Pelle the Conqueror, Vol. 4 by Martin Anderson Nexo

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"You don't know how much better and happier you'll be when you get out
to Pelle's," said Morten.

"I could easily get up and do the work of the house, so that you didn't
need to have a woman," she whispered, gazing at him passionately with
her big eyes. "I'm well enough now."

"My dear child, that's not what I mean at all! It's for your sake. Don't
you understand that?" said Morten earnestly, bending over her.

Johanna's gaze wandered round hopelessly, as if she had given up all
thought of being understood any more.

"I don't think we'll move her against her will," said Morten, as he went
down with Pelle. "She is so capricious in her moods. I think, too, I
should miss her, for she's a good little soul. When she's up she goes
creeping about and is often quite touching in her desire to make me
comfortable. And suddenly recollections of her former life awaken in her
and darken her mind; she's still very mistrustful and afraid of being
burdensome. But she needs the companionship of women, some one to whom
she can talk confidentially. She has too much on her mind for a child."

"Couldn't you both move out to us? You can have the two upstairs rooms."

"That's not a bad idea," exclaimed Morten. "May I have two or three days
to think it over? And my love to Ellen and the children!"

XIII

When the workshop closed, Pelle often went on working for an hour or two
in the shop, getting the accounts straight and arranging the work for
the following day in the intervals of attending to customers. A little
before six he closed the shop, mounted his bicycle and hastened home
with longing for the nest in his heart.

Every one else seemed to feel as he did. There was a peculiar homeward
current in the traffic of the streets. Cyclists overtook him in whole
flocks, and raced in shoals in front of the trams, which looked as if
they squirted them away from the lines as they worked their way along
with incessant, deafening ringing, bounding up and down under the weight
of the overfilled platforms.

Crowds of men and women were on their way out, and met other crowds
whose homes were in the opposite quarter. On the outskirts of the town
the factory whistles were crowing like a choir of giant cocks, a single
one beginning, the others all joining in. Sooty workmen poured out of
the gates, with beer-bottles sticking out of coat-pockets and dinner
handkerchiefs dangling from a finger. Women who had been at work or out
making purchases, stood with their baskets on their arms, waiting for
their husbands at the corner of the street. Little children tripping
along hand in hand suddenly caught sight of a man far off in the crowd,
and set off at a run to throw themselves at his legs.

Sister often ran right across the fields to meet her father, and Ellen
stood at the gate of "Daybreak" and waited. "Good-day, Mr.
Manufacturer!" she cried as he approached. She was making up for so much
now, and was glowing with health and happiness. It was no use for Pelle
to protest, and declare that in his world there were only workmen; she
would not give up the title. He was the one who directed the whole
thing, and she did not mind about the fellowship. She was proud of him,
and he might call himself an errand-boy if he liked; men must always
have some crochet or other in their work, or else it would not satisfy
them. The arrangement about the equal division she did not understand,
but she was sure that her big, clever husband deserved to have twice as
much as any of the others. She did not trouble her head about that,
however; she lived her own life and was contented and happy.

Pelle had feared that she would tire of the country, and apparently she
did not take to it. She weeded and worked in the garden with her
customary energy, and by degrees acquired a fair knowledge of the work;
but it did not seem to afford her any peculiar enjoyment. It was no
pleasure to her to dig her fingers into the mould. Pelle and the
children throve here, and that determined her relations to the place;
but she did not strike root on her own account. She could thrive
anywhere in the world if only they were there; and their welfare was
hers. She grew out from them, and had her own wonderful growth inward.

Within her there were strange hidden forces that had nothing to do with
theories or systems, but produced the warmth that bore up the whole.
Pelle no longer desired to force his way in there. What did he care
about logical understanding between man and woman? It was her heart with
which he needed to be irradiated. He required to be understood by his
friends. His great satisfaction in being with, for instance, Morten, was
that in perfect unanimity they talked until they came to a stopping-
place, and if they were then silent their thoughts ran on parallel lines
and were side by side when they emerged once more. But even if he and
Ellen started from the same point, the shortest pause would take their
thoughts in different directions; he never knew where she would appear
again. No matter how well he thought he knew her, she always came up
just as surprisingly and unexpectedly behind him. And was it not just
that he loved? Why then contend with it on the basis of the claims of a
poor logic?

