perhaps they suddenly brightened up at sight of a young man in the
throng.
Charwomen were on their way home with their basket on their arm. They
had had a long day, and dragged their heavy feet along. The street was
full of women workers - a changed world! The bad times had called the
women out and left the men at home. On their way home they made their
purchases for Sunday. In the butchers' and provision-dealers' they stood
waiting like tired horses for their turn. Shivering children stood on
tiptoe with their money clasped convulsively in one hand, and their chin
supported on the edge of the counter, staring greedily at the eatables,
while the light was reflected from their ravenous eyes.
Pelle walked quickly to reach the open country. He did not like these
desolate streets on the outskirts of the city, where poverty rose like a
sea-birds' nesting-place on both sides of the narrow cleft, and the
darkness sighed beneath so much. When he entered an endless brick
channel such as these, where one- and two-roomed flats, in seven stories
extended as far as he could see, he felt his courage forsaking him. It
was like passing through a huge churchyard of disappointed hopes. All
these thousands of families were like so many unhappy fates; they had
set out brightly and hopefully, and now they stood here, fighting with
the emptiness.
Pelle walked quickly out along the field road. It was pitch-dark and
raining, but he knew every ditch and path by heart. Far up on the hill
there shone a light which resembled a star that hung low in the sky. It
must be the lamp in Brun's bedroom. He wondered at the old man being up
still, for he was soon tired now that he had given up the occupation of
a long lifetime, and generally went to bed early. Perhaps he had
forgotten to put out the lamp.
Pelle had turned his coat-collar up about his ears, and was in a
comfortable frame of mind. He liked walking alone in the dark. Formerly
its yawning emptiness had filled him with a panic of fear, but the
prison had made his mind familiar with it. He used to look forward to
these lonely night walks home across the fields. The noises of the city
died away behind him, and he breathed the pure air that seemed to come
straight to him out of space. All that a man cannot impart to others
arose in him in these walks. In the daily struggle he often had a
depressing feeling that the result depended upon pure chance. It was not
easy to obtain a hearing through the thousand-voiced noise. A sensation
was needed in order to attract attention, and he had presented himself
with only quite an ordinary idea, and declared that without stopping a
wheel it could remodel the world. No one took the trouble to oppose him,
and even the manufacturers in his trade took his enterprise calmly and
seemed to have given up the war against him. He had expected great
opposition, and had looked forward to overcoming it, and this
indifference sometimes made him doubt himself. His invincible idea would
simply disappear in the motley confusion of life!
But out here in the country, where night lay upon the earth like great
rest, his strength returned to him. All the indifference fell away, and
he saw that like the piers of a bridge, his reality lay beneath the
surface. Insignificant though he appeared, he rested upon an immense
foundation. The solitude around him revealed it to him and made him feel
his own power. While they overlooked his enterprise he would make it so
strong that they would run their head against it when they awoke.
Pelle was glad he lived in the country, and it was a dream of his to
move the workmen out there again some day. He disliked the town more and
more, and never became quite familiar with it. It was always just as
strange to go about in this humming hive, where each seemed to buzz on
his own account, and yet all were subject to one great will - that of
hunger. The town exerted a dull power over men's minds, it drew the poor
to it with lies about happiness, and when it once had them, held them
fiendishly fast. The poisonous air was like opium; the most miserable
beings dream they are happy in it; and when they have once got a taste
for it, they had not the strength of mind to go back to the uneventful
everyday life again. There was always something dreadful behind the
town's physiognomy, as though it were lying in wait to drag men into its
net and fleece them. In the daytime it might be concealed by the
multitudinous noises, but the darkness brought it out.
Every evening before Pelle went to bed he went out to the end of the
house and gazed out into the night. It was an old peasant-custom that he
had inherited from Father Lasse and his father before him. His inquiring
gaze sought the town where his thoughts already were. On sunny days
there was only smoke and mist to be seen, but on a dark night like this
there was a cheerful glow above it. The town had a peculiar power of
shedding darkness round about it, and lighting white artificial light in
it. It lay low, like a bog with the land sloping down to it on all
sides, and all water running into it. Its luminous mist seemed to reach
to the uttermost borders of the land; everything came this way. Large
dragon-flies hovered over the bog in metallic splendor; gnats danced
above it like careless shadows. A ceaseless hum rose from it, and below
lay the depth that had fostered them, seething so that he could hear it
where he stood.
