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

addressed him in the third person, and his continual “father says, father thinks,” sounded curious to Pelle’s ears.

While they were still talking Madam Stolpe opened the door leading into an even prettier room, and invited them to go in and to drink their coffee. The living-room had already produced an extremely pleasant impression on Pelle, with its oak-grained dining-room suite and its horsehair sofa. But here was a red plush suite, an octagonal table of walnut wood, with a black inlaid border and twisted wooden feet, and an étagère full of knickknacks and pieces of china; mostly droll, impudent little things. On the walls hung pictures of trades unions and assemblies and large photographs of workshops; one of a building during construction, with the scaffolding full of the bricklayers and their mortar-buckets beside them, each with a trowel or a beer-bottle can in his hand. On the wall over the sofa hung a large half-length portrait of a dark, handsome man in a riding-cloak. He looked half a dreamy adventurer, half a soldier.

“That’s the grand master,” said Stolpe proudly, standing at Pelle’s side. “There was always a crowd of women at his heels. But they kept themselves politely in the background, for a fire went out of him at such times⁠—do you understand? Then it was⁠—Men to the front! And even the laziest fellow pricked up his ears.”

“Then he’s dead now, is he?” asked Pelle, with interest.

Stolpe did not answer. “Well,” he said briefly, “shall we have our coffee now?” Otto winked at Pelle; here evidently was a matter that must not be touched upon.

Stolpe sat staring into his cup, but suddenly he raised his head. “There are things one doesn’t understand,” he cried earnestly. “But this is certain, that but for the grand master here I and a whole host of other men wouldn’t perhaps be respectable fathers of families today. There were many smart fellows among us young comrades, as is always the case; but as a rule the gifted ones always went to the dogs. For when a man has no opportunity to alter things, he naturally grows impatient, and then one fine day he begins to pour spirit on the flames in order to stop his mouth. I myself had that accursed feeling that I must do something, and little by little I began to drink. But then I discovered the movement, before it existed, I might venture to say; it was in the air like, d’you see. It was as though something was coming, and one sniffed about like a dog in order to catch a glimpse of it. Presently it was, Here it is! There it is! But when one looked into it, there was just a few hungry men bawling at one another about something or other, but the devil himself didn’t know what it was. But then the grand master came forward, and that was like a flash of light for all of us. For he could say to a nicety just where the shoe pinched, although he didn’t belong to our class at all. Since that time there’s been no need to go searching for the best people⁠—they were always to be found in the movement! Although there weren’t very many of them, the best people were always on the side of the movement.”

“But now there’s wind in the sails,” said Pelle.

“Yes, now there’s talk of it everywhere. But to whom is that due? God knows, to us old veterans⁠—and to him there!”

Stolpe began to talk of indifferent matters, but quite involuntarily the conversation returned to the movement; man and wife lived and breathed for nothing else. They were brave, honest people, who quite simply divided mankind into two parts: those who were for and those who were against the movement. Pelle seemed to breathe more freely and deeply in this home, where the air was as though steeped in Socialism.

He noticed a heavy chest which stood against the wall on four twisted legs. It was thickly ornamented with nailheads and looked like an old muniment chest.

“Yes⁠—that’s the standard!” said Madam Stolpe, but she checked herself in alarm. Mason Stolpe knitted his brows.

“Ah, well, you’re a decent fellow, after all,” he said. “One needn’t slink on tiptoe in front of you!” He took a key out of a secret compartment in his writing-table. “Now the danger’s a thing of the past, but one still has to be careful. That’s a vestige of the times when things used to go hardly with us. The police used to be down on all our badges of common unity. The grand master himself came to me one evening with the flag under his cloak, and said to me, ‘You must look out for it, Stolpe, you are the most reliable of us all.’ ”

He and his wife unfolded the great piece of bunting. “See, that’s the banner of the International. It looks a little the worse for wear, for it has undergone all sorts of treatment. At the communist meetings out in the fields, when the troops were sent against us with ball cartridge, it waved over the speaker’s platform, and held us together. When it flapped over our heads it was as though we were swearing an oath to it. The police understood that, and they were mad to get it. They went for the flag during a meeting, but nothing came of it, and since then they’ve hunted for it so, it’s had to be passed from man to man. In that way it has more than once come to me.”

“Yes, and once the police broke in here and took father away as we were sitting at supper. They turned the whole place upside down, and dragged him off to the cells without a word of explanation. The children were little then, and you can imagine how miserable it seemed to me. I didn’t know when they would let him out again.”

“Yes, but they didn’t get the colors,” said Stolpe, and he laughed heartily.