Pelle the Conqueror, Vol. 1 by Martin Anderson Nexo

M >> Martin Anderson Nexo >> Pelle the Conqueror, Vol. 1

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"Lasse!" came a voice from the end of the tables.

The old man growled sullenly, stirred uneasily, but did not rise.

"Las-se!" came again, after a little, impatiently and in a tone
of command.

"Yes," said Lasse slowly, rising and going out.

"Can't you answer when you're called, you old Swedish rascal? Are
you deaf?"

"Oh, I can answer well enough," said Lasse, in a trembling voice.
"But Mr. Pupil oughtn't to--I'm a father, let me tell you--and
a father's heart----"

"You may be a monthly nurse for all I care, but you've got to
answer when you're called, or else I'll get the bailiff to give
you a talking-to. Do you understand?"

"Yes, oh yes!--Mr. Pupil must excuse me, but I didn't hear."

"Well, will you please remember that Aspasia's not to go out
to pasture to-morrow."

"Is she going to calve?"

"Yes, of course! Did you think she was going to foal?"

Lasse laughed, as in duty bound, and followed the pupil back through
the stable. Now it would come, thought Pelle, and sat listening
intently; but he only heard his father make another excuse, close
the half-door, and come back with slow, tottering steps. Then he
burst into tears, and crept far in under the quilt.

Lasse went about for some time, grumbling to himself, and at last
came and gently drew the quilt down from the boy's head. But Pelle
buried his face in the clothes, and when his father turned it up
toward him, he met a despairing, uncomprehending gaze that made his
own wander restlessly round the room.

"Yes," he said, with an attempt at being cross. "It's all very well
for you to cry! But when you don't know where Aspasia stands, you've
got to be civil, I'm thinking."

"I know Aspasia quite well," sobbed the boy. "She's the third from
the door here."

Lasse was going to give a cross answer, but broke down, touched and
disarmed by the boy's grief. He surrendered unconditionally, stooped
down until his forehead touched the boy's, and said helplessly,
"Yes, Lasse's a poor thing--old and poor! Any one can make a fool
of him. He can't be angry any more, and there's no strength in his
fist, so what's the good of clenching it! He has to put up with
everything, and let himself be hustled about--and say thank you into
the bargain--that's how it is with old Lasse. But you must remember
that it's for your sake he lets himself be put upon. If it wasn't
for you, he'd shoulder his pack and go--old though he is. But you
can grow on where your father rusts. And now you must leave off
crying!" And he dried the boy's wet eyes with the quilt.

Pelle did not understand his father's words, but they quieted him
nevertheless, and he soon fell asleep; but for a long time he sobbed
as he lay.

Lasse sat still upon the edge of the bed and watched the boy as he
slept, and when he had become quieter, crept away through the stable
and out. It had been a poor Sunday, and now he would go and see if
any of the men were at home and had visitors, for then there would
be spirits going round. Lasse could not find it in his heart to take
any of his wages to buy a dram with; that money would have quite
enough to do to buy bare necessaries.

On one of the beds lay a man asleep, fully dressed, and with his
boots on. He was dead drunk. All the others were out, so Lasse had
to give up all thoughts of a dram, and went across to the basement
to see if there was any gaiety going among the maids. He was not
at all averse to enjoyment of one sort or another, now that he was
free and his own master as he had been in the days of his youth.

Up by the dairy stood the three farm-laborers' wives who used to do
the milking for the girls on Sunday evening. They were thick-set,
small, and bent with toil. They were all talking together and spoke
of illnesses and other sad things in plaintive tones. Lasse at once
felt a desire to join them, for the subject found an echo in his
being like the tones of a well-known song, and he could join in
the refrain with the experience of a lifetime. But he resisted the
temptation, and went past them down the basement steps. "Ah, yes,
death will come to us all!" said one of the women, and Lasse said
the words after her to himself as he went down.

Down there Karna was sitting mending Gustav's moleskin trousers,
while Gustav lay upon the bench asleep with his cap over his face.
He had put his feet up on Karna's lap, without so much as taking
off his shoes; and she had accommodated her lap, so that they
should not slide off.

Lasse sat down beside her and tried to make himself agreeable. He
wanted some one to be nice to him. But Karna was unapproachable;
those dirty feet had quite turned her head. And either Lasse had
forgotten how to do it, or he was wanting in assurance, for every
time he attempted a pleasant speech, she turned it off.

