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

her with a pair of ordinary woman’s beetle-crushers she’d jump straight into the sewer!”

“Well, I’m damned!” The master is hastily cutting some leather to shape. “The devil she would!”

Never did anyone make himself at home more easily; Garibaldi draws a seat up to the table and is at once in full swing. No rummaging about after tools; his hand finds his way to the exact spot where the thing required lies, as though an invisible track lay between them. These hands do everything of themselves, quietly, with gentle movements, while the eyes are elsewhere; gazing out into the garden, or examining the young master, or the work of the apprentices. To Pelle and the others, who always have to look at everything from every side in turn, this is absolutely marvelous. And before they have had time to look round Garibaldi has put everything in order, and is sitting there working and looking across the room at the master, who is himself sewing today.

And then Jeppe comes tumbling in, annoyed that no one has told him of Garibaldi’s arrival. “ ’Day, master⁠—’day, craft-master!” says Garibaldi, who stands up and bows.

“Yes,” says Jeppe self-consciously, “if there were craft-masters still, I should be one. But manual work is in a wretched case today; there’s no respect for it, and where shall a man look for respect if he doesn’t respect himself?”

“That’s meant for the young master, eh?” says Garibaldi laughing. “But times have altered, Master Jeppe; knee-straps and respect have given out; yes, those days are over! Begin at seven, and at six off and away! So it is in the big cities!”

“Is that this sosherlism?” says Jeppe disdainfully.

“It’s all the same to me what it is⁠—Garibaldi begins and leaves off when it pleases him! And if he wants more for his work he asks for it! And if that doesn’t please them⁠—then adieu, master, adieu! There are slaves enough, said the boy, when he got no bread.”

The others did not get very much done; they have enough to do to watch Garibaldi’s manner of working. He has emptied the bottle, and now his tongue is oiled; the young master questions him, and Garibaldi talks and talks, with continual gestures. Not for a moment do his hands persist at their work; and yet the work progresses so quickly it is a revelation to watch it; it is as though it were proceeding of itself. His attention is directed upon their work, and he always interferes at the right moment; he criticizes their way of holding their tools, and works out the various fashions of cut which lend beauty to the heel and sole. It is as though he feels it when they do anything wrongly; his spirit pervades the whole workshop. “That’s how one does it in Paris,” he says, or “this is Nuremberg fashion.” He speaks of Vienna and Greece in as matter-of-fact a way as though they lay yonder under Skipper Elleby’s trees. In Athens he went to the castle to shake the king by the hand, for countrymen should always stand by one another in foreign parts.

“He was very nice, by the by; but he had had his breakfast already. And otherwise it’s a damned bad country for traveling; there are no shoemakers there. No, there I recommend you Italy⁠—there are shoemakers there, but no work; however, you can safely risk it and beg your way from place to place. They aren’t like those industrious Germans; every time you ask them for a little present they come and say, ‘Come in, please, there is some work you can do!’ And it is so warm there a man can sleep on the bare ground. Wine flows in every gutter there, but otherwise it’s no joke.” Garibaldi raises the empty bottle high in the air and peeps wonderingly up at the shelves; the young master winks at Pelle, and the latter fetches another supply of drink at the gallop.

The hot blood is seething in Pelle’s ears. He must go away, far away from here, and live the wandering life, like Garibaldi, who hid himself in the vineyards from the gendarmes, and stole the bacon from the chimneys while the people were in the fields. A spirit is working in him and the others; the spirit of their craft. They touch their tools and their material caressingly with their fingers; everything one handles has an inward color of its own; which tells one something. All the dustiness and familiarity of the workshop is swept away; the objects standing on the shelves glow with interest; the most tedious things contain a radiant life of their own.

The world rises before them like a cloudy wonder, traversed by endless highways deep in white dust, and Garibaldi treads them all. He has sold his journeyman’s pass to a comrade for a slice of bread and butter, and is left without papers; German policemen give chase to him, and he creeps through the vineyards for fourteen days, on hands and knees, getting nothing for his pains but grapes and a shocking attack of summer cholera. Finally his clothes are so very much alive that he no longer needs to move of himself; he simply lies quiet, and lets himself be carried along until he comes to a little town. “An inn?” asks Garibaldi. Yes, there is an inn. There he tells a story to the effect that he has been robbed; and the good people put him to bed, and warm and dry his clothes. Garibaldi snores, and pushes the chair nearer the stove; snores, and pushes it a little further; and as his clothes burst into a blaze he starts up roaring and scolding and weeping, and is inconsolable. So then he is given fine new clothes and new papers, and is out on the road again, and the begging begins afresh; mountains rise and pass him by, and great cities too, cities with wide rivers. There are towns in which the wandering journeyman can get no