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

“If only you can keep quiet about it!” said Pelle anxiously. She was so proud of her son!

“M⁠—m!” she said, tapping her shrunken lips. “No need to tell me that⁠—and do you know what I’ve hit on, so that the bloodhounds shan’t wonder what I live on? I’m sewing canvas slippers.”

Then came little Marie with mop and bucket, and the old woman hobbled away.

It was a slack time now in Master Beck’s workshop, so Pelle was working mostly at home. He could order his hours himself now, and was able to use the day, when people were indoors, in looking up his fellow-craftsmen and winning them for the organization. This often cost him a lengthy argument, and he was proud of every man he was able to inscribe. He very quickly learned to classify all kinds of men, and he suited his procedure to the character of the man he was dealing with; one could threaten the waverers, while others had to be enticed or got into a good humor by chatting over the latest theories with them. This was good practice, and he accustomed himself to think rapidly, and to have his subject at his fingers’ ends. The feeling of mastery over his means continually increased in strength, and lent assurance to his bearing.

He had to make up for neglecting his work, and at such times he was doubly busy, rising early and sitting late at his bench.

He kept away from his neighbors on the third story; but when he heard Hanne’s light step on the planking over there, he used to peep furtively across the well. She went her way like a nun⁠—straight to her work and straight home again, her eyes fixed on the ground. She never looked up at his window, or indeed anywhere. It was as though her nature had completed its airy flutterings, as though it now lay quietly growing.

It surprised him that he should now regard her with such strange and indifferent eyes, as though she had never been anything to him. And he gazed curiously into his own heart⁠—no, there was nothing wrong with him. His appetite was good, and there was nothing whatever the matter with his heart. It must all have been a pleasant illusion, a mirage such as the traveller sees upon his way. Certainly she was beautiful; but he could not possibly see anything fairy-like about her. God only knew how he had allowed himself to be so entangled! It was a piece of luck that he hadn’t been caught⁠—there was no future for Hanne.

Madam Johnsen continued to lean on him affectionately, and she often came over for a little conversation; she could not forget the good times they had had together. She always wound up by lamenting the change in Hanne; the old woman felt that the girl had forsaken her.

“Can you understand what’s the matter with her, Pelle? She goes about as if she were asleep, and to everything I say she answers nothing but ‘Yes, mother; yes, mother!’ I could cry, it sounds so strange and empty, like a voice from the grave. And she never says anything about good fortune now⁠—and she never decks herself out to be ready for it! If she’d only begin with her fool’s tricks again⁠—if she only cared to look out and watch for the stranger⁠—then I should have my child again. But she just goes about all sunk into herself, and she stares about her as if she was half asleep, as though she were in the middle of empty space; and she’s never in any spirits now. She goes about so unmeaning⁠—like with her own dreary thoughts, it’s like a wandering corpse. Can you understand what’s wrong with her?”

“No, I don’t know,” answered Pelle.

“You say that so curiously, as if you did know something and wouldn’t come out with it⁠—and I, poor woman, I don’t know where to turn.” The good-natured woman began to cry. “And why don’t you come over to see us any more?”

“Oh, I don’t know⁠—I’ve so much on hand, Madam Johnsen,” answered Pelle evasively.

“If only she’s not bewitched. She doesn’t enter into anything I tell her; you might really come over just for once; perhaps that would cheer her up a little. You oughtn’t to take your revenge on us. She was very fond of you in her way⁠—and to me you’ve been like a son. Won’t you come over this evening?”

“I really haven’t the time. But I’ll see, some time,” he said, in a low voice.

And then she went, drooping and melancholy. She was showing her fifty years. Pelle was sorry for her, but he could not make up his mind to visit her.

“You are quite detestable!” said Marie, stamping angrily on the floor. “It’s wretched of you!”

Pelle wrinkled his forehead. “You don’t understand, Marie.”

“Oh, so you think I don’t know all about it? But do you know what the women say about you? They say you’re no man, or you would have managed to clip Hanne’s feathers.”

Pelle gazed at her, wondering; he said nothing, but looked at her and shook his head.

“What are you staring at me for?” she said, placing herself aggressively in front of him. “Perhaps you think I’m afraid to say what I like to you? Don’t you stare at me with that face, or you’ll get one in the mouth!” She was burning red with shame. “Shall I say something still worse? with you staring at me with that face? Eh? No one need think I’m ashamed to say what I like!” Her voice was hard and hoarse; she was quite beside herself with rage.

Pelle was perfectly conscious that it was shame that was working in her. She must be allowed to run down. He was silent, but did not avert his reproachful gaze. Suddenly she spat in his face and ran into her own room with a malicious laugh.

There she was very busy for a time.

There