She continued to be just as unfathomable, no matter how much of her he
thought he had mastered. She became greater and greater with it, and she
brought him a new, strange world--the mysterious unknown with which he
had always had to strive, allowed itself to be tenderly embraced. He no
longer demanded the whole of her; in his inmost soul probably every
human being was lonely. He guessed that she was going through her own
development in concealment, and wondered where she would appear again.

It had formerly been a grief to him that she did not join the Movement;
she was not interested in political questions and the suffrage. He now
dimly realized that that was just her strength, and in any case he did
not wish her otherwise. She seldom interfered definitely with what he
did, and why should she? She exerted a silent influence upon everything
he did, stamped each of his thoughts from the moment they began to shoot
up. For the very reason that she did not know how to discuss, she could
not be refuted; what to him was downright logic had no effect whatever
upon her. He did not get his own thoughts again stale from her lips, and
did not wish to either; her wonderful power over him lay in the fact
that she rested so securely on her own, and answered the most crushing
arguments with a smile. Pelle was beginning to doubt as to the value of
superiority of intellect; it seemed to have undisputed rule over the
age, but did not accomplish chiefly good. As compared with Ellen's
nature, it seemed to him poor. The warmth in a kiss convinced her better
than a thousand sensible reasons, and yet she seldom made a mistake.

And she herself gave out warmth. They went to her, both he and the
children, when there was anything wrong. She did not say much, but she
warmed. She still always seemed to him like a pulse that beat, living
and palpable, out from the invisible, with a strangely tranquil speech.
When his head was hot and tired with adverse happenings, there was
nothing more delightful than to rest it upon her bosom and listen, only
half awake, to the dull, soothing murmur within like that of the earth's
springs when, in his childhood, he laid his ear to the grass.

The spring was beautiful, and they were much out in it; when no one
could see them they walked hand-in-hand along the dikes like two young
lovers. Then Pelle talked and showed her things. Look! there it grew in
that way, and here in quite a different way. Was it not strange? He
lived over again all his childhood's excitement in spring. Ellen
listened to him, smiling; she was not astonished at anything so natural
as that things grew; she was merely _transformed!_ The earth simply
sent up its juices into her too.

The fresh air and the work in the garden tanned her bare arms, and gave
strength and beauty to her figure, while her easy circumstances freed
her from care. One day a new being showed in her eyes, and looked at
Pelle with the inquisitiveness of a kid. "Shall we play?" it said. Was
it he or the spring that set fire to her? No matter! The pleasure was
his! The sunshine entered the innermost corners of his soul, the musty
corners left by the darkness of his prison-cell, and cured him
completely; her freedom from care infected him, and he was entirely
happy. It was Ellen who had done it all; at last she had taken upon
herself to be the messenger between joy and him!

She became gentler and more vigorous in disposition every day. The sun
and the wind across the open country called forth something in her that
had never been there before, an innocent pleasure in her own body and a
physical appetite that made her teeth white and gleaming. She was
radiant with delight when Pelle brought her little things to adorn
herself with; she did not use them for the children now! "Look!" she
said once, holding up a piece of dark velvet to her face which in the
evening gave out again the warmth of the sun, as hay its scent. "You
must give me a dress like this when we become rich." And her eyes
sparkled as she looked at him, full of promises of abundant returns. He
thought he belonged to the soil, and yet it was through her that he
first really came into contact with it! There was worship of nature in
the appetite with which she crunched the first radishes of the year and
delighted in their juicy freshness; and when in the evening he sprang
from his bicycle and took her in his arms, she herself exhaled the fresh
perfume of all that had passed through the spring day--the wind and the
products of the soil. He could smell in her breath the perfume of wild
honey, mixed with the pollen and nectar of wild flowers; and she would
close her eyes as though she herself were intoxicated with it.

