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

wrangle as to how the game should be played, for Lasse was the most skilful. The old man would excuse himself.

“You mustn’t be angry, lad, because I neglect you⁠—but I’m tired of an evening and I go to bed early.”

“Then come on Sunday⁠—and breakfast with us; afterward we go out.”

“No, I’ve something on for Sunday⁠—an assignation,” said Lasse roguishly, in order to obviate further questions. “Enjoy your youthful happiness; it won’t last forever.”

He would never accept help. “I earn what I need for my food and a few clothes; I don’t need much of either, and I am quite contented. And you’ve enough to see to yourself,” was his constant answer.

Lasse was always gentle and amiable, and appeared contented, but there was a curious veil over his eyes, as though some disappointment were gnawing at his heart.

And Pelle knew well what it was⁠—it had always been an understood thing that Lasse should spend his old age at Pelle’s fireside. In his childish dreams of the future, however various they might be, Father Lasse was always at hand, enjoying a restful old age, in return for all he had done for Pelle.

That was how it should be; at home in the country in every poor home a gray-headed old man sat in the chimney-corner⁠—for children among the poor are the only comfort of age.

For the time being this could not be arranged; there was no room in their two little rooms. Ellen was by no means lacking in heart; she often thought of this or that for the old man’s comfort, but her passionate love would permit of no third person to approach them too closely. Such a thing had never entered her mind; and Pelle felt that if he were to persuade her to take Father Lasse into their home, the wonder of their life together would be killed. They lived so fully from hour to hour; theirs was a sacred happiness, that must not be sacrificed, but which itself demanded the sacrifice of all else. Their relation was not the usual practical self-love, but love itself, which seldom touches the everyday life of the poor, save that they hear it in tragic and beautiful songs of unhappy lovers. But here, to them, had come its very self⁠—a shining wonder!

And now Ellen was going to bear a child. Her figure grew fuller and softer. Toward all others she was cold and remote in her behavior; only to Pelle she disclosed herself utterly. The slight reserve which had always lurked somewhere within her, as though there was something that he could not yet conquer, had disappeared. Her gaze was no longer fixed and searching; but sought his own with quiet self-surrender. A tender and wonderful harmony was visible in her, as though she had now come into her own, and from day to day she grew more beautiful.

Pelle was filled with pride to see how luxuriantly she unfolded beneath his caresses. He was conscious of a sense of inexhaustible liberality, such as the earth had suddenly inspired in him at times in his childhood; and an infinite tenderness filled his heart. There was an alluring power in Ellen’s helplessness, so rich in promise as it was. He would joyfully have sacrificed the whole world in order to serve her and that which she so wonderfully bore within her.

He got up first in the morning, tidied the rooms, and made coffee before he went to work. He was vexed if when he came home Ellen had been sweeping or scrubbing. He made two of himself in order to spare her, stinted himself of sleep, and was restlessly busy; his face had assumed a fixed expression of happiness, which gave him almost a look of stupidity. His thoughts never went beyond the four walls of his home; Ellen’s blessed form entirely engrossed him.

The buying of new furniture was discontinued; in its place Ellen made curious purchases of linen and flannel and material for swaddling-bands, and mysterious conversations were continually taking place between her and her mother, from which Pelle was excluded; and when they went to see Ellen’s parents Madam Stolpe was always burrowing in her chests of drawers, and giving Ellen little packages to be taken home.

The time passed only too quickly. Exclusively as they had lived for their own affairs, it seemed as if they could never get everything finished. And one day it was as though the world was shattered about their heads. Ellen lay in bed, turning from side to side and shrieking as though an evil spirit had taken possession of her body. Pelle bent over her with a helpless expression, while at the foot of the bed sat Madam Blom; she sat there knitting and reading the papers as though nothing whatever was amiss. “Shriek away, little woman,” she said from time to time, when Ellen became silent; “that’s part of the business!” Ellen looked at her spitefully and defiantly pressed her lips together, but next moment she opened her mouth wide and roared wildly. A rope was fastened to the foot of the bed, and she pulled on this while she shrieked. Then she collapsed, exhausted. “You wicked, wicked boy,” she whispered, with a faint smile. Pelle bent over her happily; but she pushed him suddenly away; her beautiful body contorted itself, and the dreadful struggle was raging again. But at last a feeble voice relieved hers and filled the home with a new note. “Another mouth to fill,” said Madam Blom, holding the newborn child in the air by one leg. It was a boy.

Pelle went about blushing and quite bewildered, as though something had happened to him that no one else had ever experienced. At first he took Master Beck’s work home with him and looked after the child himself at night. Every other moment he had to put down his work and run in to the mother and child. “You are a wonderful woman, to give me such a child for a kiss,”