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

was quite fashionable to go about with turned-up trousers. That was easily got over.

“Now you look like a real grocer!” said Pelle, laughing.

Karl ran out into the gangway and came back immediately with his head wetted and his hair parted down the middle. “Ach, you fool, why don’t you leave well alone!” cried Marie, ruffling his head. A fight ensued. Peter sat in a corner, self-absorbed, staring gloomily out of the window.

“Now, Peter, hold your head up!” cried Pelle, clapping him on the shoulder. “When we’ve got the great Federation together and things are working properly, I’ll manage something for you too. Perhaps you can act as messenger for us.”

Peter did not reply, but turned his head away.

“He’s always like that⁠—he’s so grumpy! Do at least be a little polite, Peter!” said Marie irritably. The boy took his cap and went out.

“Now he’s going out by the North Bridge, to his sweetheart⁠—and we shan’t see anything of him for the next few days,” said Marie, looking after him. “She’s a factory girl⁠—she’s had a child by one man⁠—he deserted her,” said Marie.

“He has a sweetheart already?” said Pelle.

“What of that? He’s seventeen. But there’s nothing in her.”

“She has red hair! And she drags one leg behind her as though she wanted to take the pavement with her,” said Karl. “She might well be his mother.”

“I don’t think you ought to tease him,” said Pelle seriously.

“We don’t,” said Marie. “But he won’t have it when we try to be nice to him. And he can’t bear to see us contented. Lasse says it is as though he were bewitched.”

“I have a situation for you too, Marie,” said Pelle. “With Ellen’s old employers in Holberg Street⁠—you’ll be well treated there. But you must be ready by October.”

“That will be fine! Then Karl and I can go into situations on the same day!” She clapped her hands. “But Peter!” she cried suddenly. “Who will look after him? No, I can’t do it, Pelle!”

“We must see if we can’t find nice lodgings for him. You must take the situation⁠—you can’t go on living here.”

Prom the end of the long gangway came a curious noise, which sounded like a mixture of singing and crying. Young Lasse got down onto his feet near the open door, and said, “Sh! Singing! Sh!”

“Yes! That’s the pasteboard-worker and her great Jutlander,” said Marie. “They’ve got a funeral today. The poor little worm has ceased to suffer, thank God!”

“Is that anyone new?” said Pelle.

“No, they are people who moved here in the spring. He hasn’t been living here, but every Saturday he used to come here and take her wages. ‘You are crazy to give him your wages when he doesn’t even live with you!’ we told her. ‘He ought to get a thrashing instead of money!’ ‘But he’s the child’s father!’ she said, and she went on giving him her money. And on Sunday, when he had drunk it, he regretted it, and then he used to come and beat her, because she needn’t have given it to him. She was an awful fool, for she could just have been out when he came. But she was fond of him and thought nothing of a few blows⁠—only it didn’t do for the child. She never had food for it, and now it’s dead.”

The door at the end of the gangway opened, and the big Jutlander came out with a tiny coffin under his arm. He was singing a hymn in an indistinct voice, as he stood there waiting. In the side passage, behind the partition-wall, a boy’s voice was mocking him. The Jutlander’s face was red and swollen with crying, and the debauch of the night before was still heavy in his legs. Behind him came the mother, and now they went down the gangway with funeral steps; the woman’s thin black shawl hung mournfully about her, and she held her handkerchief to her mouth; she was crying still. Her livid face had a mildewed appearance.

Pelle and Young Lasse had to be off. “You are always in such a hurry!” said Marie dolefully. “I wanted to make coffee.”

“Yes, I’ve got a lot to do today still. Otherwise I’d gladly stay with you a bit.”

“Do you know you are gradually getting quite famous?” said Marie, looking at him in admiration. “The people talk almost as much about you as they do about the big tinplate manufacturer. They say you ruined the biggest employer in the city.”

“Yes. I ruined his business,” said Pelle, laughing. “But where has the shopwalker got to?”

“He’s gone down into the streets to show himself!”

Karl, sure enough, was strolling about below and allowing the boys and girls to admire him. “Look, when we come into the shop and the grocer isn’t there you’ll stand us treat!” Pelle heard one of them say.

“You don’t catch me! And if you dare you’ll get one in the jaw!” replied Karl. “Think I’m going to have you loafing about?”

At the end of the street the great Jutlander was rolling along, the coffin under his arm; the girl followed at a distance, and they kept to the middle of the road as though they formed part of a funeral procession. It was a dismal sight. The gray, dismal street was like a dungeon.

The shutters were up in all the basement windows, excepting that of the bread-woman. Before the door of her shop stood a crowd of grimy little children, smearing themselves with dainties; every moment one of them slipped down into the cellar to spend an öre. One little girl, dressed in her Sunday best, with a tightly braided head, was balancing herself on the edge of the curbstone with a big jug of cream in her hand; and in a doorway opposite stood a few young fellows meditating some mischief or other.

“Shall we go anywhere today?” asked Ellen, when Pelle and young Lasse got home. “The fine season is soon over.”

“I must go to the committee-meeting,” Pelle replied hesitatingly. He was