Pelle the Conqueror, Vol. 2 by Martin Anderson Nexo

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"Grandmother shouldn't talk like that," said the mother of the boys.

"Yes, yes; but I'm sick of it all--and yet I can't think about dying!
How can I go and lay me down--who would take a stick to Peter?--the
strong man!" she said contemptuously.

"Grandmother had better go quietly and lie down; I can manage Peter
best if I'm alone with him," said the wife, but the old woman did
not move.

"Can't you get her to go, Morten?" whispered the mother. "You are
the only one she will listen to."

Morten lectured the old woman until he had enticed her away; he had
to promise to go with her and arrange the bedclothes over her feet.

"Now, thank goodness, we've got her out of the way!" said the mother,
relieved. "I'm always so afraid that father might forget what he's
doing when he's like he is now; and she doesn't think of giving in
to him, so it's flint against flint. But now I think you ought to go
where the rest of the young folks are, instead of sitting here and
hanging your heads."

"We'll stay and see whether father comes," declared Morten.

"But what does it matter to you--you can say good-day to father at
any time. Go now--listen--father prefers to find me alone when he's
like this and comes home merry. Perhaps he takes me in his arms and
swings me round--he's so strong--so that I feel as giddy as a young
girl. 'Ho, heigh, wench, here's the "Great Power"!' he says, and he
laughs as loud as he used to in his rowdy young days. Yes, when he's
got just enough in him he gets as strong and jolly as ever he was in
his very best days. I'm glad it's soon over. But that's not for you
--you had better go." She looked at them appealingly, and shrank
back as some one fumbled at the door. Out-of-doors it was terrible
weather.

It was only the youngest, who had come home from her day's work. She
might have been ten or twelve years old and was small for her age,
although she looked older; her voice was harsh and strident, and
her little body seemed coarsened and worn with work. There was not
a spot about her that shed or reflected a single ray of light; she
was like some subterranean creature that has strayed to the surface.
She went silently across the room and let herself drop into her
grandmother's chair; she leaned over to one side as she sat, and
now and again her features contracted.

"She's got that mischief in her back," said the mother, stroking her
thin, unlovely hair. "She got it always carrying the doctor's little
boy--he's so tall and so heavy. But as long as the doctor says
nothing, it can't be anything dangerous. Yes, you did really leave
home too early, my child; but, after all, you get good food and you
learn to be smart. And capable, that she is; she looks after the
doctor's three children all by herself! The eldest is her own age,
but she has to dress and undress her. Such grand children, they
don't even learn how to do things for themselves!"

Pelle stared at her curiously. He himself had put up with a good
deal, but to cripple himself by dragging children about, who were
perhaps stronger than himself--no, no one need expect that of him!
"Why do you carry the over-fed brat?" he asked.

"They must have some one to look after them," said the mother, "and
their mother, who's the nearest to them, she doesn't feel inclined
to do it. And they pay her for it."

"If it was me, I'd let the brat fall," said Pelle boldly.

The little girl just glanced at him with her dull eyes, and a
feeble interest glimmered in them. But her face retained its frozen
indifference, and it was impossible to say what she was thinking,
so hard and experienced was her expression.

"You mustn't teach her anything naughty," said the mother; "she has
enough to struggle against already; she's got an obstinate nature.
And now you must go to bed, Karen"--she caressed her once more--
"Father can't bear to see you when he's had too much. He's so fond
of her," she added helplessly.

Karen drew away from the caress without the slightest change of
expression; silently she went up to the garret where she slept.
Pelle had not heard her utter a sound.

"That's how she is," said the mother, shivering. "Never a word to
say 'good night'! Nothing makes any impression on her nowadays--
neither good nor bad; she's grown up too soon. And I have to manage
so that father doesn't see her when he's merry. He goes on like a
wild beast against himself and everybody else when it comes across
his mind how she's been put upon." She looked nervously at the clock.
"But go now--do listen! You'll do me a great favor if you'll go!"
She was almost crying.

Morten stood up, hesitating, and the others followed his example.
"Pull your collars up and run," said the mother, and buttoned up
their coats. The October gale was beating in gusts against the house,
and the rain was lashing violently against the window-panes.

