Pelle the Conqueror, Complete by Martin Anderson Nexo

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On the following morning he was up early, and applied for work down
at the harbor. He did not see the necessity of work in the abstract,
but he would not be indebted to a woman. On Sunday evening he would
repay her outlay over him and his clothes.

XXIV

Pelle stood on the floor of the basin, loading broken stone into the
tip-wagons. When a wagon was full he and his comrade pushed it up to
the head of the track, and came gliding back hanging to the empty
wagons. Now and again the others let fall their tools, and looked
across to where he stood; he was really working well for a cobbler!
And he had a fine grip when it came to lifting the stone. When he
had to load a great mass of rock into the wagon, he would lift it
first to his knee, then he would let out an oath and put his whole
body into it; he would wipe the sweat from his forehead and take a
dram of brandy or a drop of beer. He was as good as any of the other
men!

He did not bother himself with ideas; two and two might make five
for all he cared; work and fatigue were enough for him. Hard work
had made his body supple and filled him with a sense of sheer animal
well-being. "Will my beer last out the afternoon to-day?" he would
wonder; beyond that nothing mattered. The future did not exist, nor
yet the painful feeling that it did not exist; there was no remorse
in him for what he had lost, or what he had neglected; hard work
swallowed up everything else. There was only this stone that had to
be removed--and then the next! This wagon which had to be filled--
and then the next! If the stone would not move at the first heave
he clenched his teeth; he was as though possessed by his work. "He's
still fresh to harness," said the others; "he'll soon knock his
horns off!" But Pelle wanted to show his strength; that was his only
ambition. His mate let him work away in peace and did not fatigue
himself. From time to time he praised Pelle, in order to keep his
steam up.

This work down at the harbor was the hardest and lowest kind
of labor; any one could get taken on for it without previous
qualifications. Most of Pelle's comrades were men who had done with
the world, who now let themselves go as the stream carried them,
and he felt at ease among them. He stood on the solid ground, and
no words had power to call the dead past to life; it had power to
haunt only an empty brain. An iron curtain hung before the future;
happiness lay here to his hand; the day's fatigue could straightway
be banished by joyous drinking.

His free time he spent with his companions. They led an unsettled,
roving life; the rumor that extensive works were to be carried out
had enticed them hither. Most were unmarried; a few had wives and
children somewhere, but held their tongues about them, or no longer
remembered their existence, unless reminded by something outside
themselves. They had no proper lodgings, but slept in Carrier
Koller's forsaken barn, which was close to the harbor. They never
undressed, but slept in the straw, and washed in a bucket of water
that was seldom changed; their usual diet consisted of stale bread,
and eggs, which they grilled over a fire made between two stones.

The life pleased Pelle, and he liked the society. On Sundays they
ate and drank alternately, all day long, and lay in the smoke-filled
barn; burrowing deep into the straw, they told stories, tragic
stories of youngest sons who seized an axe and killed their father
and mother, and all their brothers and sisters, because they thought
they were being cheated of their share of their inheritance! Of
children who attended confirmation class, and gave way to love, and
had children themselves, and were beheaded for what they did! And of
wives who did not wish to bring into the world the children it was
their duty to bear, and whose wombs were closed as punishment!

Since Pelle had begun to work here he had never been out to see
Marie Nielsen. "She's making a fool of you," said the others, to
whom he had spoken of Marie; "she's playing the respectable so that
you shall bite. Women have always got second thoughts--it's safest
to be on the lookout. They and these young widows would rather take
two than one--they're the worst of all. A man must be a sturdy devil
to be able to stand up against them."

But Pelle was a man, and would allow no woman to lead him by the
nose. Either you were good friends and no fuss about it, or nothing.
He'd tell her that on Saturday, and throw ten kroner on the table--
then they would sure enough be quits! And if she made difficulties
she'd get one over the mouth! He could not forgive her for using all
her firing, and having to pass Sunday in the street; the remembrance
would not leave him, and it burned like an angry spark. She wanted
to make herself out a martyr.

One day, about noon, Pelle was standing among the miners on the
floor of the basin; Emil and he had just come from the shed, where
they had swallowed a few mouthfuls of dinner. They had given up
their midday sleep in order to witness the firing of a big blast
during the midday pause when the harbor would be empty. The whole
space was cleared, and the people in the adjacent houses had opened
their windows so that they should not be shattered by the force of
the explosion.

