Pelle the Conqueror, Vol. 1 by Martin Anderson Nexo

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"What are you doing?" he asked boldly, feeling that he was in his
own domain. "Are you saying your prayers?"

The man did not answer, but remained in a kneeling posture. At last
he rose, and spat out tobacco-juice.

"I'm praying to Him Who is to judge us all," he said, looking
steadily at Pelle.

Pelle recognized that look. It was the same in expression as that
of the man the other day--the one that had been sent by God. Only
there was no reproach in it.

"Haven't you any bed to sleep in then?" asked Pelle. "I always say
my prayers under the clothes. He hears them just as well! God knows
everything."

The young man nodded, and began moving about the stones on
the cairn.

"You mustn't hurt that," said Pelle firmly, "for there's a little
baby buried there."

The young man turned upon him a strange look.

"That's not true!" he said thickly; "for the child lies up in
the churchyard in consecrated earth."

"O--oh, inde--ed?" said Pelle, imitating his father's slow tones.
"But I know it was the parents that drowned it--and buried it here."
He was too proud of his knowledge to relinquish it without a word.

The man looked as if he were about to strike him, and Pelle
retreated a little, and then, having confidence in his legs,
he laughed openly. But the other seemed no longer aware of his
presence, and stood looking dully past the cairn. Pelle drew
nearer again.

The man started at Pelle's shadow, and heaved a deep sigh. "Is that
you?" he said apathetically, without looking at Pelle. "Why can't
you leave me alone?"

"It's _my_ field," said Pelle, "because I herd here; but you
may stay here if you won't hit me. And you mustn't touch the cairn,
because there's a little baby buried there."

The young man looked gravely at Pelle. "It's not true what you
say! How dare you tell such a lie? God hates a lie. But you're
a simple-hearted child, and I'll tell you all about it without
hiding anything, as truly as I only want to walk wholly in God's
sight."

Pelle looked at him uncomprehendingly. "I should think I ought to
know all about it," he said, "considering I know the whole song by
heart. I can sing it to you, if you like. It goes like this." Pelle
began to sing in a voice that was a little tremulous with shyness--

"So happy are we in our childhood's first years,
Neither sorrow nor sin is our mead;
We play, and there's nought in our path to raise fears
That it straight into prison doth lead.

Right many there are that with voice sorrowful
Must oft for lost happiness long.
To make the time pass in this prison so dull,
I now will write down all my song.

I played with my father, with mother I played,
And childhood's days came to an end;
And when I had grown up into a young maid,
I played still, but now with my friend.

I gave him my day and I gave him my night,
And never once thought of deceit;
But when I him told of my sorrowful plight,
My trust I had cause to regret.

'I never have loved you,' he quickly did say;
'Begone! I'll ne'er see you again!'
He turned on his heel and went angry away.
'Twas then I a murd'ress became."

Here Pelle paused in astonishment, for the grown-up man had sunk
forward as he sat, and he was sobbing. "Yes, it was wicked," he
said. "For then she killed her child and had to go to prison." He
spoke with a certain amount of contempt; he did not like men that
cried. "But it's nothing that you need cry about," he added
carelessly, after a little.

"Yes, it is; for she'd done nothing. It was the child's father that
killed it; it was me that did the dreadful thing; yes, I confess
that I'm a murderer! Haven't I openly enough acknowledged by
wrongdoing?" He turned his face upward, as though he were speaking
to God.

"Oh, was it you?" said Pelle, moving a little away from him. "Did
you kill your own child? Father Lasse could never have done that!
But then why aren't you in prison? Did you tell a lie, and say
_she'd_ done it?"

These words had a peculiar effect upon the fisherman. Pelle stood
watching him for a little, and then exclaimed: "You do talk so
queerly--'blop-blop-blop,' just as if you were from another country.
And what do you scrabble in the air with your fingers for, and cry?
Will you get a thrashing when you get home?"

At the word "cry," the man burst into a flood of tears. Pelle had
never seen any one cry so unrestrainedly. His face seemed all
blurred.

"Will you have a piece of my bread-and-butter?" he asked, by way of
offering comfort. "I've got some with sausage on."

The fisherman shook his head.

Pelle looked at the cairn. He was obstinate, and determined not
to give in.

