Pelle the Conqueror, Vol. 2 by Martin Anderson Nexo

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Master Andres shook his head. "Suppose Bjerregrav has just sat
himself down in the nettles?"

"Why? But what else could I have done?" said the old man uneasily.

"The devil knows it won't be long before he's bankrupt. He's a
frothy old rogue," murmured the master. "Has Bjerregrav got a note
of hand?"

The old man nodded; he was quite proud of himself.

"And interest? Five per cent.?"

"No, no interest. For money to stand out and receive interest--I
don't like that. It has to suck the interest somewhere or other,
and of course it's from the poor. Interest is blood-money, Andres
--and it's a new-fangled contrivance, too. When I was young we knew
nothing about getting interest on our money."

"Yes, yes:

'Who gives to other folks his bread
And after suffers in their stead,
Why club him, club him, club him dead!'"

said the master, and went on reading.

Bjerregrav sat there sunk in his own thoughts. Suddenly he looked up.

"Can you, who are so well read, tell me what keeps the moon from
falling? I lay overnight puzzling over it, so as I couldn't sleep.
She wanders and wanders through the sky, and you can see plainly
there's nothing but air under her."

"The devil may know," said Master Andres thoughtfully. "She must
have strength of her own, so that she holds herself up."

"I've thought that myself--for obligation isn't enough. Now we can
do that--we walk and walk where we are put down, but then we've the
earth under us to support us. And you are always studying, aren't
you? I suppose you have read nearly all the books in the world?"
Bjerregrav took the master's book and felt it thoroughly. "That's
a good book," he said, striking his knuckles against the cover and
holding the book to his ear; "good material, that. Is it a lying
story or a history book?"

"It's a travel book. They go up to the North Pole, and they get
frozen in, and they don't know if they'll ever get home alive
again."

"But that's terrible--that people should risk their lives so.
I've often thought about that--what it's like at the end of the
world--but to go and find out--no, I should never have had the
courage. Never to get home again!" Bjerregrav, with an afflicted
expression, looked first at one, then at another.

"And they get frost-bite in their feet--and their toes have to be
amputated--in some cases, the whole foot."

"No, be quiet! So they lose their health, poor fellows!--I don't
want to hear any more!" The old man sat rocking himself to and
fro, as though he felt unwell. But a few moments later he asked
inquisitively: "Did the king send them up there to make war?"

"No; they went to look for the Garden of Eden. One of the people who
investigate writings has discovered that it is said to lie behind
the ice," declared the master solemnly.

"The Garden of Eden--or they call it Paradise, too--but that lies
where the two rivers fall into a third, in the East! That is quite
plainly written. Consequently what you read there is false teaching."

"It's at the North Pole, God's truth it is!" said the master, who
was inclined to be a free-thinker; "God's truth, I tell you! The
other's just a silly superstition."

Bjerregrav maintained an angry silence. He sat for some time bending
low in his chair, his eyes roaming anywhere so that they did not
meet another's. "Yes, yes," he said, in a low voice; "everybody
thinks something new in order to make himself remarkable, but no
one can alter the grave."

Master Andres wriggled impatiently to and fro; he could change
his mood like a woman. Bjerregrav's presence began to distress him.
"Now, I've learned to conjure up spirits; will Bjerregrav make
the experiment?" he said suddenly.

"No, not at any price!" said the old man, smiling uneasily.

But the master pointed, with two fingers, at his blinking eyes,
and gazed at him, while he uttered the conjuration.

"In the name of the Blood, in the name of the Sap, in the name of
all the Humors of the Body, the good and the bad alike, and in the
name of the Ocean," he murmured, crouching like a tom-cat.

"Stop it, I tell you! Stop it! I won't have it!" Bjerregrav was
hanging helplessly between his crutches, swinging to and fro,
with an eye to the door, but he could not wrest himself away from
the enchantment. Then, desperately, he struck down the master's
conjuring hand, and profited by the interruption of the incantation
to slip away.

The master sat there blowing upon his hand. "He struck out properly,"
he said, in surprise, turning his reddened hand with the palm inward.

Little Nikas did not respond. He was not superstitious, but he did
not like to hear ridicule cast upon the reality of things.

"What shall I do?" asked Peter.