As they were saying good night a fresh noise was heard outside. The
outer door banged against the wall, and they heard the storm burst
in and fill the entry. "Ah, now it's too late!" lamented the mother
reproachfully. "Why didn't you go sooner?" A monstrous breathing
sounded outside, like the breathing of a gigantic beast, sniffing up
and down at the crack of the door, and fumbling after the latch with
its dripping paws. Jens wanted to run and open the door. "No, you
mustn't do that!" cried his mother despairingly, and she pushed the
bolt. She stood there, rigid, her whole body trembling. Pelle too
began to shiver; he had a feeling that the storm itself was lying
there in the entry like a great unwieldy being, puffing and snorting
in a kind of gross content, and licking itself dry while it waited
for them.

The woman bent her ear to the door, listening in frantic suspense.
"What is he up to now?" she murmured; "he is so fond of teasing!"
She was crying again. The boys had for the moment forgotten her.

Then the outer door was beaten in, and the monster got up on all
four dripping paws, and began to call them with familiar growls.
The woman turned about in her distress; waving her hands helplessly
before her, and then clapping them to her face. But now the great
beast became impatient; it struck the door sharply, and snarled
warningly. The woman shrank back as though she herself were about
to drop on all fours and answered him. "No, no!" she cried, and
considered a moment. Then the door was burst in with one tremendous
blow, and Master Bruin rolled over the threshold and leaped toward
them in clumsy jumps, his head thrown somewhat backward as though
wondering why his little comrade had not rushed to meet him, with
an eager growl. "Peter, Peter, the boy!" she whispered, bending over
him; but he pushed her to the floor with a snarl, and laid one heavy
paw upon her. She tore herself away from him and escaped to a chair.

"Who am I?" he asked, in a stumbling, ghostly voice, confronting
her.

"The great strong man!" She could not help smiling; he was ramping
about in such a clumsy, comical way.

"And you?"

"The luckiest woman in all the world!" But now her voice died away
in a sob.

"And where is the strong man to rest to-night?" He snatched at her
breast.

She sprang up with blazing eyes. "You beast--oh, you beast!" she
cried, red with shame, and she struck him in the face.

The "Great Power" wiped his face wonderingly after each blow. "We're
only playing," he said. Then, in a flash, he caught sight of the
boys, who had shrunk into a corner. "There you are!" he said, and he
laughed crazily; "yes, mother and I, we're having a bit of a game!
Aren't we, mother?"

But the woman had run out of doors, and now stood under the eaves,
sobbing.

Jorgensen moved restlessly to and fro. "She's crying," he muttered.
"There's no grit in her--she ought to have married some farmer's
lad, devil take it, if the truth must be told! It catches me here
and presses as though some one were shoving an iron ferrule into my
brain. Come on, 'Great Power'! Come on! so that you can get some
peace from it! I say every day. No, let be, I say then--you must
keep a hold on yourself, or she just goes about crying! And she's
never been anything but good to you! But deuce take it, if it would
only come out! And then one goes to bed and says, Praise God, the
day is done--and another day, and another. And they stand there and
stare--and wait; but let them wait; nothing happens, for now the
'Great Power' has got control of himself! And then all at once it's
there behind! Hit away! Eight in the thick of the heap! Send them
all to hell, the scoundrels! 'Cause a man must drink, in order to
keep his energies in check.... Well, and there she sits! Can one
of you lend me a krone?"

"Not I!" said Jens.

"No, not you--he'd be a pretty duffer who'd expect anything from you!
Haven't I always said 'he takes after the wrong side'? He's like his
mother. He's got a heart, but he's incapable. What can you really do,
Jens? Do you get fine clothes from your master, and does he treat
you like a son, and will you finish up by taking over the business
as his son-in-law? And why not? if I may ask the question. Your
father is as much respected as Morten's."

"Morten won't be a son-in-law, either, if his master has no
daughter," Jens muttered.

"No. But he might have had a daughter, hey? But there we've got an
answer. You don't reflect. Morten, he's got something there!" He
touched his forehead.

"Then you shouldn't have hit me on the head," retorted Jens sulkily.

"On the head--well! But the understanding has its seat in the head.
That's where one ought to hammer it in. For what use would it be,
I ask you, supposing you commit some stupidity with your head and I
smack you on the behind? You don't need any understanding there? But
it has helped--you've grown much smarter. That was no fool's answer
you gave me just now: 'Then you shouldn't have hit me on the head!'"
He nodded in acknowledgment. "No, but here is a head that can give
them some trouble--there are knots of sense in this wood, hey?" And
the three boys had to feel the top of his head.