Sometimes the light of the town flickered up over the sky like the
reflection from a gigantic forge-fire. It was like an enormous heart
throbbing in panic in the darkness down there; his own caught the
infection and contracted in vague terror. Cries would suddenly rise from
down there, and one almost wished for them; a loud exclamation was a
relief from the everlasting latent excitement. Down there beneath the
walls of the city the darkness was always alive; it glided along like a
heavy life-stream, flowing slowly among taverns and low music-halls and
barracks, with their fateful contents of want and imprecations. Its
secret doings inspired him with horror; he hated the town for its
darkness which hid so much.
He had stopped in front of his house, and stood gazing downward.
Suddenly he heard a sound from within that made him start, and he
quickly let himself in. Ellen came out into the passage looking
disturbed.
"Thank goodness you've come!" she exclaimed, quite forgetting to greet
him. "Anna's so ill!"
"Is it anything serious?" asked Pelle, hurriedly removing his coat.
"It's the old story. I got a carriage from the farm to drive in for the
doctor. It was dear, but Brun said I must. She's to have hot milk with
Ems salts and soda water. You must warm yourself at the stove before you
go up to her, but make haste! She keeps on asking for you."
The sick-room was in semi-darkness, Ellen having put a red shade over
the lamp, so that the light should not annoy the child. Brun was sitting
on a chair by her bed, watching her intently as she lay muttering in a
feverish doze. He made a sign to Pelle to walk quietly. "She's asleep!"
he whispered. The old man looked unhappy.
Pelle bent silently over her. She lay with closed eyes, but was not
asleep. Her hot breath came in short gasps. As he was about to raise
himself again, she opened her eyes and smiled at him.
"What's the matter with Sister? Is she going to be ill again?" he said
softly. "I thought the sun had sent that naughty bronchitis away."
The child shook her head resignedly. "Listen to the cellarman!" she
whispered. He was whistling as hard as he could down in her windpipe,
and she listened to him with a serious expression. Then her hand stole
up and she stroked her father's face as though to comfort him.
Brun, however, put her hand down again immediately and covered her up
close. "We very nearly lost that doll!" he said seriously. He had
promised her a large doll if she would keep covered up.
"Shall I still get it?" she asked in gasps, gazing at him in dismay.
"Yes, of course you'll get it, and if you make haste and get well, you
shall have a carriage too with india rubber tires."
Here Ellen came in. "Mr. Brun," she said, "I've made your room all ready
for you." She laid a quieting hand upon the child's anxious face.
The librarian rose unwillingly. "That's to say Mr. Brun is to go to
bed," he said half in displeasure. "Well, well, goodnight then! I rely
upon your waking me if things become worse."
"How good he is!" said Ellen softly. "He's been sitting here all the
time to see that she kept covered up. He's made us afraid to move
because she's to be kept quiet; but he can't help chattering to her
himself whenever she opens her eyes."
Ellen had moved Lasse Frederik's bed down into their bedroom and put up
her own here so as to watch over the child. "Now you should go to bed,"
she said softly to Pelle. "You must be tired to death after your
journey, and you can't have slept last night in the train either."
He looked tired, but she could not persuade him; he meant to stay up
there. "I can't sleep anyhow as things are," he whispered, "and to-
morrow's Sunday."
"Then lie down on my bed! It'll rest you a little."
He lay down to please her, and stared up at the ceiling while he
listened to the child's short, rattling respiration. He could hear that
she was not asleep. She lay and played with the rattling sound, making
the cellar-man speak sometimes with a deep voice, sometimes with a high
one. She seemed quite familiar with this dangerous chatter, which had
already cost her many hours of illness and sounded so painful to Pelle's
ear. She bore her illness with the wonderful resignation that belonged
to the dwellers in the back streets. She did not become unreasonable or
exacting, but generally lay and entertained herself. It was as though
she felt grateful for her bed; she was always in the best spirits when
she was in it. The sun out here had made her very brown, but there must
be something in her that it had not prevailed against. It was not so
easy to move away from the bad air of the back streets.
