Pelle the Conqueror, Complete by Martin Anderson Nexo

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"Never mind, laddie!" he said comfortingly. "Never mind! No one has
ever yet got off without being punished, and Lasse'll break that
long limb of Satan's head and make his brains spurt out of his nose;
you take my word for it!"

Pelle's face brightened at the prospect of this forcible redress,
and he crept up into the loft to throw down the hay for the cattle's
midday meal. Lasse, who was not so fond of climbing, went down
the long passage between the stalls distributing the hay. He was
cogitating over something, and Pelle could hear him talking to
himself all the time. When they had finished, Lasse went to the
green chest and brought out a black silk handkerchief that had been
Bengta's Sunday best. His expression was solemn as he called Pelle.

"Run over to Karna with this and ask her to accept it. We're not so
poor that we should let kindness itself go from us empty-handed. But
you mustn't let any one see it, in case they didn't like it. Mother
Bengta in her grave won't be offended; she'd have proposed it
herself, if she could have spoken; but her mouth's full of earth,
poor thing!" Lasse sighed deeply.

Even then he stood for a little while with the handkerchief in
his hand before giving it to Pelle to run with. He was by no means
as sure of Bengta as his words made out; but the old man liked to
beautify her memory, both in his own and in the boy's mind. It could
not be denied that she had generally been a little difficult in a
case of this kind, having been particularly jealous; and she might
take it into her head to haunt them because of that handkerchief.
Still she had had a heart for both him and the boy, and it was
generally in the right place--they must say that of her! And for
the rest, the Lord must judge her as kindly as He could.

During the afternoon it was quiet on the farm. Most of the men were
out somewhere, either at the inn or with the quarry-men at the
stone-quarry. The master and mistress were out too; the farmer had
ordered the carriage directly after dinner and had driven to the
town, and half an hour later his wife set off in the pony-carriage
--to keep an eye on him, people said.

Old Lasse was sitting in an empty cow-stall, mending Pelle's
clothes, while the boy played up and down the foddering passage.
He had found in the herdsman's room an old boot-jack, which he
placed under his knee, pretending it was a wooden leg, and all
the time he was chattering happily, but not quite so loudly as
usual, to his father. The morning's experience was still fresh in
his mind, and had a subduing effect; it was as if he had performed
some great deed, and was now nervous about it. There was another
circumstance, too, that helped to make him serious. The bailiff
had been over to say that the animals were to go out the next day.
Pelle was to mind the young cattle, so this would be his last free
day, perhaps for the whole summer.

He paused outside the stall where his father sat. "What are you
going to kill him with, father?"

"With the hammer, I suppose."

"Will you kill him quite dead, as dead as a dog?"

Lasse's nod boded ill to the pupil. "Yes, indeed I shall!"

"But who'll read the names for us then?"

The old man shook his head pensively. "That's true enough!" he
exclaimed, scratching himself first in one place and then in
another. The name of each cow was written in chalk above its stall,
but neither Lasse nor Pelle could read. The bailiff had, indeed,
gone through the names with them once, but it was impossible to
remember half a hundred names after hearing them once--even for
the boy, who had such an uncommon good memory. If Lasse now killed
the pupil, then who _would_ help them to make out the names?
The bailiff would never stand their going to him and asking him a
second time.

"I suppose we shall have to content ourselves with thrashing him,"
said Lasse meditatively.

The boy went on playing for a little while, and then once more came
up to Lasse.

"Don't you think the Swedes can thrash all the people in the world,
father?"

The old man looked thoughtful. "Ye-es--yes, I should think so."

"Yes, because Sweden's much bigger than the whole world, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's big," said Lasse, trying to imagine its extent. There
were twenty-four provinces, of which Malmohus was only one, and
Ystad district a small part of that again; and then in one corner
of Ystad district lay Tommelilla, and his holding that he had once
thought so big with its five acres of land, was a tiny little piece
of Tommelilla! Ah, yes, Sweden was big--not bigger than the whole
world, of course, for that was only childish nonsense--but still
bigger than all the rest of the world put together. "Yes, it's big!
But what are you doing, laddie?"

"Why, can't you see I'm a soldier that's had one leg shot off?"

"Oh, you're an old crippled pensioner, are you? But you shouldn't
do that, for God doesn't like things like that. You might become
a real cripple, and that would be dreadful."

