--so I gave him a few on the jaw. I have the same right as any one else to revenge an insult." He did not mention the evil words concerning Ellen; he could not bring himself to do so.

"But that is true," said Morten quietly.

"Then why didn't you tell me?" asked Pelle.

"I thought you knew it. And you have enough to struggle against as it is--you've nothing to reproach yourself with."

"Perhaps you can tell me where he could be found?" said Pelle, in a low voice.

"He is usually to be found in this quarter."

Pelle went. His mind was oppressed; all that day fresh responsibilities had heaped themselves upon him; a burden heavy for one man to bear. Was he to accept the responsibility for all that the Movement destroyed as it progressed, simply because he had placed all his energies and his whole fortune at its disposal? And now Father La.s.se was going about as a scavenger. He blushed for shame--yet how could he have prevented it? Was he to be made responsible for the situation? And now they were spitting upon Ellen--that was the thanks he got!

He did not know where to begin his search, so he went into the courts and backyards and asked at random. People were crowding into a courtyard in Blaagaard Street, so Pelle entered it. There was a missionary there who spoke with the sing-song accent of the Bornholmer, in whose eyes was the peculiar expression which Pelle remembered as that of the "saints"

of his childhood. He was preaching and singing alternately. Pelle gazed at him with eyes full of reminiscence, and in his despairing mood he was near losing control of himself and bellowing aloud as in his childish years when anything touched him deeply. This was the very lad who had said something rude about Father La.s.se, and whom he--young as he was--had kicked so that he became ruptured. He was able to protect his father in those days, at all events!

He went up to the preacher and held out his hand. "It's Peter Kune! So you are here?"

The man looked at him with a gaze that seemed to belong to another world. "Yes, I had to come over here, Pelle!" he said significantly.

"I saw the poor wandering hither from the town and farther away, so I followed them, so that no harm should come to them. For you poor are the chosen people of G.o.d, who must wander and wander until they come into the Kingdom. Now the sea has stayed you here, and you can go no farther; so you think the Kingdom must lie here. G.o.d has sent me to tell you that you are mistaken. And you, Pelle, will you join us now? G.o.d is waiting and longing for you; he wants to use you for the good of all these little ones." And he held Pelle's hand in his, gazing at him compellingly; perhaps he thought Pelle had come in order to seek the shelter of his "Kingdom."

Here was another who had the intention of leading the poor to the land of fortune! But Pelle had his own poor. "I have done what I could for them," he said self-consciously.

"Yes, I know that well; but that is not the right way, the way you are following! You do not give them the bread of life!"

"I think they have more need of black bread. Look at them--d'you think they get too much to eat?"

"And can you give them food, then? I can give them the joy of G.o.d, so that they forget their hunger for a while. Can you do more than make them feel their hunger even more keenly?"

"Perhaps I can. But I've got no time to talk it over now; I came to look for my old father."

"Your father, I have met in the streets lately, with a sack on his back--he did not look very cheerful. And I met him once over yonder with Sort the shoemaker; he wanted to come over here and spend his old age with his son."

Pelle said nothing, but ran off. He clenched his fists in impotent wrath as he rushed out of the place. People went about jeering at him, one more eagerly than the other, and the naked truth was that he--young and strong and capable as he was in his calling--could not look after his wife and children and his old father, even when he had regular work.

Yes, so d.a.m.nable were the conditions that a man in the prime of his youth could not follow the bidding of nature and found a family without plunging those that were dependent on him into want and misery! Curse it all, the entire system ought to be smashed! If he had power over it he would want to make the best use of it!

In Stone Street he heard a hoa.r.s.e, quavering voice singing in the central courtyard of one of the houses. It was Father La.s.se. The rag-bag lay near him, with the hook stuck into it. He was clasping the book with one hand, while with the other he gesticulated toward the windows as he sang. The song made the people smile, and he tried to make it still more amusing by violent gestures which ill-suited his pitiful appearance.

It cut Pelle to the heart to see his wretched condition. He stepped into a doorway and waited until his father should have finished his song.

At certain points in the course of the song La.s.se took off his cap and smacked it against his head while he raised one leg in the air. He very nearly lost his equilibrium when he did this, and the street urchins who surrounded him pulled at his ragged coat-tails and pushed one another against him. Then he stood still, spoke to them in his quavering voice, and took up his song again.

"O listen to my song, a tale of woe: I came into the world as do so many: My mother bore me in the street below, And as for father, why, I hadn't any!

Till now I've faithfully her shame concealed: I tell it now to make my song complete.

O drop a s.h.i.+lling down that I may eat, For eat I must, or soon to Death I yield.

"Into this world without deceit I came, That's why you see me wear no stockings now.

A poor old man who drudges anyhow, I have a wealthy brother, more's the shame.

But he and I are opposites in all; While I rake muck he rakes his money up: Much gold is his and many a jewelled cup, And all he fancies, that is his at call.

"My brother, he has built a palace splendid, And silver harness all his horses bear.

Full twenty crowns an hour he gets, I hear, By twiddling thumbs and wis.h.i.+ng day were ended!

Gold comes to him as dirt to La.s.se, blast him!

And everywhere he turns there money lies.

'Twill all be mine when once my brother dies-- If I but live--so help me to outlast him!

"Luck tried to help me once, but not again!

Weary with toiling I was like to swoon.

When G.o.d let fall milk-porridge 'stead of rain!

And I, poor donkey, hadn't brought a spoon!

Yes, Heaven had meant to help me, me accurst!

I saw my luck but couldn't by it profit!

Quickly my brother made a banquet of it-- Ate my milk-porridge till he nearly burst!

"Want bears the sceptre here on earth below, And life is always grievous to the poor.

But G.o.d, who rules the world, and ought to know, Says all will get their rights when life is o'er.

Therefore, good people, hear me for His sake-- A trifle for the poor man's coffin give, Wherein his final journey he must take; Have mercy on my end while yet I live!