The fuse was lit, and the men took shelter behind the caissons, and
stood there chatting while they waited for the explosion. The "Great
Power" was there too. He was always in the neighborhood; he would
stand and stare at the workers with his apathetic expression,
without taking part in anything. They took no notice of him, but let
him move about as he pleased. "Take better cover, Pelle," said Emil;
"it's going off directly!"

"Where are Olsen and Strom?" said some one suddenly. The men looked
at one another bewildered.

"They'll be taking their midday sleep," said Emil. "They've been
drinking something chronic this morning."

"Where are they sleeping?" roared the foreman, and he sprang from
his cover. They all had a foreboding, but no one wanted to say. It
flashed across them that they must do something. But no one stirred.
"Lord Jesus!" said Bergendal, and he struck his fist against the
stone wall. "Lord Jesus!"

The "Great Power" sprang from his shelter and ran along the side of
the basin, taking long leaps from one mass of rock to the next, his
mighty wooden shoes clattering as he went. "He's going to tear the
fuse away!" cried Bergendal. "He'll never reach it--it must be burnt
in!" There was a sound as of a cry of distress, far above the heads
of those who heard it. They breathlessly followed the movements of
the "Great Power"; they had come completely out of shelter. In Pelle
an irrational impulse sprang into being. He made a leap forward,
but was seized by the scruff of the neck. "One is enough," said
Bergendal, and he threw him back.

Now the "Great Power" had reached the goal. His hand was stretched
out to seize the fuse. Suddenly he was hurled away from the fuse,
as though by an invisible hand, and was swept upward and backward
through the air, gently, like a human balloon, and fell on his back.
Then the roar of the explosion drowned everything.

When the last fragments had fallen the men ran forward. The "Great
Power" lay stretched upon his back, looking quietly up at the sky.
The corners of his mouth were a little bloody and the blood trickled
from a hole behind the ear. The two drunken men were scathless. They
rose to their feet, bewildered, a few paces beyond the site of the
explosion. The "Great Power" was borne into the shed, and while the
doctor was sent for Emil tore a strip from his blouse, and soaked it
in brandy, and laid it behind the ear.

The "Great Power" opened his eyes and looked about him. His glance
was so intelligent that every one knew that he had not long to live.

"It smells of brandy here," he said. "Who will stand me a drop?"
Emil reached him the bottle, and he emptied it. "It tastes good,"
he said easily. "Now I haven't touched brandy for I don't know how
long, but what was the good? The poor man must drink brandy, or he's
good for nothing; it is no joke being a poor man! There is no other
salvation for him; that you have seen by Strom and Olsen--drunken
men never come to any harm. Have they come to any harm?" He tried
to raise his head. Strom stepped forward. "Here we are," he said,
his voice stifled with emotion. "But I'd give a good dead to have
had us both blown to hell instead of this happening. None of us
has wished you any good!" He held out his hand.

But the "Great Power" could not raise his; he lay there, staring up
through the holes in the thatched roof. "It has been hard enough,
certainly, to belong to the poor," he said, "and it's a good thing
it's all over. But you owe me no thanks. Why should I leave you in
the lurch and take everything for myself--would that be like the
'Great Power'? Of course, the plan was mine! But could I have
carried it out alone? No, money does everything. You've fairly
deserved it! The 'Great Power' doesn't want to have more than any
one else--where we have all done an equal amount of work." He raised
his hand, painfully, and made a magnanimous gesture.

"There--he believes he's the engineer of the harbor works!" said
Strom. "He's wandering. Wouldn't a cold application do him good?"
Emil took the bucket in order to fetch fresh water. The "Great Power"
lay with closed eyes and a faint smile on his face; he was like a
blind man who is listening. "Do you understand," he said, without
opening his eyes, "how we have labored and labored, and yet have
been barely able to earn our daily bread? The big people sat there
and ate up everything that we could produce; when we laid down our
tools and wanted to still our hunger there was nothing. They stole
our thoughts, and if we had a pretty sweetheart or a young daughter
they could do with her too--they didn't disdain our cripple even.
But now that's done with, and we will rejoice that we have lived
to see it; it might have gone on for a long time. Mother wouldn't
believe what I told her at all--that the bad days would soon be over.
But now just see! Don't I get just as much for my work as the doctor
for his? Can't I keep my wife and daughter neat and have books
and get myself a piano, just as he can? Isn't it a great thing to
perform manual labor too? Karen has piano lessons now, just as I've
always wished, for she's weakly and can't stand any hard work. You
should just come home with me and hear her play--she does it so
easily too! Poor people's children have talent too, it's just that
no one notices it."