"It _is_ buried there," he said. "I've seen its soul myself,
burning up on the top of the heap at night. That's because it can't
get into heaven."

A horrible sound came from the fisherman's lips, a hollow groan that
brought Pelle's little heart into his mouth. He began to jump up and
down in fear, and when he recovered his senses and stopped, he saw
the fisherman running with head bent low across the meadow, until
he disappeared among the dunes.

Pelle gazed after him in astonishment, and then moved slowly toward
his dinner-basket. The result of the encounter was, as far as it
had gone, a disappointment. He had sung to a perfect stranger, and
there was no denying that that was an achievement, considering how
difficult it often was only to answer "yes" or "no" to somebody
you'd never seen before. But he had hardly more than begun the
verses, and what made the performance remarkable was that he knew
the entire ballad by heart. He sang it now for his own benefit from
beginning to end, keeping count of the verses on his fingers; and
he found the most intense satisfaction in shouting it out at the
top of his voice.

In the evening he as usual discussed the events of the day with his
father, and he then understood one or two things that filled his
mind with uncomfortable thoughts. Father Lasse's was as yet the only
human voice that the boy wholly understood; a mere sigh or shake of
the head from the old man had a more convincing power than words
from any one else.

"Alas!" he said again and again. "Evil, evil everywhere; sorrow and
trouble wherever you turn! He'd willingly give his life to go to
prison in her stead, now it's too late! So he ran away when you
said that to him? Well, well, it's not easy to resist the Word of
God even from the lips of a child, when the conscience is sore; and
trading in the happiness of others is a bad way of earning a living.
But now see about getting your feet washed, laddie."

Life furnished enough to work at and struggle with, and a good deal
to dread; but worse almost than all that would harm Pelle himself,
were the glimpses he now and then had of the depths of humanity:
in the face of these his child's brain was powerless. Why did the
mistress cry so much and drink secretly? What went on behind the
windows in the big house? He could not comprehend it, and every time
he puzzled his little brain over it, the uncomfortable feeling only
seemed to stare out at him from all the window-panes, and sometimes
enveloped him in all the horror of the incomprehensible.

But the sun rode high in the heavens, and the nights were light.
The darkness lay crouching under the earth and had no power. And
he possessed the child's happy gift of forgetting instantly and
completely.

VI

Pelle had a quick pulse and much energy, and there was always
something that he was attempting to overtake in his restless onward
rush--if nothing else, then time itself. Now the rye was all in, now
the last stack disappeared from the field, the shadows grew longer
every day. But one evening the darkness surprised him before his
bedtime, and this made him serious. He no longer hastened on the
time, but tried to hold it back by many small sun-signs.

One day the men's midday rest was taken off. They harnessed the
horses again as soon as they had eaten their dinner, and the
chaff-cutting was put off until the evening. The horse-way lay on
the outer side of the stable, and none of the men cared to tramp
round out there in the dark, driving for the chaff-cutter, so Pelle
had to do it. Lasse protested and threatened to go to the farmer,
but it was of no use; every evening Pelle had to be out there for
a couple of hours. They were his nicest hours that they took from
him, the hours when he and Father Lasse pottered about in the
stable, and talked themselves happily through all the day's troubles
into a common bright future; and Pelle cried. When the moon chased
the clouds away and he could see everything round him distinctly,
he allowed his tears to run freely; but on dark evenings he was
quiet and held his breath. Sometimes when it rained it was so dark
that the farm and everything disappeared; and then he saw hundreds
of beings that at other times the light hid. They appeared out of
the darkness, terribly big, or came sliding up to him upon their
bellies. He grew rigid as he gazed, and could not take his eyes from
them. He sought shelter under the wall, and encouraged the horse
from there; and one evening he ran in. They chased him out again,
and he submitted to be chased, for when it came to the point he
was more afraid of the men inside than of the beings outside. But
one pitch-dark evening he was in an unusually bad way, and when he
discovered that the horse, his only comfort, was also afraid, he
dropped everything and ran in for the second time. Threats were
powerless to make him go out again, and blows equally so, and one
of the men took him up and carried him out; but then Pelle forgot
everything, and screamed till the house shook.