He stood there like a swaying tree, and listened with a changing
expression to the less frequent sobs of his wife; she was now
sitting by the fire, just facing the door. "She does nothing but
cry," he said compassionately; "that's a way the women have of
amusing themselves nowadays. Life has been hard on us, and she
couldn't stand hardships, poor thing! For example, if I were to say
now that I'd like to smash the stove"--and here he seized a heavy
chair and waved it about in the air--"then she begins to cry. She
cries about everything. But if I get on I shall take another wife
--one who can make a bit of a show. Because this is nonsense. Can
she receive her guests and make fine conversation? Pah! What the
devil is the use of my working and pulling us all out of the mud?
But now I'm going out again--God knows, it ain't amusing here!"

His wife hurried across to him. "Ah, don't go out, Peter--stay
here, do!" she begged.

"Am I to hang about here listening to you maundering on?" he asked
sulkily, shrugging his shoulders. He was like a great, good-natured
boy who gives himself airs.

"I won't maunder--I'm ever so jolly--if only you'll stay!" she
cried, and she smiled through her tears. "Look at me--don't you
see how glad I am? Stay with me, do, 'Great Power!'" She breathed
warmly into his ear; she had shaken off her cares and pulled herself
together, and was now really pretty with her glowing face.

The "Great Power" looked at her affectionately; he laughed stupidly,
as though he was tickled, and allowed himself to be pulled about; he
imitated her whisper to the empty air, and was overflowing with good
humor. Then he slyly approached his mouth to her ear, and as she
listened he trumpeted loudly, so that she started back with a little
cry. "Do stay, you great baby!" she said, laughing. "I won't let you
go; I can hold you!" But he shook her off, laughing, and ran out
bareheaded.

For a moment it looked as though she would run after him, but then
her hands fell, and she drooped her head. "Let him run off," she
said wearily; "now things must go as they will. There's nothing to
be done; I've never seen him so drunk. Yes, you look at me, but you
must remember that he carries his drink differently to every one
else--he is quite by himself in everything!" She said this with a
certain air of pride. "And he has punished the shipowner--and even
the judge daren't touch him. The good God Himself can't be more
upright than he is."

X

Now the dark evenings had come when the lamp had to be lit early for
the workers. The journeyman left while it was still twilight; there
was little for him to do. In November the eldest apprentice had
served his time. He was made to sit all alone in the master's room,
and there he stayed for a whole week, working on his journeyman's
task--a pair of sea-boots. No one was allowed to go in to him, and
the whole affair was extremely exciting. When the boots were ready
and had been inspected by some of the master-shoemakers, they were
filled to the top with water and suspended in the garret; there they
hung for a few days, in order to show that they were water-tight.
Then Emil was solemnly appointed a journeyman, and had to treat the
whole workshop. He drank brotherhood with little Nikas, and in the
evening he went out and treated the other journeymen--and came home
drunk as a lord. Everything passed off just as it should.

On the following day Jeppe came into the workshop. "Well, Emil, now
you're a journeyman. What do you think of it? Do you mean to travel?
It does a freshly baked journeyman good to go out into the world and
move about and learn something."

Emil did not reply, but began to bundle his things together. "No,
no; it's not a matter of life and death to turn you out. You can
come to the workshop here and share the light and the warmth until
you've got something better--those are good conditions, it seems
to me. Now, when I was learning, things were very different--a kick
behind, and out you went! And that's for young men--it's good for
them!"

He could sit in the workshop and enumerate all the masters in the
whole island who had a journeyman. But that was really only a joke
--it never happened that a new journeyman was engaged. On the other
hand, he and the others knew well enough how many freshly-baked
journeymen had been thrown on to the streets that autumn.

Emil was by no means dejected. Two evenings later they saw him off
on the Copenhagen steamer. "There is work enough," he said, beaming
with delight. "You must promise me that you'll write to me in a
year," said Peter, who had finished his apprenticeship at the same
time. "That I will!" said Emil.

But before a month had passed they heard that Emil was home again.
He was ashamed to let himself be seen. And then one morning he came,
much embarrassed, slinking into the workshop. Yes, he had got work
--in several places, but had soon been sent away again. "I have
learned nothing," he said dejectedly. He loitered about for a time,
to enjoy the light and warmth of the workshop, and would sit there
doing some jobs of cobbling which he had got hold of. He kept
himself above water until nearly Christmas-time, but then he gave
in, and disgraced his handicraft by working at the harbor as an
ordinary stevedore.