"God, how he talks!" said Strom, crying. "It's almost as if he had
the delirium."

Pelle bent down over the "Great Power." "Now you must be good and be
quiet," he said, and laid something wet on his forehead. The blood
was trickling rapidly from behind his ear.

"Let him talk," said Olsen. "He hasn't spoken a word for months now;
he must feel the need to clear his mind this once. It'll be long
before he speaks again, too!"

Now the "Great Power" was only weakly moving his lips. His life was
slowly bleeding away. "Have you got wet, little Karen?" he murmured.
"Ah, well, it'll dry again! And now it's all well with you, now
you can't complain. Is it fine to be a young lady? Only tell me
everything you want. Why be modest? We've been that long enough!
Gloves for the work-worn fingers, yes, yes. But you must play
something for me too. Play that lovely song: 'On the joyful journey
through the lands of earth....' That about the Eternal Kingdom!"

Gently he began to hum it; he could no longer keep time by moving
his head, but he blinked his eyes in time; and now his humming broke
out into words.

Something irresistibly impelled the others to sing in concert with
him; perhaps the fact that it was a religious song. Pelle led them
with his clear young voice; and it was he who best knew the words
by heart.

"Fair, fair is earth,
And glorious Heaven;
Fair is the spirit's journey long;
Through all the lovely earthly kingdoms,
Go we to Paradise with song."

The "Great Power" sang with increasing strength, as though he would
outsing Pelle. One of his feet was moving now, beating the time of
the song. He lay with closed eyes, blindly rocking his head in time
with the voices, like one who, at a drunken orgy, must put in his
last word before he slips under the table. The saliva was running
from the corners of his mouth.

"The years they come,
The years they go
And down the road to death we throng,
But ever sound the strains from heaven--
The spirit's joyful pilgrim song!"

The "Great Power" ceased; his head drooped to one side, and at the
same moment the others ceased to sing.

They sat in the straw and gazed at him--his last words still rang
in their ears, like a crazy dream, which mingled oddly with the
victorious notes of the hymn.

They were all sensible of the silent accusation of the dead, and in
the solemnity of the moment they judged and condemned themselves.

"Yes, who knows what we might come to!" said one ragged fellow,
thoughtfully chewing a length of straw.

"I shall never do any good," said Emil dejectedly. "With me it's
always been from bad to worse. I was apprenticed, and when I became
a journeyman they gave me the sack; I had wasted five years of my
life and couldn't do a thing. Pelle--he'll get on all right."

Astonished, Pelle raised his head and gazed at Emil
uncomprehendingly.

"What use is it if a poor devil tries to make his way up? He'll
always be pushed down again!" said Olsen. "Just look at the 'Great
Power'; could any one have had a better claim than he? No, the big
folks don't allow us others to make our way up!"

"And have we allowed it ourselves?" muttered Strom. "We are always
uneasy if one of our own people wants to fly over our heads!"

"I don't understand why all the poor folk don't make a stand
together against the others," said Bergendal. "We suffer the same
wrongs. If we all acted together, and had nothing to do with them
that mean us harm, for instance, then it would soon be seen that
collective poverty is what makes the wealth of the others. And
I've heard that that's what they're doing elsewhere."

"But we shall never in this life be unanimous about anything
whatever," said an old stonemason sadly. "If one of the gentlemen
only scratches our neck a bit, then we all grovel at his feet, and
let ourselves be set on to one of our own chaps. If we were all
like the 'Great Power,' then things might have turned out
different."

They were silent again; they sat there and gazed at the dead man;
there was something apologetic in the bearing of each and all.

"Yes, that comes late!" said Strom, with a sigh. Then he felt in
the straw and pulled out a bottle.

Some of the men still sat there, trying to put into words something
that ought perhaps to be said; but then came the doctor, and they
drew in their horns. They picked up their beer-cans and went out to
their work.