While they were struggling with him, the farmer came out. He was
very angry when he heard what was the matter, and blew the foreman
up sky high. Then he took Pelle by the hand, and went down with him
to the cow-stable. "A man like you to be afraid of a little dark!"
he said jokingly. "You must try to get the better of that. But if
the men harm you, just you come to me."

The plough went up and down the fields all day long, and made the
earth dark in color, the foliage became variegated, and there was
often sleet. The coats of the cattle grew thicker, their hair grew
long and stood up on their backs. Pelle had much to put up with,
and existence as a whole became a shade more serious. His clothing
did not become thicker and warmer with the cold weather like that
of the cattle; but he could crack his whip so that it sounded, in
the most successful attempts, like little shots; he could thrash
Rud when there was no unfairness, and jump across the stream at
its narrowest part. All that brought warmth to the body.

The flock now grazed all over the farm-lands, wherever the cows had
been tethered; the dairy-cows being now indoors; or they went inland
on the fens, where all the farms had each a piece of grass-land.
Here Pelle made acquaintance with herd-boys from the other farms,
and looked into quite another world that was not ruled by bailiff
and farm-pupil and thrashings, but where all ate at the same table,
and the mistress herself sat and spun wool for the herd-boys'
stockings. But he could never get in there, for they did not take
Swedes at the small farms, nor would the people of the island take
service together with them. He was sorry for this.

As soon as the autumn ploughing was started up on the fields, the
boys, according to old custom, took down the boundary-fences and let
all the animals graze together. The first few days it gave them more
to do, for the animals fought until they got to know one another.
They were never wholly mingled; they always grazed in patches, each
farm's flock by itself. The dinner-baskets were also put together,
and one boy was appointed in turn to mind the whole herd. The other
boys played at robbers up among the rocks, or ran about in the woods
or on the shore. When it was really cold they lighted bonfires, or
built fireplaces of flat stones, where they roasted apples and eggs
which they stole from the farms.

It was a glorious life, and Pelle was happy. It was true he was the
smallest of them all, and his being a Swede was a drawback to him.
In the midst of their play, the others would sometimes begin to
mimic his way of talking, and when he grew angry asked why he did
not draw his knife. But on the other hand he was from the biggest
farm, and was the only one that had bullocks in his herd; he was
not behind them in physical accomplishments, and none of them could
carve as he could. And it was his intention, when he grew big, to
thrash them all.

In the meantime he had to accommodate himself to circumstances,
ingratiate himself with the big ones, wherever he discovered there
was a flaw in their relations to one another, and be obliging. He
had to take his turn oftener than the others, and came off badly at
mealtimes. He submitted to it as something unavoidable, and directed
all his efforts toward getting the best that it was possible to get
out of the circumstances; but he promised himself, as has been said,
the fullest reparation when he grew big.

Once or twice it became too hot for him, and he left the community
and kept by himself; but he soon returned to the others again. His
little body was bursting with courage to live the life, and would
not let him shirk it; he must take his chance--eat his way through.

One day there came two new boys, who herded cattle from two farms
on the other side of the stone-quarry. They were twins, and their
names were Alfred and Albinus. They were tall, thin lads, who looked
as if they might have been half-starved when they were little; their
skin had a bluish tinge, and stood the cold badly. They were quick
and active, they could overtake the quickest calf, they could walk
on their hands and smoke at the same time, and not only vault but
really jump obstacles. They were not much good at fighting; they
were lacking in courage, and their ability forsook them in an
emergency.

There was something comical about the two brothers. "Here are the
twins, the twelvins!" cried the whole flock in greeting, the first
morning they appeared. "Well, how many times have you had a baby in
your house since last year?" They belonged to a family of twelve,
and among these there had twice been twins, and this of itself was
an inexhaustible source of raillery; and moreover they were half
Swedish. They shared the disadvantage with Pelle.

But nothing seemed to have any effect upon them; they grinned at
everything, and gave themselves away still more. From all he saw and
heard, Pelle could understand that there was something ridiculous
about their home in the eyes of the parish; but they did not mind
that. It was the fecundity of their parents that was the special
subject of derision, and the two boys quite happily exposed them
to ridicule, and would tell all about the most private home matters.
One day when the flock had been most persistent in calling
"Twelvins!" they said, grinning, that their mother would soon be
having a thirteenth. They were incapable of being wounded.

