Pelle the Conqueror, Martin Andersen Nexø [best fantasy books to read .TXT] 📗

The general mood showed signs of dejection. For a long time now the bottom of the cashbox had been visible, and as more and more workers were turned into the street the product of self-imposed taxation was gradually declining. And the readiness of those outside the movement to make sacrifices was rapidly beginning to fail. The public had now had enough of the affair. Everything was failing, now they would have to see if they could not come to some arrangement. Starvation was beginning to thrust its grinning head among the fifty thousand men now idle. The moment had come upon which capital was counting; the moment when the crying of children for bread begins to break the will of the workers, until they are ready to sacrifice honor and independence in order to satisfy the little creatures’ hunger. And the enemy showed no sign of wishing for peace!

This knowledge had laid its mark on all the members of the Council; and as they sat there they knew that the weal or woe of hundreds of thousands depended on them. No one dared accept the responsibility of making a bold proposal in this direction or that. With things as they stood, they would have, in a week or two, to give up the fight! Then nearly a quarter of a million human beings would have suffered torment for nothing! A terrible apathy would be the result of that suffering and of the defeat; it would put them back many years. But if the employers could not long withstand the pressure which the financial world was beginning to exert on them, they would be throwing away the victory if they gave up the fight now.

The cleverest calculations were useless here. A blind, monstrous Pate would prevail. Who could say that he had lifted the veil of the future and could point out the way?

No one! And Pelle, the blazing torch, who had shown them the road regardless of all else⁠—he sat there drowsing as though it meant nothing to him! Apparently he had broken down under his monstrous labors.

The secretary came in with a newspaper marked with red pencil. He passed it to the chairman, who stared for a while at the underlined portion, then he rose and read it out; the paper was quivering in his hands.

“About thirty working women⁠—young and of good appearance⁠—can during the lockout find a home with various bachelors. Good treatment guaranteed. The office of the paper will give further information.”

Pelle sprang up out of his half-slumber; the horrible catastrophe of his own home was blindingly clear now! “So it’s come to that!” he cried. “Now capital has laid its fingers on our wives⁠—now they are to turn whore! We must fight on, fight, fight! We must strike one last blow⁠—and it must be a heavy one!”

“But how?” they asked.

Pelle was white with enforced calm. His mind had never been so radiantly clear. Now Ellen should be revenged on those who took everything, even the poor man’s one ewe lamb!

“In the first place we must issue an optimistic report⁠—this very day!” he said, smiling. “The cashbox is nearly empty⁠—good! Then we will state that the workers have abundant means to carry on the fight for another year if need be, and then we’ll go for them!”

Born of anger, an old, forgotten fantasy had flashed into his mind as a definite plan.

“Hitherto we have fought passively,” he continued, “with patience as our chief weapon! We have opposed our necessities of life to the luxuries of the other side; and if they strike at us in order to starve us to skin and bone and empty our homes of our last possessions, we answered them by refusing to do the work which was necessary to their comfort! Let us for once strike at their vital necessities! Let us strike them where they have struck us from the beginning! In the belly! Then perhaps they’ll turn submissive! Hitherto we have kept the most important of the workers out of the conflict⁠—those on whom the health and welfare of the public depend, although we ourselves have benefited nothing thereby. Why should we bake their bread? We, who haven’t the means to eat it! Why should we look after their cleanliness? We, who haven’t the means to keep ourselves clean! Let us bring the dustmen and the street-cleaners into the line of fire! And if that isn’t enough we’ll turn off their gas and water! Let us venture our last penny⁠—let us strike the last blow!”

Pelle’s proposal was adopted, and he went westward immediately to the president of the Scavengers’ Union. He had just got up and was sitting down to his midday meal. He was a small, comfortable little man, who had always a twinkle in his eye; he came from the coal country. Pelle had helped him at one time to get his organization into working order, and he knew that he could count on him and his men.

“Do you remember still, how I once showed you that you are the most important workers in the city, Lars Hansen?”

The president nodded. “Yes, one would have to be a pretty sort of fool to forget that! No, as long as I live I shall never forget the effect your words had on us despised scavengers! It was you who gave us faith in ourselves, and an organization! And even if we aren’t quite the most important people, still⁠—”

“But that’s just what you are⁠—and now it’s your turn to prove it! Could you suspend work this night?”

Lars Hansen sat gazing thoughtfully into the lamp while he chewed his food. “Our relations with the city are rather in the nature of a contract,” he said slowly and at length. “They could punish us for it, and compel us to resume work. But if you want it, irrespective, why of course we’ll do it. There can be only one view as to that among