"Oh, He doesn't see, because He's in the churches to-day!" answered
the boy; but for safety's sake he thought it better to leave off. He
stationed himself at the stable-door, whistling, but suddenly came
running in with great eagerness: "Father, there's the Agricultural!
Shall I run and fetch the whip?"

"No, I expect we'd better leave him alone. It might be the death of
him; fine gentlemen scamps like that can't stand a licking. The
fright alone might kill him." Lasse glanced doubtfully at the boy.

Pelle looked very much disappointed. "But suppose he does it again?"

"Oh, no, we won't let him off without a good fright. I shall pick
him up and hold him out at arm's length dangling in the air until
he begs for mercy; and then I shall put him down again just as
quietly. For Lasse doesn't like being angry. Lasse's a decent
fellow."

"Then you must pretend to let him go while you're holding him high
up in the air; and then he'll scream and think he's going to die,
and the others'll come and laugh at him."

"No, no; you mustn't tempt your father! It might come into my mind
to throw him down, and that would be murder and penal servitude for
life, that would! No, I'll just give him a good scolding; that's
what a classy scoundrel like that'll feel most."

"Yes, and then you must call him a spindle-shanked clodhopper.
That's what the bailiff calls him when he's angry with him."

"No, I don't think that would do either; but I'll speak so seriously
with him that he won't be likely to forget it in a hurry."

Pelle was quite satisfied. There was no one like his father, and
of course he would be as good at blowing people up as at everything
else. He had never heard him do it, and he was looking forward to
it immensely while he hobbled along with the boot-jack. He was not
using it as a wooden leg now, for fear of tempting Providence; but
he held it under his arm like a crutch, supporting it on the edge
of the foundation wall, because it was too short. How splendid it
would be to go on two crutches like the parson's son at home! He
could jump over the very longest puddles.

There was a sudden movement of light and shadow up under the roof,
and when Pelle turned round, he saw a strange boy standing in the
doorway out to the field. He was of the same height as Pelle, but
his head was almost as large as that of a grown man. At first sight
it appeared to be bald all over; but when the boy moved in the
sun, his bare head shone as if covered with silver scales. It was
covered with fine, whitish hair, which was thinly and fairly evenly
distributed over the face and everywhere else; and his skin was
pink, as were the whites of his eyes. His face was all drawn into
wrinkles in the strong light, and the back of his head projected
unduly and looked as if it were much too heavy.

Pelle put his hands in his trouser pockets and went up to him.
"What's your name?" he said, and tried to expectorate between his
front teeth as Gustav was in the habit of doing. The attempt was
a failure, unfortunately, and the saliva only ran down his chin.
The strange boy grinned.

"Rud," he said, indistinctly, as if his tongue were thick and
unmanageable. He was staring enviously at Pelle's trouser pockets.
"Is that your father?" he asked, pointing at Lasse.

"Of course!" said Pelle, consequentially. "And he can thrash
everybody."

"But my father can buy everybody, because he lives up there." And
Rud pointed toward the big house.

"Oh, does he really?" said Pelle, incredulously. "Why don't you live
there with him, then?"

"Why, I'm a bastard-child; mother says so herself."

"The deuce she does!" said Pelle, stealing a glance at his father
on account of the little oath.

"Yes, when she's cross. And then she beats me, but then I run away
from her."

"Oh, you do, do you!" said a voice outside. The boys started and
retreated farther into the stable, as a big, fat woman appeared in
the doorway, and looked angrily round in the dim light. When she
caught sight of Rud, she continued her scolding. Her accent was
Swedish.

"So you run away, do you, you cabbage-head! If you'd only run so far
that you couldn't find your way back again, a body wouldn't need to
wear herself out thrashing a misbegotten imp like you! You'll go to
the devil anyhow, so don't worry yourself about that! So that's the
boy's father, is it?" she said, suddenly breaking off as she caught
sight of Lasse.

"Yes, it is," said Lasse, quietly. "And surely you must be
schoolmaster Johan Pihl's Johanna from Tommelilla, who left the
country nearly twenty years ago?"

"And surely you must be the smith's tom-cat from Sulitjelma, who had
twins out of an old wooden shoe the year before last?" retorted the
big woman, imitating his tone of voice.

"Very well; it doesn't matter to me who you are!" said the old man
in an offended tone. "I'm not a police spy."