Whenever she had a fit of coughing, Pelle raised her into a sitting
posture and helped her to get rid of the phlegm. She was purple in the
face with coughing, and looked at him with eyes that were almost
starting out of her head with the violent exertion. Then Ellen brought
her the hot milk and Ems salts, and she drank it with a resigned
expression and lay down again.
"It's never been so bad before," whispered Ellen, "so what can be the
use? Perhaps the country air isn't good for her."
"It ought to be though," said Pelle, "or else she's a poor little
poisoned thing."
Ellen's voice rang with the possibility of their moving back again to
the town for the sake of the child. To her the town air was not bad, but
simply milder than out here. Through several generations she had become
accustomed to it and had overcome its injurious effects; to her it
seemed good as only the air of home can be. She could live anywhere, but
nothing must be said against her childhood's home. Then she became
eager.
The child had wakened with their whispering, and lay and looked at them.
"I shan't die, shall I?" she asked.
They bent over her. "Now you must cover yourself up and not think about
such things," said Ellen anxiously.
But the child continued obstinately. "If I die, will you be as sorry
about me as you were about Johanna?" she asked anxiously, with her eyes
fixed upon them.
Pelle nodded. It was impossible for him to speak.
"Will you paint the ceiling black to show you're sorry about me? Will
you, father?" she continued inexorably, looking at him.
"Yes, yes!" said Ellen desperately, kissing her lips to make her stop
talking. The child turned over contentedly, and in another moment she
was asleep.
"She's not hot now," whispered Pelle. "I think the fever's gone." His
face was very grave. Death had passed its cold hand over it; he knew it
was only in jest, but he could not shake off the impression it had made.
They sat silent, listening to the child's breathing, which was now
quiet. Ellen had put her hand into Pelle's, and every now and then she
shuddered. They did not move, but simply sat and listened, while the
time ran singing on. Then the cock crew below, and roused Pelle. It was
three o'clock, and the child had slept for two hours. The lamp had
almost burned dry, and he could scarcely see Ellen's profile in the
semi-darkness. She looked tired.
He rose noiselessly and kissed her forehead. "Go downstairs and go to
bed," he whispered, leading her toward the door.
Stealthy footsteps were heard outside. It was Brun who had been down to
listen at the door. He had not been to bed at all. The lamp was burning
in his sitting-room, and the table was covered with papers. He had been
writing.
He became very cheerful when he heard that the attack was over. "I think
you ought rather to treat us to a cup of coffee," he answered, when
Ellen scolded him because he was not asleep.
Ellen went down and made the coffee, and they drank it in Brun's room.
The doors were left ajar so that they could hear the child.
"It's been a long night," said Pelle, passing his hand across his
forehead.
"Yes, if there are going to be more like it, we shall certainly have to
move back into town," said Ellen obstinately.
"It would be a better plan to begin giving her a cold bath in the
morning as soon as she's well again, and try to get her hardened," said
Pelle.
"Do you know," said Ellen, turning to Brun, "Pelle thinks it's the bad
air and the good air fighting for the child, and that's the only reason
why she's worse here than in town."
"So it is," said Brun gravely; "and a sick child like that gives one
something to think about."
XVIII
The next day they were up late. Ellen did not wake until about ten, and
was quite horrified; but when she got up she found the fire on and
everything in order, for Lasse Frederik had seen to it all. She could
start on breakfast at once.
Sister was quite bright again, and Ellen moved her into the sitting-room
and made up a bed on the sofa, where she sat packed in with pillows, and
had her breakfast with the others.
"Are you sorry Sister's getting well, old man?" asked Boy Comfort.
"My name isn't 'old man.' It's 'grandfather' or else 'Mr. Brun,'" said
the librarian, laughing and looking at Ellen, who blushed.
"Are you sorry Sister's getting well, grandfather?" repeated the boy
with a funny, pedantic literalness.
"And why should I be sorry for that, you little stupid?"
"Because you've got to give money!"
"The doll, yes! That's true! You'll have to wait till tomorrow, Sister,
because to-day's Sunday."
