Work went on steadily in the cooperative works. It made no great stir; in the Movement they had almost forgotten that it existed at all. It was a long and difficult road that Pelle had set out on, but he did not for a moment doubt that it led to the end he had in view, and he set about it seriously. Never had his respiration been so slow.

At present he was gaining experience. He and Peter Dreyer had trained a staff of good workmen, who knew what was at stake, and did not allow themselves to be upset even if a foreign element entered. The business increased steadily and required new men; but Pelle had no difficulty with the new forces; the undertaking was so strong that it swallowed them and remodelled them.

The manufacturers at any rate remembered his existence, and tried to injure him at every opportunity. This pleased him, for it established the fact that he was a danger to them. Through their connections they closed credit, and when this did not lead to anything, because he had Brun’s fortune to back him up, they boycotted him with regard to materials by forcing the leather-merchants not to sell to him. He then had to import his materials from abroad. It gave him a little extra trouble, and now it was necessary to have everything in order, so that they should not come to a standstill for want of anything.

One day an article was lacking in a new consignment, and the whole thing was about to come to a standstill. He managed to obtain it by stratagem, but he was angry. “I should like to hit those leather-merchants back,” he said to Brun. “If we happen to be in want of anything, we’re obliged to get it by cunning. Don’t you think we might take the shop next door, and set up a leather business? It would be a blow to the others, and then we should always have what we want to use. We shouldn’t get rich on it, so I think the small masters in out-of-the-way corners would be glad to have us.”

Brun had no objection to making a little more war to the knife. There was too little happening for his taste!

The new business opened in October. Pelle would have had Peter Dreyer to be at the head of it, but he refused. “I’m sure I’m not suited for buying and selling,” he said gloomily, so Pelle took one of the young workmen from the workshop into the business, and kept an eye upon it himself.

It at once put a little more life into things; there was always plenty of material. They now produced much more than they were able to sell in the shop, and Pelle’s leather shop made the small masters independent of private capital. Many of them sold a little factory foot-wear in addition to doing repairs, and these now took their goods from him. Out in the provinces his boots and shoes had already gained a footing in many places; it had come about naturally, in the ordinary sequence of things. The manufacturers followed them up there too, wherever they could; but the consequence was that the workmen patronized them and forced them in again to the shops of which they themselves were the customers. A battle began to rage over Pelle’s boots and shoes.

He knew, however, that it was only the beginning. It would soon come to a great conflict, and were his foundations sufficiently strong for that? The manufacturers were establishing a shop opposite his, where the goods were to be sold cheap in order to ruin his sales, and one day they put the prices very much down on everything, so as to extinguish him altogether.

“Let them!” said Brun. “People will be able to get shoes cheap!” Pelle was troubled, however, at this fresh attack. Even if they held out, it might well exhaust their economic strength.

The misfortune was that they were too isolated; they were as yet like men washed up onto an open shore; they had nothing to fall back upon. The employers had long since discovered that they were just as international as the workmen, and had adopted Pelle’s old organization idea. It was not always easy, either, to get materials from abroad; he noticed the connection. Until he had got the tanners to start a cooperative business, he ran the risk of having his feet knocked away from under him at any moment. And in the first place he must have the great army of workmen on his side; that was whither everything pointed.

One day he found himself once more after many years on the lecturer’s platform, giving his first lecture on cooperation. It was very strange to stand once more before his own people and feel their faces turned toward him. At present they looked upon him as one who had come from abroad with new ideas, or perhaps only a new invention; but he meant to win them! Their very slowness promised well when once it was overcome. He knew them again; they were difficult to get started, but once started could hardly be stopped again. If his idea got proper hold of these men with their huge organizations and firm discipline, it would be insuperable. He entered with heart and soul into the agitation, and gave a lecture every week in a political or trade association.