"One would think you were from the way you question. Do you know
when the cattle are to go out?"

"To-morrow, if all's well. Is it your little boy who's going to show
Pelle how things go? The bailiff spoke of some one who'd go out with
him and show him the grazing-ground."

"Yes, it's that Tom Noddy there. Here, come out so that we can see
you properly, you calf! Oh, the boy's gone. Very well. Does your boy
often get a thrashing?"

"Oh yes, sometimes," answered Lasse, who was ashamed to confess that
he never chastised the boy.

"I don't spare mine either. It'll take something to make a man of
such rubbish; punishment's half what he lives on. Then I'll send him
up here first thing to-morrow morning; but take care he doesn't show
himself in the yard, or there'll be no end of a row!"

"The mistress can't bear to see him, I suppose?" said Lasse.

"You're just about right. She's had nothing to do with the making of
that scarecrow. Though you wouldn't think there was much there to be
jealous about! But I might have been a farmer's wife at this moment
and had a nice husband too, if that high and mighty peacock up there
hadn't seduced me. Would you believe that, you cracked old piece of
shoe-leather?" she asked with a laugh, slapping his knee with her
hand.

"I can believe it very well," said Lasse. "For you were as pretty
a girl as might be when you left home."

"Oh, you and your 'home'," she said, mimicking him.

"Well, I can see that you don't want to leave any footmarks behind
you, and I can quite well pretend to be a stranger, even if I have
held you upon my knee more than once when you were a little thing.
But do you know that your mother's lying on her deathbed?"

"Oh no! Oh no!" she exclaimed, turning to him a face that was
becoming more and more distorted.

"I went to say good-bye to her before I left home rather more than
a month ago, and she was very ill. 'Good-bye, Lasse,' she said, 'and
thank you for your neighborliness all these years. And if you meet
Johanna over there,' she said, 'give her my love. Things have gone
terribly badly with her, from what I've heard; but give her my love,
all the same. Johanna child, little child! She was nearest her
mother's heart, and so she happened to tread upon it. Perhaps it
was our fault. You'll give her her mother's love, won't you, Lasse?'
Those were her very words, and now she's most likely dead, so poorly
as she was then."

Johanna Pihl had no command over her feelings. It was evident that
she was not accustomed to weep, for her sobs seemed to tear her
to pieces. No tears came, but her agony was like the throes of
child-birth. "Little mother! Poor little mother!" she said every now
and again, as she sat rocking herself upon the edge of the manger.

"There, there, there!" said Lasse, patting her on the head. "I told
them they had been too hard with you. But what did you want to creep
through that window for--a child of sixteen and in the middle of
the night? You can hardly wonder that they forgot themselves a
little, all the more that he was earning no wages beyond his keep
and clothes, and was a bad fellow at that, who was always losing
his place."

"I was fond of him," said Johanna, weeping. "He's the only one I've
ever cared for. And I was so stupid that I thought he was fond of
me too, though he'd never seen me."

"Ah, yes; you were only a child! I said so to your parents. But
that you could think of doing anything so indecent!"

"I didn't mean to do anything wrong. I only thought that we two
ought to be together as we loved one another. No, I didn't even
think that then. I only crept in to him, without thinking about
it at all. Would you believe that I was so innocent in those days?
And nothing bad happened either."

"And nothing happened even?" said Lasse. "But it's terribly sad to
think how things have turned out. It was the death of your father."

The big woman began to cry helplessly, and Lasse was almost in
tears himself.

"Perhaps I ought never to have told you," he said in despair.
"But I thought you must have heard about it. I suppose he thought
that he, as schoolmaster, bore the responsibility for so many,
and that you'd thrown yourself at any one in that way, and a poor
farm-servant into the bargain, cut him to the quick. It's true
enough that he mixed with us poor folks as if we'd been his equals,
but the honor was there all the same; and he took it hardly when
the fine folk wouldn't look at him any more. And after all it was
nothing at all--nothing happened? But why didn't you tell them so?"

Johanna had stopped crying, and now sat with tear-stained, quivering
face, and eyes turned away.

"I did tell them, but they wouldn't listen. I was found there of
course. I screamed for help when I found out he didn't even know me,
but was only flattered at my coming, and wanted to take hold of me.
And then the others came running in and found me there. They laughed
and said that I'd screamed because I'd lost my innocence; and I
could see that my parents thought the same. Even they wouldn't hear
of nothing having happened, so what could the other rabble think?
And then they paid him to come over here, and sent me away to
relations."