Anna had eaten her egg and turned the shell upside down in the egg-cup
so that it looked like an egg that had not been touched. She pushed it
slowly toward Brun.
"What's the matter now?" he exclaimed, pushing his spectacles up onto
his forehead. "You haven't eaten your egg!"
"I can't," she said, hanging her head.
"Why, there must be something wrong with her!" said the old man, in
amazement. "Such a big, fat egg too! Very well, then _I_ must eat
it." And he began to crack the egg, Anna and Boy Comfort following his
movements with dancing eyes and their hands over their mouths, until his
spoon went through the shell and he sprang up to throw it at their
heads, when their merriment burst forth. It was a joke that never
suffered by repetition.
While breakfast was in progress, the farmer from the hill farm came in
to tell them that they must be prepared to move out, as he meant to sell
the house. He was one of those farmers of common-land, whom the city had
thrown off their balance. He had lived up there and had seen one farm
after another grow larger and make their owners into millionaires, and
was always expecting that his turn would come. He neglected the land,
and even the most abundant harvest was ridiculously small in comparison
with his golden dreams; so the fields were allowed to lie and produce
weeds.
Ellen was just as dismayed as Pelle at the thought of having to leave
"Daybreak." It was their home, their nest too; all their happiness and
welfare were really connected with this spot.
"You can buy the house of course," said the farmer. "I've had an offer
of fifteen thousand (L850) for it, and I'll let it go for that."
After he had gone they sat and discussed the matter. "It's very cheap,"
said Brun. "In a year or two you'll have the town spreading in this
direction, and then it'll be worth at least twice as much."
"Yes, that may be," said Pelle; "but you've both to get the amount and
make it yield interest."
"There's eight thousand (L450) in the first mortgage, and the loan
institution will lend half that. That'll make twelve thousand (L675).
That leaves three thousand (L175), and I'm not afraid of putting that in
as a third mortgage," said Brun.
Pelle did not like that. "There'll be need for your money in the
business," he said.
"Yes, yes! But when you put the house into repair and have it re-valued,
I'm certain you can get the whole fifteen thousand in the Loan
Societies," said Brun. "I think it'll be to your advantage to do it."
Ellen had taken pencil and paper, and was making calculations. "What
percentage do you reckon for interest and paying off by instalments?"
she asked.
"Five," said the old man. "You do all the work of keeping it up
yourselves."
"Then I would venture," she said, looking dauntlessly at them. "It would
be nice to own the house ourselves, don't you think so, Pelle?"
"No, I think it's quite mad," Pelle answered. "We shall be saddled with
a house-rent of seven hundred and fifty kroner (over L40)."
Ellen was not afraid of the house-rent; the house and garden would bear
that. "And in a few years we can sell the ground for building and make a
lot of money." She was red with excitement.
Pelle laughed. "Yes, speculation! Isn't that what the hill farmer has
gone to pieces over?" Pelle had quite enough on his hands and had no
desire to have property to struggle with.
But Ellen became only more and more bent upon it. "Then buy it
yourself!" said Pelle, laughing. "I've no desire to become a
millionaire."
Ellen was quite ready to do it. "But then the house'll be _mine_,"
she declared. "And if I make money on it, I must be allowed to spend it
just as I like. It's not to go into your bottomless common cash-box!"
The men laughed.
"Brun and I are going for a walk," said Pelle, "so we'll go in and write
a contract note for you at once."
They went down the garden and followed the edge of the hill to the
south. The weather was clear; it had changed to slight frost, and white
rime covered the fields. Where the low sun's rays fell upon them, the
rime had melted and the withered green grass appeared. "It's really
pretty here," said Brun. "See how nice the town looks with its towers -
only one shouldn't live there. I was thinking of that last night when
the child was lying there with her cough. The work-people really get no
share of the sun, nor do those who in other respects are decently well
off. And then I thought I'd like to build houses for our people on the
ridge of the hill on both sides of 'Daybreak.' The people of the new age
ought to live in higher and brighter situations than others. I'll tell
you how I thought of doing it. I should in the meantime advance money
for the plots, and the business should gradually redeem them with its
surplus. That is quite as practical as dividing the surplus among the
workmen, and we thereby create values for the enterprise. Talking of
surplus - you've worked well, Pelle! I made an estimate of it last night
and found it's already about ten thousand (L555) this year. But to
return to what we were talking about - mortgage loans are generally able
to, cover the building expenses, and with amortization the whole thing
is unencumbered after some years have passed."
