When he was thoroughly tired out he allowed his mind to seek rest in thoughts of his home. His weariness cast a conciliatory light over everything, and he would lie upon his pallet and in imagination spend happy hours with his children, including that young cuckoo who always looked at him with such a strangely mocking expression. To Ellen alone he did not get near. She had never been so beautiful as now in her unapproachableness, but she received all his assurances in mysterious silence, only gazing at him with her unfathomable eyes. He had forsaken her and the home; he knew that; but had he not also made reparation? It was her child he held on his knee, and he meant to build the home up again. He had had enough of an outlaw’s life, and needed a heart upon which to rest his weary head.
All this was dreaming, but now he was on his way down to begin from the beginning. He did not feel very courageous; the uncertainty held so many possibilities. Were the children and Ellen well, and was she still waiting for him? And his comrades? How would his fate shape itself?
Pelle was so little accustomed to being in the fresh air that it affected him powerfully, and, much against his will, he fell asleep as he leaned back upon the bank. The longing to reach the end of his journey made him dream that he was still walking on and making his entry into the city; but he did not recognize it, everything was so changed. People were walking about in their best clothes, either going to the wood or to hear lectures.
“Who is doing the work, then?” he asked of a man whom he met.
“Work!” exclaimed the man in surprise. “Why, the machines, of course! We each have three hours at them in the day, but it’ll soon be changed to two, for the machines are getting more and more clever. It’s splendid to live and to know that there are no slaves but those inanimate machines; and for that we have to thank a man called Pelle.”
“Why, that’s me!” exclaimed Pelle, laughing with pleasure.
“You! What absurdity! Why, you’re a young man, and all this happened many years ago.”
“It is me, all the same! Don’t you see that my hair is gray and my forehead lined? I got like that in fighting for you. Don’t you recognize me?” But people only laughed at him, and he had to go on.
“I’ll go to Ellen!” he thought, disheartened. “She’ll speak up for me!” And while the thought was in his mind, he found himself in her parlor.