"Yes, and then you added to their sorrow by running away."

"I went after him. I thought he'd get to be fond of me, if only
I was near him. He'd taken service here at Stone Farm, and I took
a place here as housemaid; but there was only one thing he wanted
me for, and that I wouldn't have if he wasn't fond of me. So he went
about boasting that I'd run away from home for his sake, and the
other thing that was a lie; so they all thought they could do what
they liked with me. Kongstrup was just married then, but he was no
better than the others. I'd got the place quite by chance, because
the other housemaid had had to go away somewhere to lie in; so I
was awfully careful. He got her married afterwards to a quarryman
at the quarries."

"So that's the sort of man he is!" exclaimed Lasse. "I had my doubts
about him. But what became of the other fellow?"

"He went to work in the quarry when we'd been at the farm a couple
of years and he'd done me all the harm he could. While he was there,
he drank and quarreled most of the time. I often went to see him,
for I couldn't get him out of my head; but he was always drunk. At
last he couldn't stay there any longer, and disappeared, and then
we heard that he was in Nordland, playing Hell among the rocks at
Blaaholt. He helped himself to whatever he wanted at the nearest
place he could find it, and knocked people down for nothing at all.
And one day they said that he'd been declared an outlaw, so that
any one that liked could kill him. I had great confidence in the
master, who, after all, was the only person that wished me well;
and he comforted me by saying that it would be all right: Knut would
know how to take care of himself."

"Knut? Was it Knut Engstrom?" asked Lasse. "Well, then, I've heard
about him. He was breaking out as wild as the devil the last time
I was in this country, and assaulted people on the high-road in
broad daylight. He killed one man with a hammer, and when they
caught him, he'd made a long gash on his neck from the back right
up to his eye. The other man had done that, he said; he'd only
defended himself. So they couldn't do anything to him. So that was
the man, was it! But who was it he was living with, then? They said
he lived in a shed on the heath that summer, and had a woman with
him."

"I ran away from service, and pretended to the others that I was
going home. I'd heard what a wretched state he was in. They said he
was gashed all over his head. So I went up and took care of him."

"Then you gave in at last," said Lasse, with a roguish wink.

"He beat me every day," she answered hoarsely. "And when he couldn't
get his way, he drove me away at last. I'd set my mind on his being
fond of me first." Her voice had grown coarse and hard again.

"Then you deserved a good whipping for taking a fancy to such
a ruffian! And you may be glad your mother didn't get to know
anything about that, for she'd never have survived it."

At the word "mother" Johanna started. "Every one must look after
themselves," she said in a hard voice. "I've had more to look to
than mother, and see how fat I've grown."

Lasse shook his head. "I shouldn't care to fight with you now.
But what happened to you afterwards?"

"I came back to Stone Farm again at Martinmas, but the mistress
wouldn't take me on again, for she preferred my room to my company.
But Kongstrup got his way by making me dairymaid. He was as kind to
me as ever, for all that I'd stood out against him for nine years.
But at last the magistrate got tired of having Knut going about
loose; he made too much disturbance. So they had a hunt for him
up on the heath. They didn't catch him, but he must have come back
to the quarry to hide himself, for one day when they were blasting
there, his body came out among the bits of rock, all smashed up.
They drove the pieces down here to the farm, and it made me so ill
to see him come to me like that, that I had to go to bed. There
I lay shivering day and night, for it seemed as if he'd come to me
in his sorest need. Kongstrup sat with me and comforted me when the
others were at work, and he took advantage of my misery to get his
way.

"There was a younger brother of the farmer on the hill who liked
me. He'd been in America in his early days, and had plenty of money.
He didn't care a rap what people said, and every single year he
proposed to me, always on New Year's Day. He came that year too,
and now that Knut was dead, I couldn't have done better than have
taken him and been mistress of a farm; but I had to refuse him
after all, and I can tell you it was hard when I made the discovery.
Kongstrup wanted to send me away when I told him about it; but that
I would not have. I meant to stay and have my child born here on the
farm to which it belonged. He didn't care a bit about me any longer,
the mistress looked at me with her evil eyes every day, and there
was no one that was kind to me. I wasn't so hard then as I am now,
and it was all I could do to keep from crying always. I became hard
then. When anything was the matter, I clenched my teeth so that no
one should deride me. I was working in the field the very day it
happened, too. The boy was born in the middle of a beet-field, and
I carried him back to the farm myself in my apron. He was deformed
even then: the mistress's evil eyes had done it. I said to myself
that she should always have the changeling in her sight, and refused
to go away. The farmer couldn't quite bring himself to turn me out
by force, and so he put me into the house down by the shore."