"Who's to own it?" asked Pelle. He was chewing a piece of grass and
putting his feet down deliberately like a farmer walking on ploughed
land.
"The cooperative company. It's to be so arranged that the houses can't
be made over to others, nor encumbered with fresh loan. Our cooperative
enterprises must avoid all form of speculation, thereby limiting the
field for capital. The whole thing should be self-supporting and be able
to do away with private property within its boundaries. You see it's
your own idea of a community within the community that I'm building
upon. At present it's not easy to find a juridical form under which the
whole thing can work itself, but in the meantime you and I will manage
it, and Morten if he will join us. I expect he'll come home with renewed
strength."
"And when is this plan to be realized? Will it be in the near future?"
"This very winter, I had thought; and in this way we should also be able
to do a little for the great unemployment. Thirty houses! It would be a
beginning anyhow. And behind it lies the whole world, Pelle!"
"Shall you make the occupation of the houses obligatory for our
workmen?"
"Yes, cooperation makes it an obligation. You can't be half outside and
half inside! Well, what do you think of it?"
"It's a strong plan," said Pelle. "We shall build our own town here on
the hill."
The old man's face shone with delight. "There's something in me after
all, eh? There's old business-blood in my veins too. My forefathers
built a world for themselves, and why should I do less than they? I
ought to have been younger, Pelle!"
They walked round the hill and came to the farm from the other side.
"The whole piece wouldn't really be too large if we're to have room to
extend ourselves," said Pelle, who was not afraid of a large outlay when
it was a question of a great plan.
"I was thinking the same thing," answered Bran. "How much is there here?
A couple of hundred acres? There'll be room for a thousand families if
each of them is to have a fair-sized piece of land."
They then went in and took the whole for a quarter of a million
(L14,000).
"But Ellen!" exclaimed Pelle, when they were on their way home again.
"How are we going to come to terms with her?"
"Bless my soul! Why, it was her business we went upon! And now we've
done business for ourselves! Well, I suppose she'll give in when she
hears what's been done."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Pelle, laughing. "Perhaps when you
tackle her."
"Well, did you get the house?" asked Ellen, from the house door, where
she was standing to receive them.
"Yes, we got much more," said Brun airily. "We bought the whole
concern."
"Is that a fact, Pelle?"
Pelle nodded.
"What about my house then?" she asked slowly.
"Well, we bought that together with all the rest," said Brun. "But as
far as that goes it can easily be separated from the rest, only it's
rather soon to break up the cooperation before it's started." He waited
a little, expecting that Ellen would say something, and when she
continued silent he went on, rather shortly: "Well, then there's nothing
more to be said about that? Fair play's a jewel, and to-morrow I'll make
arrangements for the conveyance of the house to you for the fifteen
thousand (L850). And then we must give up the whole concern, Pelle. It
won't do for the man at the head of it to live on his private property;
so that plan's come to nothing!"
"Unless Ellen and I live in separate houses," said Pelle slyly. "I might
build just the other side of the boundary, and then we could nod to one
another at any rate."
Ellen looked at him gravely. "I only think it's rather strange that you
settle my affairs without asking me first," she said at length.
"Yes, it was inconsiderate of us," answered Brun, "and we hope you'll
forget all about it. You'll give up the house then?"
"I'm pretty well obliged to when Pelle threatens to move out," Ellen
answered with a smile. "But I'm sorry about it. I'm certain that in a
short time there'd have been money to make over it."
"It'll be nice, won't it, if the women are going to move into our
forsaken snail-shells?" said Brun half seriously.
"Ellen's always been an incorrigible capitalist," Pelle put in.
"It's only that I've never had so much money that I shouldn't know what
it was worth," answered Ellen, with ready wit.
Old Brun laughed. "That was one for Mr. Brun!" he said. "But since
you've such a desire for land-speculation, Mistress Ellen, I've got a
suggestion to make. On the ground we've bought there's a piece of meadow
that lies halfway in to town, by the bog. We'll give you that. It's not
worth anything at present, and will have to be filled in to be of any
value; but it won't be very long before the town is out there wanting
more room."
