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

thought Pelle. Yes, yes, she had been like a mother to him in many senses, although she was only a child; she had taken him into her nest as a little forsaken bird, and with amazement had seen him grow. He had secretly helped her when he could. But what was that in comparison with the singing that had made his work easy, when he saw how the three waifs accepted things as they were, building their whole existence on nothing? Who would help them now over the difficult places without letting them see the helping hand? He must keep watchful eye on them.

Marie’s cheeks were a hectic red, and her eyes were shining when he held her roughened hands in his and thanked her for being such a good neighbor. Her narrow chest was working, and a reflection of hidden beauty rested upon her. Pelle had taught her blood to find the way to her colorless face; whenever she was brought into intimate contact with him or his affairs, her cheeks glowed, and every time a little of the color was left behind. It was as though his vitality forced the sap to flow upward in her, in sympathy, and now she stood before him, trying to burst her stunted shell, and unfold her gracious capacities before him, and as yet was unable to do so. Suddenly she fell upon his breast. “Pelle, Pelle,” she said, hiding her face against him. And then she ran into her own room.

Lasse and Pelle carried the last things over to the new home, and put everything tidy; then they dressed themselves in their best and set out for the Stoples’ home. Pelle was wearing a top-hat for the first time in his life, and looked quite magnificent in it. “You are like a big city chap,” said Lasse, who could not look at him often enough. “But what do you think they’ll say of old Lasse? They are halfway fine folks themselves, and I don’t know how to conduct myself. Wouldn’t it perhaps be better if I were to turn back?”

“Don’t talk like that, father!” said Pelle.

Lasse was monstrously pleased at the idea of attending the wedding-feast, but he had all sorts of misgivings. These last years had made him shy of strangers, and he liked to creep into corners. His holiday clothes, moreover, were worn out, and his everyday things were patched and mended; his long coat he had hired expressly for the occasion, while the white collar and cuffs belonged to Peter. He did not feel at all at home in his clothes, and looked like an embarrassed schoolboy waiting for confirmation.

At the Stolpes’ the whole household was topsy-turvy. The guests who were to go to the church had already arrived; they were fidgeting about in the living-room and whistling to themselves, or looking out into the street, and feeling bored. Stople’s writing-table had been turned into a sideboard, and the brothers were opening bottles of beer and politely pressing everybody: “Do take a sandwich with it⁠—you’ll get a dry throat standing so long and saying nothing.”

In the best room Stolpe was pacing up and down and muttering. He was in his shirtsleeves, waiting until it was his turn to use the bedroom, where Ellen and her mother had locked themselves in. Prom time to time the door was opened a little, and Ellen’s bare white arm appeared, as she threw her father some article of attire. Then Pelle’s heart began to thump.

On the windowsill stood Madam Stolpe’s myrtle; it was stripped quite bare.

Now Stolpe came back; he was ready! Pelle had only to button his collar for him. He took Lasse’s hand and then went to fetch The Working Man. “Now you just ought to hear this, what they say of your son,” he said, and began to read:

“Our young party-member, Pelle, today celebrates his nuptials with the daughter of one of the oldest and most respected members of the party, Mason Stolpe. This young man, who has already done a great deal of work for the Cause, was last night unanimously proposed as President of his organization. We give the young couple our best wishes for the future.”

“That speaks for itself, eh?” Stolpe handed the paper to his guests.

“Yes, that looks well indeed,” they said, passing the paper from hand to hand. Lasse moved his lips as though he, too, were reading the notice through. “Yes, devilish good, and they know how to put these things,” he said, delighted.

“But what’s wrong with Petersen⁠—is he going to resign?” asked Stolpe.

“He is ill,” replied Pelle. “But I wasn’t there last night, so I don’t know anything about it.” Stolpe gazed at him, astonished.

Madam Stolpe came in and drew Pelle into the bedroom, where Ellen stood like a snow-white revelation, with a long veil and a myrtle-wreath in her hair. “Really you two are supposed not to see one another, but I think that’s wrong,” she said, and with a loving glance she pushed them into each other’s arms.

Frederik, who was leaning out of the window, in order to watch for the carriage, came and thundered on the door. “The carriage is there, children!” he roared, in quite a needlessly loud voice. “The carriage is there!”

And they drove away in it, although the church was only a few steps distant. Pelle scarcely knew what happened to him after that, until he found himself back in the carriage; they had to nudge him every time he had to do anything. He saw no one but Ellen.

She was his sun; the rest meant nothing to him. At the altar he had seized her hand and held it in his during the whole service.

Frederik had remained at home, in order to admit, receive messages and people who came to offer their congratulations. As they returned he leaned out of the window and threw crackers and detonating pellets under the horses’ feet, as a salute to the bridal pair.

People drank wine, touched glasses with