"Then perhaps you work on the farm here in the busy seasons?"
asked Lasse.

She sniffed contemptuously. "Work! So you think I need do that?
Kongstrup has to pay me for bringing up his son, and then there
are friends that come to me, now one and now another, and bring
a little with them--when they haven't spent it all in drink. You
may come down and see me this evening. I'll be good to you too."

"No, thank you!" said Lasse, gravely. "I am a human being too,
but I won't go to one who's sat on my knee as if she'd been my
own child."

"Have you any gin, then?" she asked, giving him a sharp nudge.

Lasse thought there was some, and went to see. "No, not a drop,"
he said, returning with the bottle. "But I've got something for
you here that your mother asked me to give you as a keepsake. It
was lucky I happened to remember it." And he handed her a packet,
and looked on happily while she opened it, feeling pleased on her
account. It was a hymn-book. "Isn't it a beauty?" he said. "With
a gold cross and clasp--and then, it's your mother's."

"What's the good of that to me?" asked Johanna. "I don't sing
hymns."

"Don't you?" said Lasse, hurt. "But your mother has never known but
that you've kept the faith you had as a child, so you must forgive
her this once."

"Is that all you've got for me?" she asked, pushing the book off
her lap.

"Yes, it is," said Lasse, his voice trembling; and he picked up
the book.

"Who's going to have the rest, then?"

"Well, the house was leased, and there weren't many things left, for
it's a long time since your father died, remember. Where you should
have been, strangers have filled the daughter's place; and I suppose
those who've looked after her will get what there is. But perhaps
you'd still be in time, if you took the first steamer."

"No, thank you! Go home and be stared at and play the penitent--no,
thank you! I'd rather the strangers got what's left. And mother--
well, if she's lived without my help, I suppose she can die without
it too. Well, I must be getting home. I wonder what's become of the
future master of Stone Farm?" She laughed loudly.

Lasse would have taken his oath that she had been quite sober, and
yet she walked unsteadily as she went behind the calves' stables to
look for her son. It was on his lips to ask whether she would not
take the hymn-book with her, but he refrained. She was not in the
mood for it now, and she might mock God; so he carefully wrapped up
the book and put it away in the green chest.

* * * * *

At the far end of the cow-stable a space was divided off with
boards. It had no door, and the boards were an inch apart, so that
it resembled a crate. This was the herdsman's room. Most of the
space was occupied by a wide legless bedstead made of rough boards
knocked together, with nothing but the stone floor to rest on. Upon
a deep layer of rye straw the bed-clothes lay in a disordered heap,
and the thick striped blankets were stiff with dried cow-dung, to
which feathers and bits of straw had adhered.

Pelle lay curled up in the middle of the bed with the down quilt up
to his chin, while Lasse sat on the edge, turning over the things
in the green chest and talking to himself. He was going through
his Sunday devotions, taking out slowly, one after another, all
the little things he had brought from the broken-up home. They
were all purely useful things--balls of cotton, scraps of stuff,
and such-like, that were to be used to keep his own and the boy's
clothes in order; but to him each thing was a relic to be handled
with care, and his heart bled every time one of them came to an
end. With each article he laid down, he slowly repeated what Bengta
had said it was for when she lay dying and was trying to arrange
everything for him and the boy: "Wool for the boy's gray socks.
Pieces to lengthen the sleeves of his Sunday jacket. Mind you don't
wear your stockings too long before you mend them." They were the
last wishes of the dying woman, and they were followed in the
smallest detail. Lasse remembered them word for word, in spite
of his bad memory.

Then there were little things that had belonged to Bengta herself,
cheap finery that all had its happy memory of fairs and holidays,
which he recalled in his muttered reverie.

Pelle liked this subdued murmur that he did not need to listen to
or answer, and that was so pleasant to doze off in. He lay looking
out sleepily at the bright sky, tired and with a vague feeling of
something unpleasant that was past.