Ellen had no objection to that. "But then," she said, "I must be allowed
to do what I like with what comes out of it."
XIX
The sun held out well that year. Remnants of summer continued to hang in
the air right into December. Every time they had bad weather Ellen said,
"Now it'll be winter, I'm sure!" But the sun put it aside once more; it
went far down in the south and looked straight into the whole sitting-
room, as if it were going to count the pictures.
The large yellow Gloire de Dijon went on flowering, and every day Ellen
brought in a large, heavy bunch of roses and red leaves. She was heavy
herself, and the fresh cold nipped her nose - which was growing sharper -
and reddened her cheeks. One day she brought a large bunch to Pelle, and
asked him: "How much money am I going to get to keep Christmas with?"
It was true! The year was almost ended!
After the new year winter began in earnest. It began with much snow and
frost, and made it a difficult matter to keep in communication with the
outside world, while indoors people drew all the closer to one another.
Anna should really have been going to school now, but she suffered a
good deal from the cold and was altogether not very strong, so Pelle and
Ellen dared not expose her to the long wading through the snow, and
taught her themselves.
Ellen had become a little lazy about walking, and seldom went into town;
the two men made the purchases for her in the evening on their way home.
It was a dull time, and no work was done by artificial light, so they
were home early. Ellen had changed the dinner-hour to five, so that they
could all have it together. After dinner Brun generally went upstairs to
work for another couple of hours. He was busy working out projects for
the building on the Hill Farm land, and gave himself no rest. Pelle's
wealth of ideas and energy infected him, and his plans grew and assumed
ever-increasing dimensions. He gave no consideration to his weak frame,
but rose early and worked all day at the affairs of the cooperative
works. He seemed to be vying with Pelle's youth, and to be in constant
fear that something would come up behind him and interrupt his work.
The other members of the family gathered round the lamp, each with some
occupation. Boy Comfort had his toy-table put up and was hammering
indefatigably with his little wooden mallet upon a piece of stuff that
Ellen had put between to prevent his marking the table. He was a sturdy
little fellow, and the fat lay in creases round his wrists. The wrinkles
on his forehead gave him a funny look when one did not recall the fact
that he had cost his mother her life. He looked as if he knew it
himself, he was so serious. He had leave to sit up for a little while
with the others, but he went to bed at six.
Lasse Frederik generally drew when he was finished with his lessons. He
had a turn for it, and Pelle, wondering, saw his own gift, out of which
nothing had ever come but the prison, repeated in the boy in an improved
form. He showed him the way to proceed, and held the pencil once more in
his own hand. His chief occupation, however, was teaching little Anna,
and telling her anything that might occur to him. She was especially
fond of hearing about animals, and Pelle had plenty of reminiscences of
his herding-time from which to draw.
"Have animals really intelligence?" asked Ellen, in surprise. "You
really believe that they think about things just as we do?"
It was nothing new to Sister; she talked every day to the fowls and
rabbits, and knew how wise they were.
"I wonder if flowers can think too," said Lasse Frederik. He was busy
drawing a flower from memory, and it _would_ look like a face:
hence the remark.
Pelle thought they could.
"No, no, Pelle!" said Ellen. "You're going too far now! It's only us
people who can think."
"They can feel at any rate, and that's thinking in a way, I suppose,
only with the heart. They notice at once if you're fond of them; if you
aren't they don't thrive."
"Yes, I do believe that, for if you're fond of them you take good care
of them," said the incorrigible Ellen.
"I'm not so sure of that," said Pelle, looking at her teasingly. "You're
very fond of your balsam, but a gardener would be sure to tell you that
you treat it like a cabbage. And look how industriously it flowers all
the same. They answer kind thoughts with gratitude, and that's a nice
way of thinking. Intelligence isn't perhaps worth as much as we human
beings imagine it to be. You yourself think with your heart, little
mother." It was his pet name for her just now.
After a little interlude such as this, they went on with their work.