Silently Pelle gathered his possessions together and went to the
foreman. He asked for his wages.

"That's sudden," said the foreman. "You were getting on so well
just now. What do you want to do now?"

"I just want my wages," rejoined Pelle. What more he wanted, he
himself did not know. And then he went home and put his room in
order. It was like a pigsty; he could not understand how he could
have endured such untidiness. In the meantime he thought listlessly
of some way of escape. It had been very convenient to belong to the
dregs of society, and to know that he could not sink any deeper; but
perhaps there were still other possibilities. Emil had said a stupid
thing--what did he mean by it? "Pelle, he'll get on all right!"
Well, what did Emil know of the misery of others? He had enough
of his own.

He went down into the street in order to buy a little milk; then
he would go back and sleep. He felt a longing to deaden all the
thoughts that once more began to seethe in his head.

Down in the street he ran into the arms of Sort, the wandering
shoemaker. "Now we've got you!" cried Sort. "I was just coming here
and wondering how best I could get to speak with you. I wanted to
tell you that I begin my travelling to-morrow. Will you come with
me? It is a splendid life, to be making the round of the farms now
in the spring-time; and you'll go to the dogs if you stay here. Now
you know all about it and you can decide. I start at six o'clock!
I can't put it off any later!"

Sort had observed Pelle that evening at the prayer-meeting, and on
several occasions had spoken to him in the hope of arousing him. "He
can put off his travels for a fortnight as far as I'm concerned!"
thought Pelle, with a touch of self-esteem. He wouldn't go! To go
begging for work from farm to farm! Pelle had learned his craft in
the workshop, and looked down with contempt upon the travelling
cobbler, who lives from hand to mouth and goes from place to place
like a beggar, working with leather and waxed-ends provided on the
spot, and eating out of the same bowl as the farm servants. So much
pride of craft was still left in Pelle. Since his apprentice days,
he had been accustomed to regard Sort as a pitiful survival from
the past, a species properly belonging to the days of serfdom.

"You'll go to the dogs!" Sort had said. And all Marie Melsen's
covert allusions had meant the same thing. But what then? Perhaps he
had already gone to the dogs! Suppose there was no other escape than
this! But now he would sleep, and think no more of all these things.

He drank his bottle of milk and ate some bread with it, and went
to bed. He heard the church clock striking--it was midnight, and
glorious weather. But Pelle wanted to sleep--only to sleep! His
heart was like lead.

He awoke early next morning and was out of bed with one leap. The
sun filled his room, and he himself was filled with a sense of
health and well-being. Quickly he slipped into his clothes--there
was still so much that he wanted to do! He threw up the window, and
drank in the spring morning in a breath that filled his body with
a sense of profound joy. Out at sea the boats were approaching the
harbor; the morning sun fell on the slack sails, and made them glow;
every boat was laboring heavily forward with the aid of its tiller.
He had slept like a stone, from the moment of lying down until now.
Sleep lay like a gulf between yesterday and to-day. Whistling a tune
to himself, he packed his belongings and set out upon his way, a
little bundle under his arm. He took the direction of the church, in
order to see the time. It was still not much past five. Then he made
for the outermost suburb with vigorous steps, as joyful as though he
were treading the road to happiness.

XXV

Two men appeared from the wood and crossed the highroad. One was
little and hump-backed; he had a shoemaker's bench strapped tightly
on his back; the edge rested on his hump, and a little pillow was
thrust between, so that the bench should not chafe him. The other
was young and strongly built; a little thin, but healthy and fresh-
colored. He carried a great bundle of lasts on his back, which were
held in equilibrium by another box, which he carried on his chest,
and which, to judge by the sounds that proceeded from it, contained
tools. At the edge of the ditch he threw down his burden and
unstrapped the bench from the hunchback. They threw themselves
down in the grass and gazed up into the blue sky. It was a glorious
morning; the birds twittered and flew busily to and fro, and the
cattle were feeding in the dewy clover, leaving long streaks behind
them as they moved.

"And in spite of that, you are always happy?" said Pelle. Sort had
been telling him the sad story of his childhood.

"Yes, look you, it often vexes me that I take everything so easily--
but what if I can't find anything to be sad about? If I once go into
the matter thoroughly, I always hit on something or other that makes
me still happier--as, for instance, your society. You are young, and
health beams out of your eyes. The girls become so friendly wherever
we go, and it's as though I myself were the cause of their pleasure!"

