Pelle the Conqueror, Martin Andersen Nexø [best fantasy books to read .TXT] 📗

Pelle explained his requirements.

“Shirts! shirts!” Alfred chortled with delight, and clapped his hands before his face. “Good Lord, he wants to gets shirts on tick! If only they had been linen shirts!” He was near bursting with laughter.

Pelle tried again. As a peasant⁠—for he was still that⁠—he had thought of shirts first of all; but now he wanted a summer overcoat and rubber cuffs. “Why do you want credit?” asked the shopkeeper, hesitating. “Are you expecting any money? Or is there anyone who will give you a reference?”

No, Pelle didn’t want to bring anyone else into it; it was simply that he had no money.

“Then wait until you have,” said the shopkeeper surlily. “We don’t clothe paupers!” Pelle slunk away abashed.

“You’re a fool!” said Alfred shortly. “You are just like Albinus⁠—he can never learn how to do it!”

“How do you do it then?” asked Pelle meekly.

“How do I do it⁠—how do I do it?” Alfred could give no explanation; “it just came of itself. But naturally I don’t tell them that I’m poor! No, you’d better leave it alone⁠—it’ll never succeed with you!”

“Why do you sit there and pinch your upper lip?” asked Pelle discontentedly.

“Pinch? You goat, I’m stroking my moustache!”

On Saturday afternoon Pelle was busily sweeping the street. It was getting on for evening; in the little houses there was already a fire in the grate; one could hear it crackling at Builder Rasmussen’s and Swedish Anders’, and the smell of broiled herrings filled the street. The women were preparing something extra good in order to wheedle their husbands when they came home with the week’s wages. Then they ran across to the huckster’s for schnaps and beer, leaving the door wide open behind them; there was just half a minute to spare while the herring was getting cooked on the one side! And now Pelle sniffed it afar off⁠—Madame Rasmussen was tattling away to the huckster, and a voice screeched after her: “Madame Rasmussen! Your herring is burning!” Now she came rushing back, turning her head confusedly from house to house as she scampered across the street and into her house. The blue smoke drifted down among the houses; the sun fell lower and filled the street with gold-dust.

There were people sweeping all along the street; Baker Jörgen, the washerwoman, and the Comptroller’s maidservant. The heavy boughs of the mulberry-tree across the road drooped over the wall and offered their last ripe fruits to whomsoever would pick them. On the other side of the wall the rich merchant Hans⁠—he who married the nursemaid⁠—was pottering about his garden. He never came out, and the rumor ran that he was held a prisoner by his wife and her kin. But Pelle had leaned his ear against the wall, and had heard a stammering old voice repeating the same pet names, so that it sounded like one of those love-songs that never come to an end; and when in the twilight he slipped out of his attic window and climbed on to the ridge of the roof, in order to take a look at the world, he had seen a tiny little white-haired man walking down there in the garden, with his arm round the waist of a woman younger than himself. They were like a couple of young lovers, and they had to stop every other moment in order to caress one another. The most monstrous things were said of him and his money; of his fortune, that once upon a time was founded on a paper of pins, and was now so great that some curse must rest upon it.

From the baker’s house the baker’s son came slinking hymnbook in hand. He fled across to the shelter of the wall, and hurried off; old Jörgen stood there gobbling with laughter as he watched him, his hands folded over his broomstick.

“O Lord, is that a man?” he cried to Jeppe, who sat at his window, shaving himself before the milk-can. “Just look how he puffs! Now he’ll go in and beg God to forgive him for going courting!”

Jeppe came to the window to see and to silence him; one could hear Brother Jörgen’s falsetto voice right down the street. “Has he been courting? However did you get him to venture such a leap?” he asked eagerly.

“Oh, it was while we were sitting at table. I had a tussle with my melancholy madman⁠—because I couldn’t help thinking of the little Jörgen. God knows, I told myself, no little Jörgen has come to carry on your name, and the boy’s a weakling, and you’ve no one else to build on! It’s all very well going about with your nose in the air all the days God gives you⁠—everything will be swept away and be to no purpose. And everything of that sort⁠—you know how I get thinking when ideas like that get the upper hand with me. I sat there and looked at the boy, and angry I felt with him, that I did; and right opposite him there was sitting a fine bit of womanhood, and he not looking at her. And with that I struck my hand on the table, and I says, ‘Now, boy, just you take Marie by the hand and ask her whether she’ll be your wife⁠—I want to make an end of the matter now and see what you’re good for!’ The boy all shrivels up and holds out his hand, and Marie, it don’t come amiss to her. ‘Yes, that I will!’ she says, and grips hold of him before he has time to think what he’s doing. And we shall be having the marriage soon.”

“If you can make a boot out of that leather!” said Jeppe.

“Oh, she’s a warm piece⁠—look at the way she’s built. She’s thawing him already. Women, they know the way⁠—he won’t freeze in bed.”

Old Jörgen laughed contentedly, and went off to his work. “Yes, why, she’d breathe life into the dead,” he