Pelle had to tell Sister all about the animals in her alphabet-book -
about the useful cow and the hare that licked the dew off the clover and
leaped up under the very nose of the cowherd. In the winter it went into
the garden, gnawed the bark off the young trees and ate the farmer's
wife's cabbage. "Yes, I must acknowledge that," Ellen interposed, and
then they all laughed, for puss had just eaten her kail.
Then the child suddenly left the subject, and wanted to know whether
there had always, always been a Copenhagen. Pelle came to a standstill
for a moment, but by a happy inspiration dug Bishop Absalom out of his
memory. He took the opportunity of telling them that the capital had a
population of half a million.
"Have you counted them, father?" exclaimed Sister, in perplexity, taking
hold of his sleeve.
"Why, of course father hasn't, you little donkey!" said Lasse Frederik.
"One might be born while he was counting!"
Then they were at the cock again, which both began and ended the book.
He stood and crowed so proudly and never slept. He was a regular prig,
but when Sister was diligent he put a one-ore piece among the leaves.
But the hens laid eggs, and it was evident that they were the same as
the flowers; for when you were kind to them and treated them as if they
belonged to the family, they were industrious in laying, but if you
built a model house for them and treated them according to all
established rules, they did not even earn as much as would pay for their
food. At Uncle Kalle's there was a hen that came into the room among all
the children and laid its egg under the bed every single day all through
the winter, when no other hens were laying. Then the farmer of Stone
Farm bought it to make something by it. He gave twenty kroner (a guinea)
for it and thought he had got a gold mine; but no sooner did it come to
Stone Farm than it left off laying winter eggs, for there it was not one
of the family, but was only a hen that they wanted to make money out of.
"Mother's balsam flowers all the winter," said Sister, looking fondly at
the plant.
"Yes, that's because it sees how industrious we all are," said Lasse
Frederik mischievously.
"Will you be quiet!" said Pelle, hitting out at him.
Ellen sat knitting some tiny socks. Her glance moved lingeringly from
one to another of them, and she smiled indulgently at their chatter.
They were just a lot of children!
"Mother, may I have those for my doll?" asked Anna, taking up the
finished sock.
"No, little sister's to have them when she comes."
"If it _is_ a girl," put in Lasse Frederik.
"When's little sister coming?"
"In the spring when the stork comes back to the farm; he'll bring her
with him."
"Pooh! The stork!" said Lasse Frederik contemptuously. "What a pack of
nonsense!"
Sister too was wiser than that. When the weather was fine she fetched
milk from the farm, and had learned a few things there.
"Now you must go to bed, my child," said Ellen, rising. "I can see
you're tired." When she had helped the child into bed she came back and
sat down again with her knitting.
"Now I think you should leave off work for to-day," said Pelle.
"Then I shouldn't be ready in time," answered Ellen, moving her
knitting-needles more swiftly.
"Send it to a machine-knitter. You don't even earn your bread anyhow
with that handicraft; and there must be a time for work and a time for
rest, or else you'd not be a human being."
"Mother can make three ore (nearly a halfpenny) an hour by knitting,"
said Lasse Frederik, who had made a careful calculation.
What did it matter? Ellen did not think she neglected anything else in
doing it.
"It is stupid though!" exclaimed Lasse Frederik suddenly. "Why doesn't
wool grow on one's legs? Then you'd have none of the bother of shearing
the wool off sheep, carding it, spinning it, and knitting stockings."
"Oh, what nonsense you're talking!" said Ellen, laughing.
"Well, men were hairy once," Lasse Frederik continued. "It was a great
pity that they didn't go on being it!"
Pelle did not think it such a pity, for it meant that they had taken
over the care of themselves. Animals were born fully equipped. Even
water-haters like cats and hens were born with the power of swimming;
but men had to acquire whatever they had a use for. Nature did not equip
them, because they had become responsible for themselves; they were the
lords of creation.
"But then the poor ought to be hairy all over their bodies," Ellen
objected. "Why doesn't Nature take as much care of the poor as of the
animals? They can't do it themselves."