"We might have such a comfortable time, we two elderly folk," he
said hopelessly.

"Yes, and I could contribute what was wanting," said Gustav, peeping
out from under his cap. Insolent puppy, lying there and boasting of
his seventeen years! Lasse had a good mind to go for him then and
there and chance yet one more trial of strength. But he contented
himself with sitting and looking at him until his red, lashless eyes
grew watery. Then he got up.

"Well, well, I see you want young people this evening!" he said
bitterly to Karna. "But you can't get rid of your years, all the
same! Perhaps you'll only get the spoon to lick after the others."

He went across to the cow-stable and began to talk to the three
farm-laborers' wives, who were still speaking of illness and misery
and death, as if nothing else existed in the world. Lasse nodded
and said: "Yes, yes, that's true." He could heartily endorse it all,
and could add much to what they said. It brought warmth to his old
body, and made him feel quite comfortable--so easy in his joints.

But when he lay on his back in bed, all the sad thoughts came back
and he could not sleep. Generally he slept like a log as soon as
he lay down, but to-day was Sunday, and he was tormented with the
thought that life had passed him by. He had promised himself so much
from the island, and it was nothing but worry and toil and trouble
--nothing else at all.

"Yes, Lasse's old!" he suddenly said aloud, and he kept on repeating
the words with a little variation until he fell asleep: "He's old,
poor man--and played out! Ah, so old!" Those words expressed it all.

He was awakened again by singing and shouting up on the high-road.

"And now the boy you gave me
With the black and curly hair,
He is no longer little,
No longer, no longer,
But a fine, tall strapping youth."

It was some of the men and girls of the farm on their way home from
some entertainment. When they turned into the farm road they became
silent. It was just beginning to grow light; it must have been about
two o'clock.

IV

At four, Lasse and Pelle were dressed and were opening the
cow-stable doors on the field side. The earth was rolling off its
white covering of night mist, and the morning rose prophetically.
Lasse stood still in the doorway, yawning, and making up his mind
about the weather for the day; but Pelle let the soft tones of the
wind and the song of the lark--all that was stirring--beat upon
his little heart. With open mouth and doubtful eyes he gazed into
the incomprehensible as represented by each new day with all its
unimagined possibilities. "To-day you must take your coat with you,
for we shall have rain about midday," Lasse would then say; and
Pelle peered into the sky to find out where his father got his
knowledge from. For it generally came true.

They then set about cleaning out the dung in the cow-stable, Pelle
scraping the floor under the cows and sweeping it up, Lasse filling
the wheelbarrow and wheeling it out. At half-past five they ate
their morning meal of salt herring and porridge.

After that Pelle set out with the young cattle, his dinner basket
on his arm, and his whip wound several times round his neck. His
father had made him a short, thick stick with rings on it, that
he could rattle admonishingly and throw at the animals; but Pelle
preferred the whip, because he was not yet strong enough to use it.

He was little, and at first he had some difficulty in making an
impression upon the great forces over which he was placed. He could
not get his voice to sound sufficiently terrifying, and on the way
out from the farm he had hard work, especially up near the farm,
where the corn stood high on both sides of the field-road. The
animals were hungry in the morning, and the big bullocks did not
trouble to move when once they had their noses buried in the corn
and he stood belaboring them with the short handle of the cattle-
whip. The twelve-foot lash, which, in a practised hand, left little
triangular marks in the animal's hide, he could not manage at all;
and if he kicked the bullock on the head with his wooden shoe, it
only closed its eyes good-naturedly, and browsed on sedately with
its back to him. Then he would break into a despairing roar, or
into little fits of rage in which he attacked the animal blindly
and tried to get at its eyes; but it was all equally useless. He
could always make the calves move by twisting their tails, but
the bullocks' tails were too strong.

He did not cry, however, for long at a time over the failure of his
resources. One evening he got his father to put a spike into the toe
of one of his wooden shoes, and after that his kick was respected.
Partly by himself, and partly through Rud, he also learned where to
find the places on the animals where it hurt most. The cow-calves
and the two bull-calves all had their particular tender spot, and
a well-directed blow upon a horn could make even the large bullocks
bellow with pain.

The driving out was hard work, but the herding itself was easy.
When once the cattle were quietly grazing, he felt like a general,
and made his voice sound out incessantly over the meadow, while his
little body swelled with pride and a sense of power.