"Are mate Jensen's boots ready?" The master looked at the clock.
"Then you can nibble your shin-bones."

It was time to stop work. The master took his stick and hat and
limped over to the beer-house to play a game of billiards; the
journeyman dressed and went out; the older apprentices washed their
necks in the soaking-tub. Presently they too would go out and have
a proper time of it.

Pelle gazed after them. He too experienced a desperate need to
shake off the oppressive day, and to escape out of doors, but his
stockings were nothing but holes, and his working-blouse had to be
washed so that it should be dry by the following morning. Yes, and
his shirt--and he blushed up to his ears--was it a fortnight he had
worn it, or was this the fourth week? The time had slipped past
so.... He had meant to defer the disagreeable business of washing
only for a few days--and now it had mounted up to fourteen! His body
had a horrible crawling feeling; was his punishment come upon him
because he had turned a deaf ear to the voice of conscience, and had
ignored Father Lasse's warning, that disgrace awaited those who did
not keep themselves clean?

No, thank God! But Pelle had received a thorough fright, and
his ears were still burning as he scrubbed his shirt and blouse
downstairs in the yard. It would be well to take it as a timely
warning from on high!

And then blouse and shirt were hanging on the fence, spreading
themselves abroad as though they wanted to hug the heavens for joy
in their cleanliness. But Pelle sat dejectedly upstairs, at the
window of the apprentices' garret, one leg outside, so that part
of him at least was in the open air. The skillful darning which his
father had taught him was not put into practice here; the holes were
simply cobbled together, so that Father Lasse would have sunk into
the earth for shame. Gradually he crept right out on to the roof;
below, in the skipper's garden, the three girls were wandering idly,
looking over toward the workshop, and evidently feeling bored.

Then they caught sight of him, and at once became different beings.
Manna came toward him, thrust her body impatiently against the stone
wall, and motioned to him with her lips. She threw her head back
imperiously, and stamped with her feet--but without making a sound.
The other two were bent double with suppressed laughter.

Pelle understood perfectly what this silent speech intended, but for
a time he courageously stood his ground. At last, however, he could
endure it no longer; he threw everything aside and next moment was
with the girls.

All Pelle's dreams and unuttered longings hovered over those places
where men disported themselves. To him nothing was more ridiculous
than to run after petticoats. Women, for Pelle, were really rather
contemptible; they had no strength, and very little intelligence;
indeed, they understood nothing but the art of making themselves
ornamental. But Manna and her sisters were something apart; he was
still enough of a child to play, and they were excellent playmates.

Manna--the wild cat--was afraid of nothing; with her short skirts
and her pigtail and her skipping movements she reminded him of a
frolicsome, inquisitive young bird--Skip! out of the thicket and
back again! She could climb like a boy, and could carry Pelle all
round the garden on her back; it was really an oversight that she
should have to wear skirts. Her clothes wouldn't keep on her, and
she was always tumbling into the workshop, having torn something
or other off her shoes. Then she would turn everything upside down,
take the master's stick away, so that he could not move, and would
even get her fingers among the journeyman's American tools.

She was on good terms with Pelle the very first day.

"Whose new boy are you?" she asked him, smacking him on the back.
And Pelle laughed, and returned her look frankly, with that
immediate comprehension which is the secret of our early years.
There was no trace of embarrassment between them; they had always
known one another, and could at any time resume their play just
where they had left off. In the evening Pelle used to station
himself by the garden wall and wait for her; then in a moment he
was over and in the middle of some game.

Manna was no ordinary cry-baby; not one who seeks to escape the
consequences of her action by a display of tears. If she let herself
in for a scuffle, she never sued for mercy, however hardly it went
with her. But Pelle was to a certain extent restrained by the fact
of her petticoats. And she, on one occasion, did not deny that she
wished she could only be a little stronger!

But she had courage, and Pelle, like a good comrade, gave as good
as he got, except in the workshop, where she bullied him. If she
assailed him from behind, dropping something down his neck or
pushing him off his wooden stool, he restrained himself, and was
merely thankful that his bones were still unbroken.

