Pelle the Conqueror Part 165

"If it was money," he said hurriedly, "you know you've only got to tell me."

"No, it was the big meeting of unemployed this afternoon. They were begging me to stop at home, silly creatures! Goodness knows what's come to them!" Peter was quite offended. "By the by--I suppose you haven't any objection to my going now? It begins in an hour's time."

"I thought it had been postponed," said Pelle.

"Yes, but that was only a ruse to prevent its being prohibited. We're holding it in a field out by Norrebro. You ought to come too; it'll be a meeting that'll be remembered. We shall settle great matters to-day."

Peter was nervous, and fidgeted with his clothes while he spoke.

Pelle placed his hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. "You'd better do what those two want," he said earnestly. "I don't know them, of course; but if their welfare's dependent on you, then they too have a claim upon you. Give up what you were going to do, and go out for a walk with those two! Everything's budding now; take them to the woods! It's better to make two people happy than a thousand unhappy."

Peter looked away. "We're not going to do anything special, so what is there to make such a fuss about?" he murmured.

"You _are_ going to do something to-day; I can see it in you. And if you can't carry it through, who'll have to take the consequences? Why, the women and children! You _can't_ carry it through! Our strength doesn't lie in that direction."

"You go your way and let me go mine," said Peter, gently freeing himself.

Two policemen were standing on the opposite pavement, talking together, while they secretly kept an eye on the shop. Pelle pointed to them.

"The police don't know where the meeting's to be held, so they're keeping watch on me," said Peter, shrugging his shoulders. "I can easily put those two on the wrong track."

The policemen crossed the street and separated outside the shop. One of them stood looking at the articles exhibited in the window for a little while, and then quickly entered the shop. "Is Peter Dreyer here?" he asked haughtily.

"I'm he," answered Peter, withdrawing behind the counter. "But I advise you not to touch me! I can't bear the touch of a policeman's hands."

"You're arrested!" said the policeman shortly, following him.

Pelle laid his hand upon his arm. "You should go to work with a little gentleness," he said. But the man pushed him roughly away. "I'll have no interference from you!" he cried, blowing his whistle. Peter started, and for a moment his thoughts were at a standstill; then he leaped like a cat over the iron railing, of the workshop steps. But the other policeman was there to receive him, and he sprang once more into the shop, close up to his pursuer. He had his revolver in his hand. "I've had enough of this, confound you!" he hissed.

Two shots sounded, one immediately after the other. The policeman just managed to turn round, but fell forward with his head under the counter, and Peter dropped upon the top of him. It looked as if he had tripped over the policeman's leg; but when Pelle went to help him up he saw that the blood was trickling from a hole in his temple. The policeman was dead.

Peter opened his eyes with difficulty when Pelle raised his head. "Take me away!" he whispered, turning his head toward the dead man with an expression of loathing. He still kept a convulsive hold upon his revolver.

Pelle took it from him, and carried him in to the sofa in the office.

"Get me a little water!" said Pelle to the old librarian, who was standing trembling at the door, but the old man did not hear him.

Peter made a sign that he needed nothing now. "But those two," he whispered. Pelle nodded. "And then--Pelle--comrade--" He tried to fix his dying gaze upon Pelle, but suddenly started convulsively, his knees being drawn right up to his chin. "Bloodhounds!" he groaned, his eyes converging so strongly that the pupils disappeared altogether; but then his features fell once more into their ordinary folds as his head sank back, and he was dead.

The policeman came in. "Well, is he dead?" he asked maliciously. "He's made fools of us long enough!"

Pelle took him by the arm and led him to the door. "He's no longer in your district," he said, as he closed the door behind him and followed the man into the shop, where the dead policeman lay upon the counter.

His fellow-policeman had laid him there, locked the outer door, and pulled down the blinds.

"Will you stop the work and tell the men what has happened?" said Pelle quietly to Brun. "There's something else I must see to. There'll be no more work done here to-day."

"Are you going?" asked the old man anxiously.

"Yes, I'm going to take Peter's meeting for him, now that he can't do it himself," answered Pelle in a low voice.

They had gone down through the workshop, where the men were standing about, looking at one another. They had heard the shots, but had no idea what they meant. "Peter is dead!" said Pelle. His emotion prevented him from saying anything more. Everything seemed suddenly to rush over him, and he hastened out and jumped onto a tram-car.

Out on one of the large fields behind Norrebro a couple of thousand unemployed were gathered. The wind had risen and blew gustily from the west over the field. The men tramped backward and forward, or stood shivering in their thin clothes. The temper of the crowd was threatening. Men continued to pour out from the side streets, most of them sorry figures, with faces made older by want of work. Many of them could no longer show themselves in the town for want of clothes, and took this opportunity of joining the others.

There was grumbling among them because the meeting had not begun. Men asked one another what the reason was, and no one could tell. Suppose Peter Dreyer had cheated them too, and had gone over to the corporation!