Their dawning affection became passionate first love out here. Ellen was
always standing at the gate waiting for him. As soon as Pelle had had
his supper, the children dragged him round the garden to show him what
had taken place during the day. They held his hands and Ellen had to
walk by herself. Pelle and she had an intense desire to be close
together, but the little ones would not submit to be set aside. "He's
our father!" they said; and Pelle and Ellen were like two young people
that are kept cruelly apart by a remorseless fate, and they looked at
one another with eyes that were heavy with expression.

When the little ones had gone to bed they stole away from it all,
leaving Lasse Frederik in charge of the house. He had seen an artist
sitting outside the hedge and painting the smoky city in the spring
light, and had procured himself a paintbox. He sat out there every
evening now, daubing away busily. He did not mean to be a sailor now!

They went up past the farm and on toward the evening sun, walked hand-
in-hand in the dewy grass, gazing silently in front of them. The ruddy
evening light colored their faces and made their eyes glow. There was a
little grove of trees not far off, to which they often went so as to be
quite away from the world. With their arms round one another they passed
into the deep twilight, whispering together. Now and then she bent her
head back for him to kiss her, when an invisible ray would strike her
eye and be refracted into a rainbow-colored star, in the darkness.

A high dike of turfs ran along the edge of the wood, and low over it
hung hazel and young beech trees. In under the branches there were
little bowers where they hid themselves; the dead leaves had drifted
together in under the dike and made a soft couch. The birds above their
heads gave little sleepy chirps, turned on the branch and twittered
softly as though they dreamed the day's melodies over again. Sometimes
the moon peeped in at them with a broad smile. The heavy night-
exhalations of the leaves lulled them to sleep, and sometimes they were
only wakened by the tremor that passes through everything when the sun
rises. Pelle would be cold then, but Ellen's body was always warm
although she had removed some of her clothing to make a pillow for their
heads.

She still continued to be motherly; her devotion only called forth new
sides of her desire for self-sacrifice. How rich she was in her
motherliness! She demanded nothing but the hard ground, and could not
make herself soft enough: everything was for him. And she could make
herself so incomprehensibly soft! Providence had thrown all His riches
and warmth into her lap; it was no wonder that both life and happiness
had made their nesting-place there.

Their love increased with the sunshine, and made everything bright and
good; there was no room for any darkness. Pelle met all troubles with a
smile. He went about in a state of semi-stupor, and even his most
serious business affairs could not efface Ellen's picture from his mind.
Her breath warmed the air around him throughout the day, and made him
hasten home. At table at home they had secret signs that referred to
their secret world. They were living in the first love of youth with all
its sweet secrecy, and smiled at one another in youthful, stealthy
comprehension, as though the whole world were watching them and must
learn nothing. If their feet touched under the table, their eyes met and
Ellen would blush like a young girl. Her affection was so great that she
could not bear it to be known, even to themselves. A red flame passed
over her face, and her eyes were veiled as though she hid in them the
unspeakable sweetness of her tryst from time to time. She rarely spoke
and generally answered with a smile; she sang softly to herself, filled
with the happiness of youth.

* * * * *

One afternoon when he came cycling home Ellen did not meet him as usual.
He became anxious, and hurried in. The sofa was made into a bed, and
Ellen was standing by it, bending over Johanna, who lay shivering with
fever. Ellen raised her head and said, "Hush!" The children were sitting
in a corner gazing fearfully at the sick girl, who lay with closed eyes,
moaning slightly.

"She came running out here this afternoon," whispered

Ellen, looking strangely at him; "I can't think why. She's terribly ill!
I've sent Lasse Frederik in to Morten, so that he may know she's with
us."

"Have you sent for the doctor?" asked Pelle, bending down over Johanna.

"Yes. Lasse Frederik will tell Morten to bring his doctor with him. He
must know her best. I should think they'll soon be here."

A shivering fit came over Johanna. She lay working her tongue against
the dry roof of her mouth, now and then uttering a number of
disconnected words, and tossing to and fro upon the bed. Suddenly she
raised herself in terror, her wide-open eyes fixed upon Pelle, but with
no recognition in them. "Go away! I won't!" she screamed, pushing him
away. His deep voice calmed her, however, and she allowed herself to be
laid down once more, and then lay still with closed eyes.

"Some one has been after her," said Ellen, weeping. "What can it be?"