Being away from his father was a trouble to him. He did not go home
to dinner, and often in the middle of his play, despair would come
over him and he would imagine that something had happened to his
father, that the great bull had tossed him or something else; and
he would leave everything, and start running homeward crying, but
would remember in time the bailiff's whip, and trudge back again.
He found a remedy for his longing by stationing himself so that he
could keep a lookout on the fields up there, and see his father when
he went out to move the dairy-cows.

He taught himself to whittle boats and little rakes and hoes and
decorate sticks with patterns cut upon the bark. He was clever with
his knife and made diligent use of it. He would also stand for hours
on the top of a monolith--he thought it was a gate-post--and try
to crack his cattle-whip like a pistol-shot. He had to climb to a
height to get the lash off the ground at all.

When the animals lay down in the middle of the morning, he was often
tired too, and then he would seat himself upon the head of one of
the big bullocks, and hold on to the points of its horns; and while
the animal lay chewing with a gentle vibration like a machine, he
sat upon its head and shouted at the top of his voice songs about
blighted affections and horrible massacres.

Toward midday Rud came running up, as hungry as a hunter. His mother
sent him out of the house when the hour for a meal drew near. Pelle
shared the contents of his basket with him, but required him to
bring the animals together a certain number of times for every
portion of food. The two boys could not exist apart for a whole day
together. They tumbled about in the field like two puppies, fought
and made it up again twenty times a day, swore the most fearful
threats of vengeance that should come in the shape of this or that
grown-up person, and the next moment had their arms round one
another's necks.

About half-a-mile of sand-dunes separated the Stone Farm fields
from the sea. Within this belt of sand the land was stony and
afforded poor grazing; but on both sides of the brook a strip of
green meadow-land ran down among the dunes, which were covered with
dwarf firs and grass-wrack to bind the sand. The best grazing was on
this meadow-land, but it was hard work minding both sides of it, as
the brook ran between; and it had been impressed upon the boy with
severe threats, that no animal must set its foot upon the dune-land,
as the smallest opening might cause a sand-drift. Pelle took the
matter quite literally, and all that summer imagined something like
an explosion that would make everything fly into the air the instant
an animal trod upon it; and this possibility hung like a fate at the
back of everything when he herded down there. When Rud came and they
wanted to play, he drove the cattle up on to the poor pasture where
there was plenty of room for them.

When the sun shone the boys ran about naked. They dared not venture
down to the sea for fear of the bailiff, who, they were sure, always
stood up in the attic of the big house, and watched Pelle through
his telescope; but they bathed in the brook--in and out of the water
continually for hours together.

After heavy rain it became swollen, and was then quite milky from
the china clay that it washed away from the banks farther up. The
boys thought it was milk from an enormous farm far up in the island.
At high water the sea ran up and filled the brook with decaying
seaweed that colored the water crimson; and this was the blood of
all the people drowned out in the sea.

Between their bathes they lay under the dunes and let the sun dry
them. They made a minute examination of their bodies, and discussed
the use and intention of the various parts. Upon this head Rud's
knowledge was superior, and he took the part of instructor. They
often quarrelled as to which of them was the best equipped in
one way or another--in other words, had the largest. Pelle, for
instance, envied Rud his disproportionately large head.

Pelle was a well-built little fellow, and had put on flesh since
he had come to Stone Farm. His glossy skin was stretched smoothly
over his body, and was of a warm, sunburnt color. Rud had a thin
neck in proportion to his head, and his forehead was angular and
covered with scars, the results of innumerable falls. He had not
full command of all his limbs, and was always knocking and bruising
himself; there were blue, livid patches all over him that were slow
to disappear, for he had flesh that did not heal easily. But he was
not so open in his envy as Pelle. He asserted himself by boasting of
his defects until he made them out to be sheer achievements; so that
Pelle ended by envying him everything from the bottom of his heart.

Rud had not Pelle's quick perception of things, but he had more
instinct, and on certain points possessed quite a talent in
anticipating what Pelle only learned by experience. He was already
avaricious to a certain extent, and suspicious without connecting
any definite thoughts with it. He ate the lion's share of the food,
and had a variety of ways of getting out of doing the work.

