“It isn’t to be wondered at that they get weary,” Morten continued. “Even God loses patience with those who always let themselves be trampled upon. Last night I dreamed I was one of the starving. I was going up the street, grieving at my condition, and I ran up against God. He was dressed like an old Cossack officer, and had a knout hanging round his neck.
“‘Help me, dear God!’ I cried, and fell on my knees before him. ‘My brothers won’t help me.’
“‘What ails you?’ he asked, ‘and who are you?’
“‘I am one of Thy chosen folk, one of the poor,’ I answered. ‘I am starving!’
“‘You are starving and complain of your brothers, who have set forth food for you in abundance?’ he said angrily, pointing to all the fine shops. ‘You do not belong to my chosen people—away with you!’ And then he lashed me over the back with his knout.”
Morten checked himself and spoke no more; it was as though he neither saw nor heard; he had quite collapsed. Suddenly he turned away, without saying good-bye.
Pelle went home; he was vexed by Morten’s violence, which was, he felt, an attack upon himself. He knew this of himself—that he was not faithless; and no one had any right to grudge him the happiness of founding a family. He was quite indignant—for the first time for a long time. That they should taunt him, who had done more for the cause than most!—just because he looked after his own affairs for a time! Something unruly was rising within him; he felt a sudden need to lay about him; to fight a good stiff battle and shake the warm domesticity out of his bones.
Down by the canal they were engaged cutting the ice in order to clear the water. It was already spring tide, and the ice-cakes were drifting toward the sea, but with unbelievable slowness. After all, that’s the work for you, he told himself as he turned away. He was conscious of that which lay beneath the surface, but he would not let it rise.
As soon as he was between four walls again he grew calmer. Ellen sat by the stove busied with little Lasse, who lay sprawling on his belly in her lap.
“Only look what a sweet little roly-poly he is! There isn’t a trace of chafing anywhere!”