Every time they exposed their parents to ridicule, it hurt Pelle,
for his own feelings on this point were the most sacred that he had.
Try as he would, he could not understand them; he had to go to his
father with the matter one evening.

"So they mock and make fun of their own parents?" said Lasse. "Then
they'll never prosper in this world, for you're to honor your father
and mother. Good parents who have brought them into the world with
pain, and must toil hard, perhaps hunger and put up with much
themselves, to get food and clothing for them! Oh, it's a shame!
And you say their surname is Karlsson like ours, and that they live
on the heath behind the stone-quarry? Then they must be brother
Kalle's sons! Why, bless my soul, if I don't believe that's it! You
ask them tomorrow if their father hasn't a notch in his right ear!
I did it myself with a piece of a horse-shoe when we were little
boys one day I was in a rage with him because he made fun of me
before the others. He was just the same as those two, but he didn't
mean anything by it, there was nothing ill-natured about him."

The boys' father _had_ a notch in his right ear. Pelle and
they were thus cousins; and the way that both they and their parents
were made fun of was a matter for both laughter and tears. In a way,
Father Lasse too came in for a share of the ridicule, and that
thought was hardly to be endured.

The other boys quickly discovered Pelle's vulnerable point, and used
it for their own advantage; and Pelle had to give way and put up
with things in order to keep his father out of their conversation.
He did not always succeed, however. When they were in the mood, they
said quite absurd things about one another's homes. They were not
intended to be taken for more than they were worth, but Pelle did
not understand jokes on that head. One day one of the biggest boys
said to him: "Do you know, your father was the cause of his own
mother's having a child!" Pelle did not understand the play of words
in this coarse joke, but he heard the laughter of the others, and
becoming blind with rage, he flew at the big boy, and kicked him so
hard in the stomach, that he had to keep his bed for several days.

During those days, Pelle went about in fear and trembling. He dared
not tell his father what had happened, for then he would be obliged
to repeat the boy's ugly accusation, too; so he went about in dread
of the fatal consequences. The other boys had withdrawn themselves
from him, so as not to share the blame if anything came of it; the
boy was a farmer's son--the only one in the company--and they had
visions of the magistrate at the back of the affair, and perhaps a
caning at the town-hall. So Pelle went by himself with his cattle,
and had plenty of time to think about the event, which, by the
force of his lively imagination, grew larger and larger in its
consequences, until at last it almost suffocated him with terror.
Every cart he saw driving along the high-road sent a thrill through
him; and if it turned up toward Stone Farm, he could distinctly see
the policemen--three of them--with large handcuffs, just as they had
come to fetch Erik Erikson for ill-treating his wife. He hardly
dared drive the cattle home in the evening.

One morning the boy came herding over there with his cattle, and
there was a grown-up man with him, whom, from his clothes and
everything else about him, Pelle judged to be a farmer--was it the
boy's father? They stood over there for a little while, talking to
the herd-boys, and then came across toward him, with the whole pack
at their heels, the father holding his son by the hand.

The perspiration started from every pore of Pelle's body; his fear
prompted him to run away, but he stood his ground. Together the
father and son made a movement with their hand, and Pelle raised
both elbows to ward off a double box-on-the-ears.

But they only extended their hands. "I beg your pardon," said the
boy, taking one of Pelle's hands; "I beg your pardon," repeated the
father, clasping his other hand in his. Pelle stood in bewilderment,
looking from one to the other. At first he thought that the man was
the same as the one sent by God; but it was only his eyes--those
strange eyes. Then he suddenly burst into tears and forgot all else
in the relief they brought from the terrible anxiety. The two spoke
a few kind words to him, and quietly went away to let him be alone.

After this Pelle and Peter Kure became friends, and when Pelle
learnt to know him better, he discovered that sometimes the boy had
a little of the same look in his eyes as his father, and the young
fisherman, and the man that was sent by God. The remarkable course
that the event had taken occupied his mind for a long time. One day
a chance comparison of his experiences brought him to the discovery
of the connection between this mysterious expression in their eyes
and their remarkable actions; the people who had looked at him with
those eyes had all three done unexpected things. And another day it
dawned upon him that these people were _religious_; the boys
had quarrelled with Peter Kure that day, and had used the word as
a term of abuse against his parents.