“Pelle, how busy you are!” said Ellen, when he came home. Her condition filled him with happiness; it was like a seal upon their new union. She had withdrawn a little more into herself, and over her face and figure there was thrown a touch of dreamy gentleness. She met him at the gate now a little helpless and remote—a young mother, to be touched with careful hands. He saw her thriving from day to day, and had a happy feeling that things were growing for him on all sides.

They did not see much of Morten. He was passing through a crisis, and preferred to be by himself. He was always complaining that he could not get on with his work. Everything he began, no matter how small, stuck fast.

“That’s because you don’t believe in it any longer,” said Pelle. “He who doubts in his work cuts through the branch upon which he is himself sitting.”

Morten listened to him with an expression of weariness. “It’s much more than that,” he said, “for it’s the men themselves I doubt, Pelle. I feel cold and haven’t been able to find out why; but now I know. It’s because men have no heart. Everything growing is dependent upon warmth, but the whole of our culture is built upon coldness, and that’s why it’s so cold here.”

“The poor people have a heart though,” said Pelle. “It’s that and not common sense that keeps them up. If they hadn’t they’d have gone to ruin long ago—simply become animals. Why haven’t they, with all their misery? Why does the very sewer give birth to bright beings?”

“Yes, the poor people warm one another, but they’re blue with cold all the same! And shouldn’t one rather wish that they had no heart to be burdened with in a community that’s frozen to the very bottom? I envy those who can look at misery from a historical point of view and comfort themselves with the future. I think myself that the good will some day conquer, but it’s nevertheless fearfully unreasonable that millions shall first go joyless to the grave in the battle to overcome a folly. I’m an irreconcilable, that’s what it is! My mind has arranged itself for other conditions, and therefore I suffer under those that exist. Even so ordinary a thing as to receive money causes me suffering. It’s mine, but I can’t help following it back in my thoughts. What want has been caused by its passing into my hands? How much distress and weeping may be associated with it? And when I pay it out again I’m always troubled to think that those who’ve helped me get too little—my washerwoman and the others. They can scarcely live, and the fault is mine among others! Then my thoughts set about finding out the others’ wants and I get no peace; every time I put a bit of bread into my mouth, or see the stores in the shops, I can’t help thinking of those who are starving. I suffer terribly through not being able to alter conditions of which the folly is so apparent. It’s of no use for me to put it down to morbidness, for it’s not that; it’s a forestalling in myself. We must all go that way some day, if the oppressed do not rise before then and turn the point upward. You see I’m condemned to live in all the others’ miseries, and my own life has not been exactly rich in sunshine. Think of my childhood, how joyless it was! I haven’t your fund to draw from, Pelle, remember that!”

No, there had not been much sunshine on Morten’s path, and now he cowered and shivered with cold.

One evening, however, he rushed into the sitting-room, waving a sheet of paper. “I’ve received a legacy,” he cried. “Tomorrow morning I shall start for the South.”

“But you’ll have to arrange your affairs first,” said Pelle.

“Arrange?” Morten laughed. “Oh, no! You’re always ready to start on a journey. All my life I’ve been ready for a tour round the world at an hour’s notice!” He walked to and fro, rubbing his hands. “Ah, now I shall drink the sunshine—let myself be baked through and through! I think it’ll be good for my chest to hop over a winter.”

“How far are you going?” asked Ellen, with shining eyes.

“To Southern Italy and Spain. I want to go to a place where the cold doesn’t pull off the coats of thousands while it helps you on with your furs. And then I want to see people who haven’t had a share in the blessings of mechanical culture, but upon whom the sun has shone to make up for it—sunshine-beings like little Johanna and her mother and grandmother, but who’ve been allowed to live. Oh, how nice it’ll be to see for once poor people who aren’t cold!”

“Just let him get off as quickly as possible,” said Ellen, when Morten had gone up to pack; “for if he once gets the poor into his mind, it’ll all come to nothing. I expect I shall put a few of your socks and a little underclothing into his trunk; he’s got no change. If only he’ll see that his things go to the wash, and that they don’t ruin them with chlorine!”