Behind their play there lay, clothed in the most childish forms,
a struggle for the supremacy, and for the present Pelle was the one
who came off second best. In an emergency, Rud always knew how to
appeal to his good qualities and turn them to his own advantage.

And through all this they were the best friends in the world, and
were quite inseparable. Pelle was always looking toward "the Sow's"
cottage when he was alone, and Rud ran off from home as soon as he
saw his opportunity.

* * * * *

It had rained hard in the course of the morning, in spite of Lasse,
and Pelle was wet through. Now the blue-black cloud was drawing
away over the sea, and the boats lay in the middle of it with all
their red sails set, and yet motionless. The sunlight flashed and
glittered on wet surfaces, making everything look bright; and Pelle
hung his clothes on a dwarf fir to dry.

He was cold, and crept close up to Peter, the biggest of the
bullocks, as he lay chewing the cud. The animal was steaming, but
Pelle could not bring warmth into his extremities, where the cold
had taken hold. His teeth chattered, too, and he was shivering.

And even now there was one of the cows that would not let him have
any peace. Every time he had snuggled right in under the bullock
and was beginning to get a little warmer, the cow strayed away over
the northern boundary. There was nothing but sand there, but when
it was a calf there had been a patch of mixed crops, and it still
remembered that.

It was one of two cows that had been turned out of the dairy-herd on
account of their dryness. They were ill-tempered creatures, always
discontented and doing some mischief or other; and Pelle detested
them heartily. They were two regular termagants, upon which even
thrashing made no impression. The one was a savage beast, that would
suddenly begin stamping and bellowing like a mad bull in the middle
of grazing, and, if Pelle went toward it, wanted to toss him; and
when it saw its opportunity, it would eat up the cloth in which
Pelle's dinner was wrapped. The other was old and had crumpled horns
that pointed in toward its eyes, one of which had a white pupil.

It was the noisy one that was now at its tricks. Every other minute
Pelle had to get up and shout: "Hi, Blakka, you villainous beast!
Just you come back!" He was hoarse with anger, and at last his
patience gave way, and he caught up a big stick and began to chase
the cow. As soon as it saw his intention, it set off at a run up
toward the farm, and Pelle had to make a wide circle to turn it down
to the herd again. Then it ran at full gallop in and out among the
other animals, the herd became confused and ran hither and thither,
and Pelle had to relinquish his pursuit for a time while he gathered
them together. But then he began again at once. He was boiling with
rage, and leaped about like an indiarubber ball, his naked body
flashing in loops and curves upon the green grass. He was only a few
yards from the cow, but the distance remained the same; he could not
catch her up to-day.

He stopped up by the rye-field, and the cow stood still almost at
the same moment. It snapped at a few ears, and moved its head slowly
to choose its direction. In a couple of leaps Pelle was up to it
and had hold of its tail. He hit it over the nose with his cudgel,
it turned quickly away from the rye, and set off at a flying pace
down toward the others, while blows rained down upon its bony
prominences. Every stroke echoed back from the dunes like blows upon
the trunk of a tree, and made Pelle swell with pride. The cow tried
to shake Pelle off as it ran, but he was not to be got rid of; it
crossed the brook in long bounds, backward and forward, with Pelle
almost floating through the air; but the blows continued to rain
down upon it. Then it grew tired and began to slacken its pace;
and at last it came to a standstill, coughed, and resigned itself
to the thrashing.

Pelle threw himself flat upon his face, and panted. Ha, ha!
_That_ had made him warm! Now that beast should--He rolled
suddenly over on to his side with a start. The bailiff! But it was
a strange man with a beard who stood over him, looking at him with
serious eyes. The stranger went on gazing at him for a long time
without saying anything, and Pelle grew more and more uneasy under
his scrutiny; he had the sun right in his eyes too, if he tried to
return the man's gaze, and the cow still stood there coughing.

"What do you think the bailiff will say?" asked the man at last,
quietly.

"I don't think he's seen it," whispered Pelle, looking timidly
round.

"But God has seen it, for He sees everything. And He has led me here
to stop the evil in you while there's still time. Wouldn't you like
to be God's child?" The man sat down beside him and took his hand.

Pelle sat tugging at the grass and wishing he had had his clothes
on.