There was one thing that was apparent, and outweighed everything,
even his victory. He had entered the lists with a boy who was bigger
and stronger than he, and had held his own, because for the first
time in his life he had struck out recklessly. If you wanted to
fight, you had to kick wherever it hurt most. If you only did that,
and had justice on your side, you might fight anybody, even a
farmer's son. These were two satisfactory discoveries, which for
the present nothing could disturb.

Then he had defended his father; that was something quite new and
important in his life. He required more space now.

At Michaelmas, the cattle were taken in, and the last of the day-
laborers left. During the summer, several changes had been made
among the regular servants at the farm, but now, at term-day, none
were changed; it was not the habit of Stone Farm to change servants
at the regular term-times.

So Pelle again helped his father with the foddering indoors.
By rights he should have begun to go to school, and a mild
representation of this fact was made to the farmer by the school
authorities; but the boy was very useful at home, as the care of
the cattle was too much for one man; and nothing more was heard
about the matter. Pelle was glad it was put off. He had thought
much about school in the course of the summer, and had invested it
with so much that was unfamiliar and great that he was now quite
afraid of it.

VII

Christmas Eve was a great disappointment. It was the custom for
the herd-boys to come out and spend Christmas at the farms where
they served in the summer, and Pelle's companions had told him
of all the delights of Christmas--roast meat and sweet drinks,
Christmas games and ginger-nuts and cakes; it was one endless
eating and drinking and playing of Christmas games, from the evening
before Christmas Eve until "Saint Knut carried Christmas out," on
January 7th. That was what it was like at all the small farms, the
only difference being that those who were religious did not play
cards, but sang hymns instead. But what they had to eat was just
as good.

The last few days before Christmas Pelle had to get up at two or
half-past two to help the girls pluck poultry, and the old thatcher
Holm to heat the oven. With this his connection with the delights
of Christmas came to an end. There was dried cod and boiled rice on
Christmas Eve, and it tasted good enough; but of all the rest there
was nothing. There were a couple of bottles of brandy on the table
for the men, that was all. The men were discontented and quarrelsome.
They poured milk and boiled rice into the leg of the stocking that
Karna was knitting, so that she was fuming the whole evening; and
then sat each with his girl on his knee, and made ill-natured
remarks about everything. The old farm-laborers and their wives,
who had been invited to partake of the Christmas fare, talked about
death and all the ills of the world.

Upstairs there was a large party. All the wife's relations were
invited, and they were hard at work on the roast goose. The yard was
full of conveyances, and the only one of the farm-servants who was
in good spirits was the head man, who received all the tips. Gustav
was in a thoroughly bad humor, for Bodil was upstairs helping to
wait. He had brought his concertina over, and was playing love-songs.
It was putting them into better spirits, and the evil expression was
leaving their eyes; one after another they started singing, and it
began to be quite comfortable down there. But just then a message
came to say that they must make less noise, so the assembly broke up,
the old people going home, and the young ones dispersing in couples
according to the friendships of the moment.

Lasse and Pelle went to bed.

"What's Christmas really for?" asked Pelle.

Lasse rubbed his thigh reflectively.

"It has to be," he answered hesitatingly. "Yes, and then it's the
time when the year turns round and goes upward, you see! And of
course it's the night when the Child Jesus was born, too!" It took
him a long time to produce this last reason, but when it did come
it was with perfect assurance. "Taking one thing with another, you
see," he added, after a short pause.

On the day after Christmas Day there was a kind of subscription
merrymaking at an enterprising crofter's down in the village; it
was to cost two and a half krones a couple for music, sandwiches,
and spirits in the middle of the night, and coffee toward morning.
Gustav and Bodil were going. Pelle at any rate saw a little of
Christmas as it passed, and was as interested in it as if it
concerned himself; and he gave Lasse no rest from his questions
that day. So Bodil was still faithful to Gustav, after all!

When they got up the next morning, they found Gustav lying on the
ground by the cow-stable door, quite helpless, and his good clothes
in a sad state. Bodil was not with him. "Then she's deceived him,"
said Lasse, as they helped him in. "Poor boy! Only seventeen, and
a wounded heart already! The women'll be his ruin one of these days,
you'll see!"

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