All his best hours were spent in the skipper's garden, and this
garden was a wonderful place, which might well hold his senses
captive. The girls had strange outlandish names, which their father
had brought home with him on his long voyages: Aina, Dolores, and
Sjermanna! They wore heavy beads of red coral round their necks and
in their ears. And about the garden lay gigantic conch-shells, in
which one could hear the surging of the ocean, and tortoise-shells
as big as a fifteen-pound loaf, and whole great lumps of coral.

All these things were new to Pelle, but he would not allow them to
confound him; he enrolled them as quickly as possible among the
things that were matters of course, and reserved himself the right
to encounter, at any moment, something finer and more remarkable.

But on some evenings he would disappoint the girls, and would stroll
about the town where he could see real life--or go down to the dunes
or the harbor. Then they would stand dejectedly at the garden wall,
bored and quarrelsome. But on Sundays, as soon as he had finished in
the workshop, he would faithfully appear, and they would spin out
their games, conscious of a long day in front of them. They played
games innumerable, and Pelle was the center of them all; he could
turn himself to anything; he became everything in turn--lawful
husband, cannibal, or slave. He was like a tame bear in their hands;
they would ride on him, trample all over him, and at times they
would all three fall upon him and "murder" him. And he had to lie
still, and allow them to bury his body and conceal all traces of it.
The reality of the affair was enhanced by the fact that he was
really covered with earth--all but his face, which was left bare
only from necessity--they contented themselves with covering that
with withered leaves. When he cried afterward over the state of his
fine confirmation clothes, they brushed him with solicitous hands,
and when he could scarcely be comforted they all three kissed him.
With them he was always referred to as "Manna's husband."

So Pelle's days went by. He had a certain grim humor rather than
a cheerful mind; he felt gloomy, and as though things were going
badly with him; and he had no one to lean upon. But he continued his
campaign against the town, undaunted; he thought of it night and day,
and fought, it in his sleep.

"If you're ever in a difficulty, you've always Alfred and Albinus
to help you out," Uncle Kalle had said, when Pelle was bidding him
good-bye; and he did not fail to look them up. But the twins were
to-day the same slippery, evasive customers as they were among the
pastures; they ventured their skins neither for themselves nor for
anybody else.

In other respects they had considerably improved. They had come
hither from the country in order to better their positions, and to
that end had accepted situations which would serve them until they
had saved sufficient to allow them to commence a more distinguished
career. Albinus had advanced no further, as he had no inclination
to any handicraft. He was a good-tempered youth, who was willing
to give up everything else if only he could practise his acrobatic
feats. He always went about balancing something or other, taking
pains to put all sorts of objects to the most impossible uses. He
had no respect for the order of nature; he would twist his limbs
into all imaginable positions, and if he threw anything into the air
he expected it to stay there while he did something else. "Things
must be broken in as well as animals," he would say, and persevere
indefatigably. Pelle laughed; he liked him, but he did not count on
him any further.

Alfred had struck out in quite another direction. He no longer
indulged in hand-springs, but walked decorously on his legs, had
always much ado to pull down and straighten his collar and cuffs,
and was in continual anxiety as to his clothes. He was now
apprentice to a painter, but had a parting in his hair like a
counter-jumper, and bought all sorts of things at the chemist's,
which he smeared on his hair. If Pelle ran across him in the street,
Alfred always made some excuse to shake him off; he preferred to
associate with tradesmen's apprentices, and was continually greeting
acquaintances right and left--people who were in a better position
than himself. Alfred put on airs of importance which made Pelle long
one fine day to cudgel him soundly.

The twins resembled one another in this--no one need look to them
for assistance of any kind. They laughed comfortably at the very
idea, and if any one made fun of Pelle they joined in the laughter.

It was not easy to get on. He had quite shaken off the farm-boy; it
was his poverty that gave him trouble now. He had recklessly bound
himself as apprentice for board and lodging; he had a few clothes on
his body, and he had not thought other requisites necessary for one
who did not stroll up and down and gad about with girls. But the
town demanded that he should rig himself out. Sunday clothes were
here not a bit too good for weekdays. He ought to see about getting
himself a rubber collar--which had the advantage that one could wash
it oneself; cuffs he regarded as a further desideratum. But that
needed money, and the mighty sum of five kroner, with which he had
set out to conquer the world, or, at the worst, to buy it--well, the
town had enticed it out of his pocket before he was aware of it.

