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

was the first time he had ventured on a public platform; excitement had sent him thither.

The people began to get up and to mix together. “Is it over already?” asked Madam Johnsen. Pelle could see that she was disappointed.

“No, no; now we’ll treat ourselves to something,” he said, leading the old woman to a table at the back of the hall. “What can I offer you?”

“Coffee, please, for me! But you ought to have a glass of beer, you are so warm!”

Pelle wanted coffee too. “You’re a funny one for a man!” she said, laughing. “First you go pitching into a whole crowd of men, and then you sit down here with an old wife like me and drink coffee! What a crowd of people there are here; it’s almost like a holiday!” She sat looking about her with shining eyes and rosy cheeks, like a young girl at a dance. “Take some more of the skin of the milk, Pelle; you haven’t got any. This really is cream!”

The leader came up to ask if he might make Pelle’s acquaintance. “I’ve heard of you from the president of your Union,” he said, giving Pelle his hand. “I am glad to make your acquaintance; you have done a pretty piece of work.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” said Pelle, blushing. “But it really would be fine if we could really get to work!”

“I know your impatience only too well,” retorted the old campaigner, laughing. “It’s always so with the young men. But those who really want to do something must be able to see to the end of the road.” He patted Pelle on the shoulders and went.

Pelle felt that the people were standing about him and speaking of him. God knows whether you haven’t made yourself ridiculous, he thought. Close by him two young men were standing, who kept on looking at him sideways. Suddenly they came up to him.

“We should much like to shake hands with you,” said one of them. “My name is Otto Stolpe, and this is my brother Frederik. That was good, what you said up there, we want to thank you for it!” They stood by for some little while, chatting to Pelle. “It would please my father and mother too, if they could make your acquaintance,” said Otto Stolpe. “Would you care to come home with us?”

“I can’t very well this evening; I have someone with me,” replied Pelle.

“You go with them,” said Madam Johnsen. “I see some folks from Kristianshavn back there, I can go home with them.”

“But we were meaning to go on the spree a bit now that we’ve at last come out!” said Pelle, smiling.

“God forbid! No, we’ve been on the spree enough for one evening, my old head is quite turned already. You just be off; that’s a thing I haven’t said for thirty years! And many thanks for bringing me with you.” She laughed boisterously.

The Stolpe family lived in Elm Street, on the second floor of one of the new workmen’s tenement houses. The stairs were roomy, and on the door there was a porcelain plate with their name on it. In the entry an elderly, well-dressed woman up to them.

“Here is a comrade, mother,” said Otto.

“Welcome,” she said, as she took Pelle’s hand. She held it a moment in her own as she looked at him.

In the living room sat Stolpe, a mason, reading The Working Man. He was in shirt sleeves, and was resting his heavy arms on the table. He read whispering to himself, he had not noticed that a guest was in the room.

“Here’s someone who would like to say how-d’ye-do to father,” said Otto, laying his hand on his father’s arm.

Stolpe raised his head and looked at Pelle. “Perhaps you would like to join the Union?” he asked, rising with difficulty, with one hand pressed on the table. He was tall, his hair was sprinkled with gray; his eyes were mottled from the impact of splinters of limestone.

“You and your Union!” said Madam Stolpe. “Perhaps you think there’s no one in it but you!”

“No, mother; little by little a whole crowd of people have entered it, but all the same I was the first.”

“I’m already in the Union,” said Pelle. “But not in yours. I’m a shoemaker, you know.”

“Shoemaker, ah, that’s a poor trade for a journeyman; but all the same a man can get to be a master; but today a mason can’t do that⁠—there’s a great difference there. And if one remains a journeyman all his life long, he has more interest in modifying his position. Do you understand? That’s why the organization of the shoemakers has never been of more than middling dimensions. Another reason is that they work in their own rooms, and one can’t get them together. But now there’s a new man come, who seems to be making things move.”

“Yes, and this is he, father,” said Otto, laughing.

“The deuce, and here I stand making a fool of myself! Then I’ll say how-d’ye-do over again! And here’s good luck to your plans, young comrade.” He shook Pelle by the hand. “I think we might have a drop of beer, mother?”

Pelle and Stolpe were soon engaged in a lively conversation; Pelle was in his element. Until now he had never found his way to the heart of the movement. There was so much he wanted to ask about, and the old man incontinently told him of the growth of the organization from year to year, of their first beginning, when there was only one trades unionist in Denmark, namely, himself, down to the present time. He knew all the numbers of the various trades, and was precisely informed as to the development of each individual union. The sons sat silent, thoughtfully listening. When they had something to say, they always waited until the old man nodded his head to show that he had finished. The younger, Frederik, who was a mason’s apprentice, never said “thou” to his father; he