"I have wasted five years of my life," he used to say when they met
him; "Run away while there's time! Or it'll be the same with you as
it was with me." He did not come to the workshop any longer out of
fear of Jeppe, who was extremely wroth with him for dishonoring his
trade.

It was cozy in the workshop when the fire crackled in the stove and
the darkness looked in at the black, uncovered window-panes. The
table was moved away from the window so that all four could find
place about it, the master with his book and the three apprentices
each with his repairing job. The lamp hung over the table, and
smoked; it managed to lessen the darkness a little. The little light
it gave was gathered up by the great glass balls which focussed it
and cast it upon the work. The lamp swayed slightly, and the specks
of light wriggled hither and thither like tadpoles, so that the work
was continually left in darkness. Then the master would curse and
stare miserably at the lamp.

The others suffered with their eyes, but the master sickened in
the darkness. Every moment he would stand up with a shudder. "Damn
and blast it, how dark it is here; it's as dark as though one lay
in the grave! Won't it give any light to-night?" Then Pelle would
twist the regulator, but it was no better.

When old Jeppe came tripping in, Master Andres looked up without
trying to hide his book; he was in a fighting mood.

"Who is there?" he asked, staring into the darkness. "Ah, it's
father!"

"Have you got bad eyes?" asked the old man derisively. "Will you
have some eye-water?"

"Father's eye-water--no thanks! But this damned light--one can't
see one's hand before one's face!"

"Open your mouth, then, and your teeth will shine!" Jeppe spat the
words out. This lighting was always a source of strike between them.

"No one else in the whole island works by so wretched a light,
you take my word, father."

"In my time I never heard complaints about the light," retorted
Jeppe. "And better work has been done under the glass ball than
any one can do now with all their artificial discoveries. But it's
disappearing now; the young people to-day know no greater pleasure
than throwing their money out of the window after such modern
trash."

"Yes, in father's time--then everything was so splendid!" said
Master Andres. "That was when the angels ran about with white sticks
in their mouths!"

In the course of the evening now one and another would drop in to
hear and tell the news. And if the young master was in a good temper
they would stay. He was the fire and soul of the party, as old
Bjerregrav said; he could, thanks to his reading, give explanations
of so many things.

When Pelle lifted his eyes from his work he was blind. Yonder, in
the workshop, where Baker Jorgen and the rest sat and gossiped, he
could see nothing but dancing specks of light, and his work swam
round in the midst of them; and of his comrades he saw nothing but
their aprons. But in the glass ball the light was like a living
fire, in whose streams a world was laboring.

"Well, this evening there's a capital light," said Jeppe, if one
of them looked to the lamp.

"You mean there's no light at all!" retorted Master Andres,
twisting the regulator.

But one day the ironmonger's man brought something in a big basket
--a hanging lamp with a round burner; and when it was dark the
ironmonger himself came in order to light it for the first time, and
to initiate Pelle into the management of the wonderful contrivance.
He went to work very circumstantially and with much caution. "It can
explode, I needn't tell you," he said, "but you'd have to treat the
mechanism very badly first. If you only set to work with care and
reason there is no danger whatever."

Pelle stood close to him, holding the cylinder, but the others
turned their heads away from the table, while the young master
stood right at the back, and shuffled to and fro. "Devil knows
I don't want to go to heaven in my living body!" he said, with
a comical expression; "but deuce take it, where did you get the
courage, Pelle? You're a saucy young spark!" And he looked at him
with his wide, wondering gaze, which held in it both jest and
earnest.

At last the lamp shone out; and even on the furthest shelf, high
up under the ceiling, one could count every single last. "That's
a regular sun!" said the young master, and he put his hand to his
face; "why, good Lord, I believe it warms the room!" He was quite
flushed, and his eyes were sparkling.

The old master kept well away from the lamp until the ironmonger
had gone; then he came rushing over to it. "Well, aren't you blown
sky-high?" he asked, in great astonishment. "It gives an ugly light
--oh, a horrible light! Poof, I say! And it doesn't shine properly;
it catches you in the eyes. Well, well, you can spoil your sight as
far as I'm concerned!"

But for the others the lamp was a renewal of life. Master Andres
sunned himself in its rays. He was like a sun-intoxicated bird; as
he sat there, quite at peace, a wave of joy would suddenly come over
him. And to the neighbors who gathered round the lamp in order to
discover its qualities he held forth in great style, so that the
light was doubled. They came often and stayed readily; the master
beamed and the lamp shone; they were like insects attracted by the
light--the glorious light!