“Don’t you think you’d better look after him a little while he’s packing?” asked Pelle. “Or else I’m afraid he’ll not take what he’ll really want. Morten would sometimes forget his own head.”

Ellen went upstairs with the things she had looked out. It was fortunate that she did so, for Morten had packed his trunk quite full of books, and laid the necessary things aside. When she took everything out and began all over again, he fidgeted about and was quite unhappy; it had been arranged so nicely, the fiction all together in one place, the proletariat writings in another; he could have put his hand in and taken out anything he wanted. But Ellen had no mercy. Everything had to be emptied onto the floor, and he had to bring every stitch of clothing he possessed and lay them on chairs, whence she selected the necessary garments. At each one that was placed in the trunk, Morten protested meekly: it really could not be worth while to take socks with him, nor yet several changes of linen; you simply bought them as you required them. Indeed? Could it not? But it was worth while lugging about a big trunk full of useless books like any colporteur, was it?

Ellen was on her knees before the trunk, and was getting on with her task. Pelle came up and stood leaning against the door-jamb, looking at them. “That’s right! Just give him a coating of paint that will last till he gets home again!” he said, laughing. “He may need it badly.”

Morten sat upon a chair looking crestfallen. “Thank goodness, I’m not married!” he said. “I really begin to be sorry for you, Pelle.” It was evident that he was enjoying being looked after.

“Yes, now you can see what a domestic affliction I have to bear,” Pelle answered gravely.

Ellen let them talk. The trunk was now cram full, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that he would not be going about like a tramp. There were only his toilet articles left now; even those he had forgotten. She drew a huge volume out of the pocket for these articles inside the lid of the trunk to make room for his washing things; but at that Morten sprang forward. “I must have that with me, whatever else is left out,” he said with determination. It was Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables,” Morten’s Bible.

Ellen opened it at the title-page to see if it really was so necessary to travel about with such a monster; it was as big as a loaf.

“There’s no room for it,” she declared, and quietly laid it on one side, “that’s to say if you want things to wash yourself with; and you’re sure to meet plenty of unhappy people wherever you go, for there’s always enough of them everywhere.”

“Then perhaps Madam will not permit me to take my writing things with me?” questioned Morten, in a tone of supplication.

“Oh, yes!” answered Ellen, laughing, “and you may use them too, to do something beautiful—that’s to say if it’s us poor people you’re writing for. There’s sorrow and misery enough!”

“When the sun’s shone properly upon me, I’ll come home and write you a book about it,” said Morten seriously.

The following day was Sunday. Morten was up early and went out to the churchyard. He was gone a long time, and they waited breakfast for him. “He’s coming now!” cried Lasse Frederik, who had been up to the hill farm for milk. “I saw him down in the field.”

“Then we can put the eggs on,” said Ellen to Sister, who helped her a little in the kitchen.

Morten was in a solemn mood. “The roses on Johanna’s grave have been picked again,” he said. “I can’t imagine how any one can have the heart to rob the dead; they are really the poorest of us all.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that!” exclaimed Pelle. “A month ago you thought the dead were the only ones who were well off.”

“You’re a rock!” said Morten, smiling and putting his hands on the other’s shoulders. “If everything else were to change, we should always know where you were to be found.”

“Come to table!” cried Ellen, “but at once, or the surprise will be cold.” She stood waiting with a covered dish in her hand.

“Why, I believe you’ve got new-laid eggs there!” exclaimed Pelle, in astonishment.

“Yes, the hens have begun to lay again the last few days. It must be in Morten’s honor.”

“No, it’s in honor of the fine weather, and because they’re allowed to run about anywhere now,” said Lasse Frederik.

Morten laughed. “Lasse Frederik’s an incorrigible realist,” he said. “Life needs no adornment for him.”

Ellen looked well after Morten. “Now you must make a good breakfast,” she said. “You can’t be sure you’ll get proper food out there in foreign countries.” She was thinking with horror of the messes her lodgers in the “Palace” had put together.

