Part 89 (2/2)
Pelle looked at him quickly. He did not like Morten's ambiguous manner of expressing himself. It made him feel insecure.
”Can't you talk reasonably?” he said. ”I can't understand you.”
”No? And yet that's quite reason enough--there have been lots of reasons since his great-grandfather's days. What the devil--why should they want a reason referring to yesterday precisely? Don't you realize that the worker, who has so long been working the treadmill in the belief that the movement was caused by somebody else, has suddenly discovered that it's he that keeps the whole thing in motion? For that's what is going on. The poor man is not merely a slave who treads the wheel, and had a handful of meal shoved down his gullet now and again to keep him from starving to death. He is on the point of discovering that he performs a higher service, look you! And now the movement is altering--it is continuing of itself! But that you probably can't see,” he added, as he noted Pelle's incredulous expression.
”No, for I'm not one of the big-bellies,” said Pelle, laughing, ”and you're no prophet, to prophesy such great things. And I have enough understanding to realize that if you want to make a row you must absolutely have something definite to make a fuss about, otherwise it won't work. But that about the wooden horse isn't good enough!”
”That's just the point about lots of fusses,” Morten replied. ”There's no need to give a pretext for anything that everybody's interested in.”
Pelle pondered further over all this while at work. But these deliberations did not proceed as in general; as a rule, such matters as were considered in his world of thought were fixed by the generations and referred princ.i.p.ally to life and death. He had to set to work in a practical manner, and to return to his own significant experience.
Old Pipman was superfluous; that Pelle himself had proved. And there was really no reason why he should not shake off the Court shoemaker as well; the journeymen saw to the measuring and the cutting-out; indeed, they did the whole work. He was also really a parasite, who had placed himself at the head of them all, and was sucking up their profits. But then Morten was right with his unabashed a.s.sertion that the working-man carried on the whole business! Pelle hesitated a little over this conclusion; he cautiously verified the fact that it was in any case valid in his craft. There was some sense in winning back his own--but how?
His sound common-sense demanded something that would take the place of Meyer and the other big parasites. It wouldn't do for every journeyman to sit down and botch away on his own account, like a little employer; he had seen that plainly enough in the little town at home; it was mere bungling.
So he set himself to work out a plan for a cooperative business. A number of craftsmen should band together, each should contribute his little capital, and a place of business would be selected. The work would be distributed according to the various capacities of the men, and they would choose one from their midst who would superintend the whole.
In this way the problem could be solved--every man would receive the full profit of his work.
When he had thoroughly thought out his plan, he went to Morten.
”They've already put that into practice!” cried Morten, and he pulled out a book. ”But it didn't work particularly well. Where did you get the idea from?”
”I thought it out myself,” answered Pelle self-consciously.
Morten looked a trifle incredulous; then he consulted the book, and showed Pelle that his idea was described there--almost word for word--as a phase of the progressive movement. The book was a work on Socialism.
But Pelle did not lose heart on that account! He was proud to have hit on something that others had worked out before him--and learned people, too! He began to have confidence in his own ideas, and eagerly attended lectures and meetings. He had energy and courage, that he knew. He would try to make himself efficient, and then he would seek out those at the head of things, who were preparing the way, and would offer them his services.
Hitherto Fortune had always hovered before his eyes, obscurely, like a fairy-tale, as something that suddenly swooped down upon a man and lifted him to higher regions, while all those who were left behind gazed longingly after him--that was the worst of it! But now he perceived new paths, which for all those that were in need led on to fortune, just as the ”Great Power” had fancied in the hour of his death. He did not quite understand where everything was to come from, but that was just the thing he must discover.
All this kept his mind in a state of new and unaccustomed activity.
He was not used to thinking things out for himself, but had until now always adhered to the ideas which had been handed down from generation to generation as established--and he often found it difficult and wearisome. Then he would try to shelve the whole subject, in order to escape from it; but it always returned to him.
When he was tired, Hanne regained her influence over him, and then he went over to see her in the evenings. He knew very well that this would lead to nothing good. To picture for himself a future beside Hanne seemed impossible; for her only the moment existed. Her peculiar nature had a certain power over him--that was all. He often vowed to himself that he would not allow her to make a fool of him--but he always went over to see her again. He must try to conquer her--and then take the consequences.
One day, when work was over, he strolled across to see her. There was no one on the gallery, so he went into the little kitchen.
”Is that you, Pelle?” Hanne's voice sounded from the living-room. ”Come in, then!”
She had apparently been was.h.i.+ng her body, and was now sitting in a white petticoat and chemise, and combing her beautiful hair. There was something of the princess about her; she took such care of her body, and knew how it should be done. The mirror stood before her, on the window-sill; from the little back room one could see, between the roofs and the mottled party-wall, the prison and the bridge and the ca.n.a.l that ran beneath it. Out beyond the Exchange the air was gray and streaked with the tackle of s.h.i.+ps.
Pelle sat down heavily by the stove, his elbows on his knees, and gazed on the floor. He was greatly moved. If only the old woman would come! ”I believe I'll go out,” he thought, ”and behave as though I were looking out for her.” But he remained sitting there. Against the wall was the double bed with its red-flowered counterpane, while the table stood by the opposite wall, with the chairs pushed under it. ”She shouldn't drive me too far,” he thought, ”or perhaps it'll end in my seizing her, and then she'll have her fingers burnt!”
”Why don't you talk to me, Pelle?” said Hanne.
He raised his head and looked at her in the mirror. She was holding the end of her plait in her mouth, and looked like a kitten biting its tail.
”Oh, what should I talk about?” he replied morosely.
”You are angry with me, but it isn't fair of you--really, it isn't fair! Is it my fault that I'm so terrified of poverty? Oh, how it does frighten me! It has always been like that ever since I was born, and you are poor too, Pelle, as poor as I am! What would become of us both? We know the whole story!”
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