Twenty times a day the master would go out to the front door, but
he always came in again and sat by the window to read, his boot with
the wooden heel sticking out behind him. He spat so much that Pelle
had to put fresh sand every day under his place.

"Is there some sort of beast that sits in your chest and gnaws?"
said Uncle Jorgen, when Andres' cough troubled him badly. "You look
so well otherwise. You'll recover before we know where we are!"

"Yes, thank God!" The master laughed gaily between two attacks.

"If you only go at the beast hard enough, it'll surely die. Now,
where you are, in your thirtieth year, you ought to be able to get
at it. Suppose you were to give it cognac?"

Jorgen Kofod, as a rule, came clumping in with great wooden shoes,
and Jeppe used to scold him. "One wouldn't believe you've got a
shoemaker for a brother!" he would say crossly; "and yet we all
get our black bread from you."

"But what if I can't keep my feet warm now in those damned leather
shoes? And I'm full through and through of gout--it's a real misery!"
The big baker twisted himself dolefully.

"It must be dreadful with gout like that," said Bjerregrav. "I
myself have never had it."

"Tailors don't get gout," rejoined Baker Jorgen scornfully. "A
tailor's body has no room to harbor it. So much I do know--twelve
tailors go to a pound."

Bjerregrav did not reply.

"The tailors have their own topsy-turvy world," continued the baker.
"I can't compare myself with them. A crippled tailor--well, even he
has got his full strength of body."

"A tailor is as fine a fellow as a black-bread baker!" stammered
Bjerregrav nervously. "To bake black bread--why, every farmer's
wife can do that!"

"Fine! I believe you! Hell and blazes! If the tailor makes a cap
he has enough cloth left over to make himself a pair of breeches.
That's why tailors are always dressed so fine!" The baker was
talking to the empty air.

"Millers and bakers are always rogues, everybody says." Old
Bjerregrav turned to Master Andres, trembling with excitement.
But the young master stood there looking gaily from one to the
other, his lame leg dangling in the air.

"For the tailor nothing comes amiss--there's too much room in me!"
said the baker, as though something were choking him. "Or, as
another proverb says--it's of no more consequence than a tailor in
hell. They are the fellows! We all know the story of the woman who
brought a full-grown tailor into the world without even knowing she
was with child."

Jeppe laughed. "Now, that's enough, really; God knows neither of
you will give in to the other."

"Well, and I've no intention of trampling a tailor to death, if it
can anyhow be avoided--but one can't always see them." Baker Jorgen
carefully lifted his great wooden shoes. "But they are not men.
Now is there even one tailor in the town who has been overseas? No,
and there were no men about while the tailor was being made. A woman
stood in a draught at the front door, and there she brought forth
the tailor." The baker could not stop himself when once he began
to quiz anybody; now that Soren was married, he had recovered all
his good spirits.

Bjerregrav could not beat this. "You can say what you like about
tailors," he succeeded in saying at last. "But people who bake
black bread are not respected as handicraftsmen--no more than the
washerwoman! Tailoring and shoemaking, they are proper crafts,
with craftman's tests, and all the rest."

"Yes, shoemaking of course is another thing," said Jeppe.

"But as many proverbs and sayings are as true of you as of us,"
said Bjerregrav, desperately blinking.

"Well, it's no longer ago than last year that Master Klausen married
a cabinet-maker's daughter. But whom must a tailor marry? His own
serving-maid?"

"Now how can you, father!" sighed Master Andres. "One man's as good
as another."

"Yes, you turn everything upside down! But I'll have my handicraft
respected. To-day all sorts of agents and wool-merchants and other
trash settle in the town and talk big. But in the old days the
handicraftsmen were the marrow of the land. Even the king himself
had to learn a handicraft. I myself served my apprenticeship in the
capital, and in the workshop where I was a prince had learned the
trade. But, hang it all, I never heard of a king who learned
tailoring!"

They were capable of going on forever in this way, but, as the
dispute was at its worst, the door opened, and Wooden-leg Larsen
stumped in, filling the workshop with fresh air. He was wearing a
storm-cap and a blue pilot-coat. "Good evening, children!" he said
gaily, and threw down a heap of leather ferrules and single boots
on the window-bench.

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