The carriage was at the door, the trunk was put up beside the driver, and Morten and Pelle got into the carriage, not before it was time either. They started at a good pace, Lasse Frederik and Sister each standing on a step all the way down to the main road. Up at the gable window Ellen stood and waved, holding Boy Comfort by the hand.

“It must be strange to go away from everything,” said Pelle.

“Yes, it might be strange for you,” answered Morten, taking a last look at Pelle’s home. “But I’m not going away from anything; on the contrary, I’m going to meet things.”

“It’ll be strange at any rate not having you walking about overhead any more, especially for Ellen and the children. But I suppose we shall hear from you?”

“Oh, yes! and you’ll let me hear how your business gets on, won’t you?”

The train started. Pelle felt his heart contract as he stood and gazed after it, feeling as though it were taking part of him with it. It had always been a dream of his to go out and see a little of the world; ever since “Garibaldi” had appeared in the little workshop at home in the provincial town he had looked forward to it. Now Morten was going, but he himself would never get away; he must be content with the “journey abroad” he had had. For a moment Pelle stood looking along the lines where the train had disappeared, with his thoughts far away in melancholy dreams; then he woke up and discovered that without intending it he had been feeling his home a clog upon his feet. And there were Ellen and the children at home watching for his coming, while he stood here and dreamed himself away from them! They would do nothing until he came, for Sunday was his day, the only day they really had him. He hurried out and jumped onto a tram.

As he leaped over the ditch into the field at the tramway terminus, he caught sight of Brun a little farther along the path. The old librarian was toiling up the hill, his asthma making him pause every now and then. “He’s on his way to us!” said Pelle to himself, touched at the thought; it had not struck him before how toilsome this walk over ploughed fields and along bad roads must be for the old man; and yet he did it several times in the week to come out and see them.

“Well, here I am again!” said Brun. “I only hope you’re not getting tired of me.”

“There’s no danger of that!” answered Pelle, taking his arm to help him up the hill. “The children are quite silly about you!”

“Yes, the children—I’m safe enough with them, and with you too, Pelle; but your wife makes me a little uncertain.”

“Ellen’s rather reserved, but it’s only her manner; she’s very fond of you,” said Pelle warmly. “Any one who takes the children on his knee wins Ellen’s heart.”

“Do you really think so? I’ve always despised woman because she lacks personality—until I got to know your wife. She’s an exceptional wife you’ve got, Pelle; hers is a strong nature, so strong that she makes me uncertain. Couldn’t you get her to leave off calling me Mr. Brun?”

“I’ll tell her,” said Pelle, laughing; “but I’m not sure it’ll be of any use.”

“This Mr. Brun is beginning to be an intolerable person, let me tell you; and in your house I should like to get away from him. Just imagine what it means to be burdened all your life with a gentleman like that, who doesn’t stand in close relationship to anybody at all. Others are called ‘Father,’ ‘Grandfather’—something or other human; but all conditions of life dispose of me with a ‘Mr. Brun’! ‘Thank you, Mr. Brun!’ ‘Many thanks, Mr. Brun!’” The old man had worked himself up, and made the name a caricature.

“These are bad roads out here,” he said suddenly, stopping to take breath. “It’s incomprehensible that these fields should be allowed to lie here just outside the town—that speculation hasn’t got hold of them.”

“I suppose it’s because of the boggy ground down there,” said Pelle. “They’ve begun to fill it in, however, at the north end, I see.”

Brun peered in that direction with some interest, but gave it up, shaking his head.

“No, I can’t see so far without glasses; that’s another of the blessings bestowed by books. Yes, it is! Old people in the country only make use of spectacles when they want to look at a book, but I have to resort to them when I want to find my way about the world: that makes a great difference. It’s the fault of the streets and those stupid books that I’m shortsighted; you don’t get any outlook if you don’t live in the country. The town shuts up all your senses, and the books take you away from life; so I’m thinking of moving out too.”