"Where do you really get your knowledge of everything?" asked Pelle.

"Do you find that I know so much?" Sort laughed gaily. "I go about
so much, and I see so many different households, some where man and
wife are as one, and others where they live like cat and dog. I come
into contact with people of every kind. And I get to know a lot, too,
because I'm not like other men--more than one maiden has confided
her miseries to me. And then in winter, when I sit alone, I think
over everything--and the Bible is a good book, a book a man can draw
wisdom from. There a man learns to look behind things; and if you
once realize that everything has its other side, then you learn to
use your understanding. You can go behind everything if you want to,
and they all lead in the same direction--to God. And they all came
from Him. He is the connection, do you see; and once a man grasps
that, then he is always happy. It would be splendid to follow things
up further--right up to where they divide, and then to show, in
spite of all, that they finally run together in God again! But that
I'm not able to do."

"We ought to see about getting on." Pelle yawned, and he began
to bestir himself.

"Why? We're so comfortable here--and we've already done what we
undertook to do. What if there should be a pair of boots yonder
which Sort and Pelle won't get to sole before they're done with?
Some one else will get the job!"

Pelle threw himself on his back and again pulled his cap over his
eyes--he was in no hurry. He had now been travelling nearly a month
with Sort, and had spent almost as much time on the road as sitting
at his work. Sort could never rest when he had been a few days in
one place; he must go on again! He loved the edge of the wood and
the edge of the meadow, and could spend half the day there. And
Pelle had many points of contact with this leisurely life in the
open air; he had his whole childhood to draw upon. He could lie
for hours, chewing a grass-stem, patient as a convalescent, while
sun and air did their work upon him.

"Why do you never preach to me?" he said suddenly, and he peeped
mischievously from tinder his cap.

"Why should I preach to you? Because I am religious? Well, so are
you; every one who rejoices and is content is religious."

"But I'm not at all content!" retorted Pelle, and he rolled on his
back with all four limbs in the air. "But you--I don't understand
why you don't get a congregation; you've got such a power over
language."

"Yes, if I were built as you are--fast enough. But I'm humpbacked!"

"What does that matter? You don't want to run after the women!"

"No, but one can't get on without them; they bring the men and the
children after them. And it's really queer that they should--for
women don't bother themselves about God! They haven't the faculty of
going behind things. They choose only according to the outside--they
want to hang everything on their bodies as finery--and the men too,
yes, and the dear God best of all--they've got a use for the lot!"

Pelle lay still for a time, revolving his scattered experiences.
"But Marie Nielsen wasn't like that," he said thoughtfully. "She'd
willingly give the shirt off her body and ask nothing for herself.
I've behaved badly to her--I didn't even say goodbye before I came
away!"

"Then you must look her up when we come to town and confess your
fault. There was no lovemaking between you?"

"She treated me like a child; I've told you."

Sort was silent a while.

"If you would help me, we'd soon get a congregation! I can see it
in your eyes, that you've got influence over them, if you only cared
about it; for instance, the girl at Willow Farm. Thousands would
come to us."

Pelle did not answer. His thoughts were roaming back wonderingly
to Willow Farm, where Sort and he had last been working; he was once
more in that cold, damp room with the over-large bed, on which the
pale girl's face was almost invisible. She lay there encircling her
thick braids with her transparent hand, and gazed at him; and the
door was gently closed behind him. "That was really a queer fancy,"
he said, and he breathed deeply; "some one she'd never laid eyes on
before; I could cry now when I think of it."

"The old folks had told her we were there, and asked if she wouldn't
like me to read something from God's word with her. But she'd rather
see you. The father was angry and didn't want to allow it. 'She has
never thought about young men before,' he said, 'and she shall stand
before the throne of God and the Lamb quite pure.' But I said, 'Do
you know so precisely that the good God cares anything for what you
call purity, Ole Jensen? Let the two of them come together, if they
can take any joy in it.' Then we shut the door behind you--and how
was it then?" Sort turned toward Pelle.

"You know," replied Pelle crossly. "She just lay there and looked at
me as though she was thinking: 'That's what he looks like--and he's
come a long way here.' I could see by her eyes that you had spoken
of me and that she knew about all my swinishness."