"Yes, but that's just what they _can_ do!" said Pelle, "for it's
they who produce most things. Perhaps you think it's money that
cultivates the land, or weaves materials, or drags coal out of the
earth? It had to leave that alone; all the capital in the world can't so
much as pick up a pin from the ground if there are no hands that it can
pay to do it. If the poor were born hairy, it would simply stamp him as
an inferior being. Isn't it a wonder that Nature obstinately lets the
poor men's children be born just as naked as the king's, in spite of all
that we've gone through of want and hardship? If you exchange the
prince's and the beggar's new-born babies, no one can say which is
which. It's as if Providence was never tired of holding our stamp of
nobility up before us."
"Do you really think then that the world can be transformed?" said
Ellen, looking affectionately at him. It seemed so wonderful that this
Pelle, whom she could take in her arms, occupied himself with such great
matters. And Pelle looked back at her affectionately and wonderingly.
She was the same to-day as on the day he first got to know her, perhaps
as the day the world was created! She put nothing out on usury, but had
been born with all she had. The world could indeed be transformed, but
she would always remain as she was.
The post brought a letter from Morten. He was staying at present in
Sicily, and thought of travelling along the north coast of Africa to the
south of Spain. "And I may make an excursion in to the borders of the
Desert, and try what riding on a camel is like," he wrote. He was well
and in good spirits. It was strange to think that he was writing with
open doors, while here they were struggling with the cold. He drank wine
at every meal just as you drank pale ale here at home; and he wrote that
the olive and orange harvests were just over.
"It must be lovely to be in such a place just for once!" said Ellen,
with a sigh.
"When the new conditions gain a footing, it'll no longer be among
unattainable things for the working-man," Pelle answered.
Brun now came down, having at last finished his work. "Ah, it's good to
be at home!" he said, shaking himself; "it's a stormy night."
"Here's a letter from Morten," said Pelle, handing it to him.
The old man put on his spectacles.
XX
As soon as it was possible to get at the ground, the work of excavating
for the foundations of the new workmen's houses was begun with full
vigor. Brun took a great interest in the work, and watched it out in the
cold from morning till evening. He wore an extra great-coat, and woollen
gloves outside his fur-lined ones. Ellen had knitted him a large scarf,
which he was to wrap round his mouth. She kept an eye on him from the
windows, and had to fetch him in every now and then to thaw him. It was
quite impossible, however, to keep him in; he was far too eager for the
work to progress. When the frost stopped it, he still wandered about out
there, fidgety and in low spirits.
On weekdays Pelle was never at home in daylight, but on Sunday he had to
go out with him and see what had been done, as soon as day dawned. The
old man came and knocked at Pelle's door. "Well, Pelle!" he said. "Will
you soon be out of bed?"
"He must really be allowed to lie there while he has his coffee!" cried
Ellen from the kitchen.
Brun ran once round the house to pass the time. He was not happy until
he had shown it all to Pelle and got him to approve of the alterations.
This was where he had thought the road should go. And there, where the
roads crossed, a little park with statuary would look nice. New ideas
were always springing up. The librarian's imagination conjured up a
whole town from the bare fields, with free schools and theaters and
comfortable dwellings for the aged. "We must have a supply association
and a school at once," he said; "and by degrees, as our numbers
increase, we shall get all the rest. A poor-house and a prison are the
only things I don't think we shall have any use for."
They would spend the whole morning out there, walking about and laying
plans. Ellen had to fetch them in when dinner-time came. She generally
found them standing over some hole in earnest conversation - just an
ordinary, square hole in the earth, with mud or ice at the bottom. Such
holes were always dug for houses; but these two talked about them as if
they were the beginning of an entirely new earth!
Brun missed Pelle during the day, and watched for him quite as eagerly
as Ellen when the time came for him to return from work. "I shall soon
be quite jealous of him," said Ellen, as she drew Pelle into the kitchen
to give him her evening greeting in private. "If he could he'd take you
quite away from me."
When Pelle had been giving a lecture, he generally came home after Brun
had gone to rest, and in the morning when he left home the old man was
not up. Brun never went to town. He laid the blame on the weather, but
in reality he did not know what he would do with himself in there. But
if a couple of days passed without his seeing Pelle, he became restless,
lost interest in the excavating, and wandered about feebly without doing
anything. Then he would suddenly put on his boots, excuse himself with
some pressing errand, and set off over the fields toward the tram, while