“Is that wise now just before the winter? It wouldn’t do for you to go in and out in all kinds of weather.”

“Then I’ll give up the library,” answered Brun. “I shan’t miss it much; I’ve spent enough of my life there. Fancy, Pelle! it occurred to me last night that I’d helped to catalogue most of the literature of the world, but haven’t even seen a baby dressed! What right have people like me to have an opinion?”

“I can’t understand that,” said Pelle. “Books have given me so much help.”

“Yes, because you had the real thing. If I were young, I would go out and set to work with my hands. I’ve missed more through never having worked with my body till I was hot and tired, than you have through not knowing the great classic writers. I’m discovering my own poverty, Pelle; and I would willingly exchange everything for a place as grandfather by a cozy fireside.”

The children came running across the field. “Have you got anything for us to-day?” they cried from a long distance.

“Yes, but not until we get into the warmth. I daren’t unbutton my coat out here because of my cough.”

“Well, but you walk so slowly,” said Boy Comfort. “Is it because you’re so old?”

“Yes, that’s it,” answered the old man, laughing. “You must exercise a little patience.”

Patience, however, was a thing of which the children possessed little, and they seized hold of his coat and pulled him along. He was quite out of breath when they reached the house.

Ellen looked severely at the children, but said nothing. She helped Brun off with his coat and neckerchief, and after seeing him comfortably seated in the sitting-room, went out into the kitchen. Pelle guessed there was something she wanted to say to him, and followed her.

“Pelle,” she said gravely, “the children are much too free with Mr. Brun. I can’t think how you can let them do it.”

“Well, but he likes it, Ellen, or of course I should stop them. It’s just what he likes. And do you know what I think he would like still better? If you would ask him to live with us.”

“That I’ll never do!” declared Ellen decidedly. “It would look so extraordinary of me.”

“But if he wants a home, and likes us? He’s got no friends but us.”

No—no, Ellen could not understand that all the same, with the little they had to offer. And Brun, who could afford to pay for all the comforts that could be had for money! “If he came, I should have to have new table-linen at any rate, and good carpets on the floors, and lots of other things.”

“You can have them too,” said Pelle. “Of course we’ll have everything as nice as we can, though Brun’s quite as easily pleased as we are.”

That might be so, but Ellen was the mistress of the house, and there were things she could not let go. “If Mr. Brun would like to live with us, he shall be made comfortable,” she said; “but it’s funny he doesn’t propose it himself, for he can do it much better than we can.”

“No, it must come from us—from you, Ellen. He’s a little afraid of you.”

“Of me?” exclaimed Ellen, in dismay. “And I who would—why, there’s no one I’d sooner be kind to! Then I’ll say it, Pelle, but not just now.” She put up her hands to her face, which was glowing with pleasure and confusion at the thought that her little home was worth so much.

Pelle went back to the sitting-room. Brun was sitting on the sofa with Boy Comfort on his knee. “He’s a regular little urchin!” he said. “But he’s not at all like his mother. He’s got your features all through.”

“Ellen isn’t his mother,” said Pelle, in a low voice.

“Oh, isn’t she! It’s funny that he should have those three wrinkles in his forehead like you; they’re like the wave-lines in the countenance of Denmark. You both look as if you were always angry.”

“So we were at that time,” said Pelle.

“Talking of anger”—Brun went on—“I applied to the police authorities yesterday, and got them to promise to give up their persecution of Peter Dreyer, on condition that he ceases his agitation among the soldiers.”

“We shall never get him to agree to that; it would be the same thing as requiring him to swear away his rights as a man. He has taught himself, by a great effort, to use parliamentary expressions, and nobody’ll ever get him to do more. In the matter of the Cause itself he’ll never yield, and there I agree with him. If you mayn’t even fight the existing conditions with spiritual weapons, there’ll be an end of everything.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Brun, “only I’m sorry for him. The police keep him in a perpetual state of inflammation. He can’t have any pleasure in life.”