Hitherto Father Lasse had taken all very difficult matters upon
himself; but now Pelle stood alone, and had only himself to rely on.
Now he stood face to face with life, and he struggled courageously
forward, like the excellent boy he was. But at times he broke down.
And this struggle was a drag upon all his boyish doings and
strivings.

In the workshop he made himself useful and tried to stand well
with everybody. He won over little Nikas by drawing a somewhat
extravagant representation of his betrothed from a photograph. The
face would not come out quite right; it looked as though some one
had trodden on it; but the clothes and the brooch at the throat were
capital. The picture hung for a week in the workshop, and brought
Pelle a wonderful piece of luck: Carlsen, who ran errands for the
stone-workers, ordered two large pictures, one of himself and one of
his wife, at the rate of twenty-five ore apiece. "But you must show
a few curls in my hair," he said, "for my mother's always wished I
had curls."

Pelle could not promise the pictures in less than two months' time;
it was tedious work if they were to be accurate.

"Well, well; we can't spare the money sooner. This month there's
the lottery, and next month the rent to pay." Pelle could very well
appreciate that, for Carlsen earned eight kroner a week and had nine
children. But he felt that he could not well reduce the price. Truly,
people weren't rolling in money here! And when for once he actually
had a shilling in hand, then it was sure to take to its heels under
his very nose, directly he began to rack his brains to decide how
it could most usefully be applied: on one such occasion, for example,
he had seen, in a huckster's window, a pipe in the form of a
boot-leg, which was quite irresistible.

When the three girls called to him over the garden wall his
childhood found companionship, and he forgot his cares and struggles.
He was rather shy of anybody seeing him when he slipped across; he
felt that his intercourse with the children was not to his credit;
moreover, they were only "petticoats." But he felt that he was lucky
to be there, where there were curious things which were useful to
play with--Chinese cups and saucers, and weapons from the South Sea
Islands. Manna had a necklace of white teeth, sharp and irregular,
strung together in a haphazard way, which she maintained were human
teeth, and she had the courage to wear them round her bare neck.
And the garden was full of wonderful plants; there were maize, and
tobacco, and all sorts of other plants, which were said, in some
parts of the world, to grow as thick as corn does at home.

They were finer of skin than other folk, and they were fragrant of
the strange places of the world. And he played with them, and they
regarded him with wonder and mended his clothes when he tore them;
they made him the center of all their games--even when he was not
present. There was a secret satisfaction in this--although he
accepted it as a matter of course, it was a portion of all that
fate and good fortune had reserved for him, a slight advance payment
from the infinite fairy-tale of life. He longed to rule over them
absolutely, and if they were obstinate he lectured them angrily, so
that they suddenly gave in to him. He knew well enough that every
proper man makes his wife behave submissively.

So passed the early summer; time was moving onward. The townsfolk
had already, at Whitsuntide, provided themselves with what they
needed for the summer, and out in the country people had other
things to think about than trapesing into town with work for the
artisans; the coming harvest occupied all their thoughts. Even in
the poorest quarters, where no work was done for the peasants, one
realized how utterly dependent the little town was upon the country.
It was as though the town had in a moment forgotten its superiority;
the manual workers no longer looked down on the peasants; they
looked longingly toward the fields, spoke of the weather and the
prospects of harvest, and had forgotten all their urban interests.
If by exception a farmer's cart came through the streets, people
ran to the window to look after it. And as the harvest stood almost
at their doors, it seemed as though old memories were calling to
them, and they raised their heads to listen; those who could gave up
their town life and went into the country to help in the work of
harvest. Both the journeyman and the two apprentices had left the
workshop; Jens and Pelle could comfortably manage the work.

Pelle saw nothing of this stagnant mood; he was occupied on all
sides in keeping a whole skin and getting the utmost out of life;
there were thousands of impressions of good and evil which had to be
assimilated, and which made a balanced whole--that remarkable thing,
the town, of which Pelle never knew whether he felt inclined to
bless it or curse it,--or it always held him in suspense.

And amidst all his activities, Lasse's face rose up before him and
made him feel lonely in the midst of the bustle. Wherever could
Father Lasse be? Would he ever hear of him again? Every day he had
expected, in reliance on Karna's word, to see him blundering in at
the door, and when anybody fumbled at the door-knocker he felt quite
certain it was Lasse. It became a silent grief in the boy's mind,
a note that sounded through all that he undertook.