"It's the old story," Pelle whispered with emotion. "Morten says that it
constantly reappears in her.--Take the children out into the garden,
Ellen. I'll stay here with her."

Ellen went out with the little ones, who could hardly be persuaded to
come out of their corner; but it was not long before their chattering
voices could be heard out on the grass.

Pelle sat with his hand on Johanna's forehead, staring straight before
him. He had been rudely awakened to the horror of life once more.
Convulsive tremors passed through her tortured brow. It was as if he
held in his hand a fluttering soul that had been trodden in the mire
beneath heavy heels--a poor crushed fledgeling that could neither fly
nor die.

He was roused by the sound of a carriage driving quickly up to the
garden gate, and went out to meet the men.

The doctor was very doubtful about Johanna's condition. "I'm afraid that
the fits will increase rather than decrease," he said in a whisper. "It
would be better if she were sent to the hospital as soon as she's able
to be moved."

"Would it be better for her?" asked Ellen.

"No, not exactly for her, but--she'll be a difficult patient, you know!"

"Then she shall remain here," said Ellen; "she shall be well looked
after."

Lasse Frederik had to take his bicycle and ride to the chemist's, and
immediately after the doctor drove away.

They sat outside the garden door, so that they could hear any sound from
the sick girl, and talked together in low tones. It was sad to see
Morten; Johanna's flight from him had wounded him deeply.

"I wonder why she did it?" said Pelle.

"She's been strange ever since you came up and proposed that she should
come out to you," said Morten sadly. "She got it into her head that she
was a burden to me and that I would like to get rid of her. Two or three
days ago she got up while I was out, and began working in the house--I
suppose as a return for my keeping her. She's morbidly sensitive. When I
distinctly forbade her she declared that she wouldn't owe me anything
and meant to go away. I knew that she might very likely do it in spite
of her being ill, so I stayed at home. At midday to-day I just went down
to fetch milk, and when I came up she was gone. It was a good thing she
came out here; I think she'd do anything when once the idea's taken her
that she's a burden."

"She must be very fond of you," said Ellen, looking at him.

"I don't think so," answered Morten, with a sad smile. "At any rate,
she's hidden it well. My impression is that she's hated me ever since
the day we spoke of her coming out here.--May I stay here for the
night?"

"If you can put up with what we have," answered Ellen. "It won't be a
luxurious bed, but it'll be something to lie down on."

Morten did not want a bed, however. "I'll sit up and watch over
Johanna," he said.

XIV

The house was thus transformed into a nursing home. It was a hard hit at
their careless happiness, but they took it as it came. Neither of them
demanded more of life than it was capable of.

Ellen was with the sick girl day and night until the worst was over; she
neglected both Pelle and the children to give all her care to Johanna.

"You've got far too much to do," said Pelle anxiously. "It'll end in
your being ill too. Do let us have help!" And as Ellen would not hear of
it, he took the matter into his own hands, and got "Queen Theresa" to be
out there during the day.

In the course of a few days Morten arranged his affairs, got rid of his
flat, and moved out to them. "You won't be able to run away from me,
after all," he said to Johanna, who was sitting up in bed listening to
the carrying upstairs of his things. "When you're well enough you shall
be moved up into the big attic; and then we two shall live upstairs and
be jolly again, won't we?"

She made no answer, but flushed with pleasure.

Ellen now received from Morten the amount he usually spent in a month on
food and house-rent. She was quite disconcerted. What was she to do with
all that money? It was far too much! Well, they need no longer be
anxious about their rent.

Johanna was soon so far recovered as to be able to get up for a little.
The country air had a beneficial effect upon her nerves, and Ellen knew
how to keep her in good spirits. Old Brun made her a present of a
beautiful red and yellow reclining chair of basket work; and when the
sun shone she was carried out onto the grass, where she lay and watched
the children's play, sometimes joining in the game from her chair, and
ordering them hither and thither. Boy Comfort submitted to it good-
naturedly, but Sister was a little more reserved. She did not like this
stranger to call Pelle "father"; and when she was in a teasing mood she
would stand a little way off and repeat again and again: "He's not your
father, for he's mine!" until Ellen took her away.

