“I’m looking forward tremendously to reading your books,” said Pelle enthusiastically. “What a lot you’ve written! You haven’t given that up.”
“Perhaps solitude’s taught you too to like books,” said Morten, looking at him. “If so, you’ve made some good friends in there, Pelle. All that there isn’t worth much; it’s only preliminary work. It’s a new world ours, you must remember.”
“I don’t think The Working Man cares much about you.”
“No, not much,” answered Morten slowly.
“They say you only write in the upper-class papers.”
“If I didn’t I should starve. They don’t grudge me my food, at any rate! Our own press still has no use for skirmishers, but only for men who march to order!”
“And it’s very difficult for you to subordinate yourself to any one,” said Pelle, smiling.
“I have a responsibility to those above me,” answered Morten proudly. “If I give the blind man eyes to see into the future, I can’t let myself be led by him. Now and then The Working Man gets hold of one of my contributions to the upper-class press: that’s all the connection I have with my own side. My food I have to get from the other side of the boundary, and lay my eggs there: they’re pretty hard conditions. You can’t think how often I’ve worried over not being able to speak to my own people except in roundabout ways. Well, it doesn’t matter! I can afford to wait. There’s no way of avoiding the son of my father, and in the meantime I’m doing work among the upper classes. I bring the misery into the life of the happily-situated, and disturb their quiet enjoyment. The upper classes must be prepared for the revolution too.”
“Can they stand your representations?” asked Pelle, in surprise.
“Yes, the upper classes are just as tolerant as the common people were before they rose: it’s an outcome of culture. Sometimes they’re almost too tolerant; you can’t quite vouch for their words. When there’s something they don’t like, they always get out of it by looking at it from an artistic point of view.”