"And you must never forget that God sees everything you do; even in
the darkest night He sees. We are always walking in God's sight. But
come now, it's unseemly to run about naked!" And the man took him
by the hand and led him to his clothes, and then, going across to
the north side, he gathered the herd together while Pelle dressed
himself. The wicked cow was over there again already, and had drawn
a few of the others after it. Pelle watched the man in surprise;
he drove the animals back quite quietly, neither using stones nor
shouting. Before he got back, Blakka had once more crossed the
boundary; but he turned and brought her back again just as gently
as before.

"That's not an easy cow to manage," he said kindly, when he
returned; "but you've got young legs. Shan't we agree to burn
that?" he asked, picking up the thick cudgel, "and do what we have
to do with just our hands? God will always help you when you're
in difficulties. And if you want to be a true child of God, you
must tell the bailiff this evening what you did--and take your
punishment." He placed his hand upon Pelle's head, and looked at
him with that unendurable gaze; and then he left him, taking the
stick with him.

For a long time Pelle followed him with his eyes. So that was what
a man looked like, who was sent by God to warn you! Now he knew,
and it would be some time before he chased a cow like that again.
But go to the bailiff, and tell of himself, and get the whip-lash
on his bare legs? Not if he knew it! Rather than that, God would
have to be angry--if it was really true that He could see
everything? It couldn't be worse than the bailiff, anyhow.

All that morning he was very quiet. He felt the man's eyes upon
him in everything he did, and it robbed him of his confidence. He
silently tested things, and saw everything in a new light; it was
best not to make a noise, if you were always walking in the sight
of God. He did not go on cracking his cattle-whip, but meditated
a little on whether he should burn that too.

But a little before midday Rud appeared, and the whole incident
was forgotten. Rud was smoking a bit of cane that he had cut off
the piece his mother used for cleaning the stove-pipes, and Pelle
bartered some of his dinner for a few pulls at it. First they seated
themselves astride the bullock Cupid, which was lying chewing the
cud. It went on calmly chewing with closed eyes, until Rud put the
glowing cane to the root of its tail, when it rose hastily, both
boys rolling over its head. They laughed and boasted to one another
of the somersault they had turned, as they went up on to the high
ground to look for blackberries. Thence they went to some birds'
nests in the small firs, and last of all they set about their best
game--digging up mice-nests.

Pelle knew every mouse-hole in the meadow, and they lay down and
examined them carefully. "Here's one that has mice in it," said Rud.
"Look, here's their dunghill!"

"Yes, that smells of mouse," said Pelle, putting his nose to the
hole. "And the blades of grass turn outward, so the old ones must
be out."

With Pelle's knife they cut away the turf, and set to work eagerly
to dig with two pieces of pot. The soil flew about their heads as
they talked and laughed.

"My word, how fast we're getting on!"

"Yes; Strom couldn't work as fast!" Strom was a famous worker who
got twenty-five ores a day more than other autumn farm-hands, and
his example was used as an incentive to coax work out of the
laborers.

"We shall soon get right into the inside of the earth."

"Well, but it's burning hot in there."

"Oh, nonsense: is it?" Pelle paused doubtfully in his digging.

"Yes, the schoolmaster says so."

The boys hesitated and put their hands down into the hole. Yes,
it was warm at the bottom--so warm that Pelle found it necessary
to pull out his hand and say: "Oh, my word!" They considered a
little, and then went on scraping out the hole as carefully as if
their lives depended on it. In a little while straw appeared in
the passage, and in a moment the internal heat of the earth was
forgotten. In less than a minute they had uncovered the nest, and
laid the little pink, new-born mice out on the grass. They looked
like half-hatched birds.

"They _are_ ugly," said Pelle, who did not quite like taking
hold of them, but was ashamed not to do so. "They're much nastier
to touch than toads. I believe they're poisonous."

Rud lay pinching them between his fingers.

"Poisonous! Don't be silly! Why, they haven't any teeth! There are
no bones in them at all; I'm sure you could eat them quite well."

"Pah! Beastly!" Pelle spat on the ground.

"I shouldn't be at all afraid of biting one; would you?" Rud lifted
a little mouse up toward his mouth.

"Afraid? Of course I'm not afraid--but--" Pelle hesitated.

"No, you're afraid, because you're a blue-bag!"

Now this nickname really only applied to boys who were afraid of
water, but Pelle quickly seized one of the little mice, and held it
up to his mouth, at exactly the same distance from his lips that Rud
was from his. "You can see for yourself!" he cried, in an offended
tone.

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