Johanna mostly lay, however, gazing into space with an expression of the
utmost weariness. For a moment her attention would be attracted by
anything new, but then her eyes wandered away again. She was never well
enough to walk about; even when she felt well, her legs would not
support her. Brun came out to "Daybreak" every afternoon to see her. The
old man was deeply affected by her sad fate, and had given up his usual
holiday trip in order to keep himself acquainted with her condition. "We
must do something for her," he said to the doctor, who paid a daily
visit at his request. "Is there nothing that can be done?"

The doctor shook his head. "She couldn't be better off anywhere than she
is here," he said.

They were all fond of her, and did what they could to please her. Brun
always brought something with him, expensive things, such as beautiful
silk blankets that she could have over her when she lay out in the
garden, and a splendid coral necklace. He got her everything that he
could imagine she would like. Her eyes sparkled whenever she received
anything new, and she put everything on. "Now I'm a princess in all her
finery," she whispered, smiling at him; but a moment after she had
forgotten all about it. She was very fond of the old man, made him sit
beside her, and called him "grandfather" with a mournful attempt at
roguishness. She did not listen to what he told her, however, and when
the little ones crept up and wanted him to come with them to play in the
field, he could quite well go, for she did not notice it.

Alas! nothing could reconcile her child's soul to her poor, maltreated
body, neither love nor trinkets. It was as though it were weary of its
covering and had soared as far out as possible, held captive by a thin
thread that would easily wear through. She grew more transparent every
day; it could be clearly seen now that she had the other children beside
her. They ate and throve for her as well as themselves! When Ellen was
not on the watch, Boy Comfort would come and eat up Johanna's invalid
food, though goodness knew he wasn't starved! Johanna herself looked on
calmly; it was all a matter of such indifference to her.

It was an unusually fine summer, dry and sunny, and they could nearly
always be in the garden. They generally gathered there toward evening;
Ellen and "Queen Theresa" had finished their house work, and sat by
Johanna with their sewing, Brun kept them company with his cheerful
talk, and Johanna lay and dozed with her face toward the garden gate.
They laughed and joked with her to keep her in good spirits. Brun had
promised her a trip to the South if she would make haste to use her
legs, and told her about the sun down there and the delicious grapes and
oranges that she would be allowed to pick herself. She answered
everything with her sad smile, as though she knew all too well what
awaited her. Her thick, dark hair overshadowed more and more her pale
face; it was as if night were closing over her. She seemed to be dozing
slowly out of existence, with her large eyes turned toward the garden
gate.

Morten was often away on lecturing tours, sometimes for several days at
a time. When at last he entered the gate, life flashed into her face. He
was the only one who could recall her spirit to its surroundings; it was
as though it only lingered on for him. She was no longer capricious with
him. When she had the strength for it, she sat up and threw her arms
round his neck; her tears flowed silently, and her longing found free
vent. Ellen understood the child's feelings, and signed to the others to
leave the two together. Morten would then sit for hours beside her,
telling her all that he had been doing; she never seemed to grow weary,
but lay and listened to him with shining eyes, her transparent hand
resting upon his arm. Every step he took interested her; sometimes a
peculiar expression came into her eyes, and she fell suspiciously upon
some detail or other. Her senses were morbidly keen; the very scent of
strange people about him made her sullen and suspicious.

"The poor, poor child! She loves him!" said Ellen one day to Pelle, and
suddenly burst into tears. "And there she lies dying!" Her own happiness
made her so fully conscious of the child's condition.

"But dearest Ellen!" exclaimed Pelle in protest. "Don't you think I can
see? That's of course why she's always been so strange to him. How sad
it is!"

The child's sad fate cast a shadow over the others, but the sun rose
high in the heavens and became still stronger.

"Pelle," said Ellen, stroking his hair, "the light nights will soon be
over!"

Morten continued obstinately to believe that little Johanna would
recover, but every one else could see distinctly what the end was to be.
Her life oozed away with the departing summer. She became gentler and
more manageable every day. The hatred in her was extinguished; she
accepted all their kindness with a tired smile. Through her spoiled
being there radiated a strange charm, bearing the stamp of death, which
seemed to unfold itself the more as she drew nearer to the grave.

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