V

One Sunday evening, as Pelle was running down East Street, a cart
loaded with household goods came jolting in from the country. Pelle
was in a great hurry, but was obliged to look at it. The driver sat
in front, below the load, almost between the horses; he was tall and
had ruddy cheeks, and was monstrously wrapped up, in spite of the
heat. "Hallo!" Why, it was the worthy Due, Kalle's son-in-law; and
above him, in the midst of all the lumber, sat Anna and the children,
swaying to and fro with the motion of the cart. "Hullo!" Pelle waved
his cap, and with one spring he had his foot on the shaft and was
sitting next to Due, who was laughing all over his face at the
encounter.

"Yes, we've had enough of the farming country, and now we've come
to see if things aren't better here in town," said Due, in his quiet
manner. "And here you are, running about just like you did at home!"
There was amazement in his voice.

Anna came crawling over the load, and smiled down upon him.

"Have you news of Father Lasse?" Pelle asked her. This was always
his question when he met an acquaintance.

"Yes, that we have--he's just going to buy a farm up on the heath.
Now, you devil, are you goin' to behave?" Anna crawled backward,
and a child began to cry. Then she reappeared. "Yes, and we were
to remember father to you, and mother, and all the rest."

But Pelle had no thoughts to spare for Uncle Kalle.

"Is it up by Stone Farm?" he asked.

"No--farther to the east, by the Witch's Cell," said Due. "It is a
big piece of land, but it's not much more than stone. So long as he
doesn't ruin himself over it--two have gone smash there before him.
He's arranged it together with Karna."

"Uncle Lasse will know what he's about," said Anna. "Karna has
found the money for it; she has something saved."

Pelle couldn't sit still; his heart leaped in his body at this news.
No more uncertainty--no more horrible possibilities: he had his
father once more! And the dream of Lasse's life was about to be
fulfilled: he could now put his feet under his own table. He had
become a landowner into the bargain, if one didn't use the term
too precisely; and Pelle himself--why, he was a landowner's son!

By nine o'clock in the evening he had finished everything, and was
able to get off; his blood was pulsing with excitement.... Would
there be horses? Why, of course; but would there be laborers, too?
Had Father Lasse become one of those farmers who pay wages on
a quarter-day, and come into town on a Sunday afternoon, their
fur-lined collars up to their ears? Pelle could see the men quite
plainly going up the stairs, one after another, taking off their
wooden shoes and knocking on the door of the office--yes, they
wanted to see about an advance on their wages. And Lasse scratched
the back of his head, looked at them thoughtfully, and said: "Not on
any account, you'd only waste it on drink." But he gave it to them
finally, for all that. "One is much too good-natured," he said to
Pelle....

For Pelle had bidden farewell to cobbling, and was living at home
as a landowner's son. Really, Pelle managed the whole business--only
it wouldn't do to say so. And at the Christmas feast he danced with
the buxom farmer's daughters. There was whispering in the corners
when Pelle made his appearance; but he went straight across the room
and invited the Pastor's daughter to a dance, so that she lost her
breath, and more besides, and begged him on the spot to marry her....

He hurried onward, still dreaming; longing drew him onward, and
before he knew it he had travelled some miles along the high-road.
The road he now turned into led him by pine woods and heath-covered
hills; the houses he passed were poorer, and the distance from one
to another was increasing.

Pelle took a turning a little farther on, which, to the best of his
knowledge, led in the required direction, and hurried forward with
awakened senses. The landscape was only half revealed by the summer
night, but it was all as familiar as the mends in the back of Father
Lasse's waistcoat, although he had never been here before. The
poverty-stricken landscape spoke to him as with a mother's voice.
Among these clay-daubed huts, the homes of poor cultivators who
waged war upon the rocky ground surrounding their handful of soil,
he felt safe as he had never felt before. All this had been his
through many generations, down to the rags thrust into the broken
window-panes and the lumber piled upon the thatch to secure it. Here
was nothing for any one to rack his brains over, as elsewhere in the
world; here a man could lie down at peace and rest. Yet it was not
for him to till the ground and to dwell amid all these things. For
he had outgrown them, as he had outgrown the shelter of his mother's
skirts.

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