Suddenly a figure appeared upon the cart that was to be used as a platform, and the men pressed forward on all sides. Who in the world was it? It was not Peter Dreyer! Pelle? What smith? Oh, him from The Great Struggle--"the Lightning"! Was he still to the fore? Yes, indeed he was!

Why, he'd become a big manufacturer and a regular pillar of society.

What in the world did he want here? He had plenty of cheek!

Suddenly a storm of shouts and hisses broke out, mingled with a little applause.

Pelle stood looking out over the crowd with an expression of terrible earnestness. Their demonstration against him did not move him; he was standing here in the stead of a dead man. He still felt Peter's heavy head on his arm.

When comparative quiet was restored he raised his head. "Peter Dreyer is dead!" he said in a voice that was heard by every one. Whispers pa.s.sed through the crowd, and they looked questioningly at one another as though they had not heard correctly. He saw from their expression how much would go to pieces in their lives when they believed it.

"It's a lie!" suddenly cried a voice, relieving the tension. "You're hired by the police to entice us round the corner, you sly fellow!"

Pelle turned pale. "Peter Dreyer is lying in the factory with a bullet through his head," he repealed inexorably. "The police were going to arrest him, and he shot both the policeman and himself!"

For a moment all the life in the crowd seemed to be petrified by the pitiless truth, and he saw how they had loved Peter Dreyer. Then they began to make an uproar, shouting that they would go and speak to the police, and some even turned to go.

"Silence, people!" cried Pelle in a loud voice. "Are you grown men and yet will get up a row beside the dead body of a comrade?"

"What do you know about it?" answered one. "You don't know what you're talking about!"

"I do know at any rate that at a place out by Vesterbro there sits a woman with a child, waiting for Peter, and he will not come. Would you have more like them? What are you thinking of, wanting to jump into the sea and drown yourselves because you're wet through? Will those you leave behind be well off? For if you think so, it's your duty to sacrifice yourselves. But don't you think rather that the community will throw you into a great common pit, and leave your widows and fatherless children to weep over you?"

"It's all very well for you to talk!" some one shouted. "Yours are safe enough!"

"I'm busy making yours safe for you, and you want to spoil it by stupidity! It's all very well for me to talk, you say! But if there's any one of you who dares turn his face to heaven and say he has gone through more than I have, let him come up here and take my place."

He was silent and looked out over the crowd. Their wasted faces told him that they were in need of food, but still more of fresh hope. Their eyes gazed into uncertainty. A responsibility must be laid upon them--a great responsibility for such prejudiced beings--if possible, great enough to carry them on to the goal.

"What is the matter with you?" he went on. "You suffer want, but you've always done that without getting anything for it; and now when there's some purpose in it, you won't go any further. We aren't just from yesterday, remember! Wasn't it us who fought the great battle to its end together? Now you scorn it and the whole Movement and say they've brought nothing; but it was then we broke through into life and won our right as men.

"Before that time we have for centuries borne our blind hope safely through oppression and want. Is there any other cla.s.s of society that has a marching route like ours? Forced by circ.u.mstances, we prepared for centuries of wandering in the desert and never forgot the country; the good G.o.d had given us some of His own infinite long-suffering to carry us through the toilsome time. And now, when we are at the border, you've forgotten what we were marching for, and sacrifice the whole thing if only _you_ can be changed from thin slaves to fat slaves!"

"There are no slaves here!" was the threatening cry on all sides.

"You're working horses, in harness and with blinkers on! Now you demand good feeding. When will the scales fall from your eyes, so that you take the responsibility upon yourselves? You think you're no end of fine fellows when you dare to bare your chest to the bayonets, but are we a match for brutality? If we were, the future would not be ours."

"Are you scoffing at Peter Dreyer?" asked a sullen voice.

"No, I am not. Peter Dreyer was one of those who go on in advance, and smear the stones on the road with their hearts' blood, so that the rest of us may find our way. But you've no right to compare yourselves with him. He sank under the weight of a tremendous responsibility; and what are you doing? If you want to honor Peter's memory as it deserves, go quietly home, and join the Movement again. There you have work to do that will transform the world when you all set about it. What will it matter if your strength ebbs and you suffer hunger for a little longer while you're building your own house? You were hungry too when you were building for others.

"You referred to Peter Dreyer, but we are none of us great martyrs; we are everyday, ordinary men, and there's where our work lies. Haven't the thousands who have suffered and died in silence a still greater claim to be followed? They have gone down peacefully for the sake of the development, and have the strongest right to demand our belief in a peaceable development. It is just we that come from the lowest stratum who must preserve the historic development; never has any movement had so long and sad a previous history as ours! Suffering and want have taught us to accept the leadership, when the good has justice done to it; and you want to throw the whole thing overboard by an act of violence."

They listened to him in silence now. He had caught their minds, but it was not knowledge they absorbed. At present they looked most like weary people who are told that they still have a long way to go. But he _would_ get them through!