Pelle the Conqueror by Martin Andersen Nexø (great novels to read .TXT) 📕

“What does that mean?” asked Pelle, startled.

“It means what you hear. You’ve got the sack⁠—if you understand that better.”

Pelle understood that very well, but he wanted to establish the fact of his persecution in the presence of his comrades. “Have you any fault to find with my work?” he asked.

“You mix yourself up too much with things that don’t concern you, my good fellow, and then you can’t do the work you ought to do.”

“I should like very much to know what fault you have to find with my work,” said Pelle obstinately.

“Go to the devil! I’ve told you already!” roared the foreman.

The Court shoemaker came down through the door of the back room and looked about him. When he saw Pelle, he went up to him.

“You get out of here, and that at once!” he cried, in a rage. “Do you think we give bread to people that undermine us? Out, out of my place of business, Mossoo Trades-Unionist!”

Pelle stood his ground, and looked his employer in the eyes; he would have struck the man a blow in the face rather than allow himself to be sent away. “Be cool, now; be cool!” he said to himself. He laughed, but his features were quivering. The Court shoemaker kept a certain distance, and continued to shout, “Out with him! Here, foreman, call the police at once!”

“Now you can see, comrades, how they value one here,” said Pelle, turning his broad back on Meyer. “We are dogs; nothing more!”

They stood there, staring at the counter, deaf and dumb in their dread of taking sides. Then Pelle went. He made his way northward. His heart was full of violent emotion. Indignation raged within him like a tempest, and by fits and starts found utterance on his lips. Meyer’s work was quite immaterial to him; it was badly paid, and he only did it as a stopgap. But it was disgusting to think they could buy his convictions with badly-paid work! And there they stood not daring to show their colors, as if it wasn’t enough to support such a fellow with their skill and energy! Meyer stood there like a wall, in the way of any real progress, but he needn’t think he could strike at Pelle, for he’d get a blow in return if he did!

He went straight to Mason Stolpe, in order to talk the matter over with him; the old trades unionist was a man of great experience.

“So he’s one of those who go in for the open slave-trade!” said Stolpe. “We’ve had a go at them before now. ‘We’ve done with you, my good man; we can make no use of agitators!’ And if one steals a little march on them ‘Off you go; you’re done with here!’ I myself have been like a hunted cur, and at home mother used to go about crying. I could see what she was feeling, but when I put the matter before her she said, ‘Hold out, Stolpe, you shan’t give in!’ ‘You’re forgetting our daily bread, mother,’ I say. ‘Oh, our daily bread. I can just go out washing!’ That was in those days⁠—they sing another tune to us now! Now the master politely raises his hat to old Stolpe! If he thinks he can allow himself to hound a man down, an embargo must be put on him!”

Pelle had nothing to say against that. “If only it works,” he said. “But our organization looks weak enough as yet.”

“Only try it; in any case, you can always damage him. He attacks your livelihood in order to strike at your conscience, so you hit back at his purse⁠—that’s where his conscience is! Even if it does no good, at least it makes him realize that you’re not a slave.”

Pelle sat a while longer chatting. He had secretly hoped to meet Ellen again, but he dared not ask whether that was her day for coming home. Madam Stolpe invited him to stay and to have supper with them she was only waiting for her sons. But Pelle had no time; he must be off to think out instructions for the embargo. “Then come on Sunday,” said the mother; “Sunday is Ellen’s birthday.”

With rapid strides he went off to the president of the Union; the invitation for the following Sunday had dissipated the remains of his anger. The prospect of a tussle with Meyer had put him in the best of tempers. He was certain of winning the president, Petersen, for his purpose, if only he could find him out of bed; he himself had in his time worked for wholesale shoemakers, and hated them like the plague. It was said that Petersen had worked out a clever little invention⁠—a patent button for ladies’ boots⁠—which he had taken to Meyer, as he himself did not know how to exploit it. But Meyer had, without more ado, treated the invention as his own, inasmuch as it was produced by one of his workmen. He took out a patent and made a lot of money by it, trifling as the thing was. When Petersen demanded a share of the profits, he was dismissed. He himself never spoke of the matter; he just sat in his cellar brooding over the injustice, so that he never managed to recover his position. Almost his whole time had been devoted to the Union, so that he might revenge himself through it; but it never really made much progress. He fired up passionately enough, but he was lacking in persistence. And his lungs were weak.

He trembled with excitement when Pelle explained his plan. “Great God in heaven, if only we could get at him!” he whispered hoarsely, clenching his skinny fists which Death had already marked with its dusky shadows. “I would willingly give my miserable life to see the scoundrel ruined! Look at that!” He bent down, whispering, and showed Pelle a file ground to a point, which was fastened into a heavy handle. “If I