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

which was independent of their relations to one another. In this nothing could alter her habits. She might have been compared to a great beautiful bitch that lies attentively marking the appetite of her young, although none can tell, from her deliberate quiet, that her own bowels are twisted with hunger. If they left anything, she noticed it. “I have eaten,” she would say, so quietly that she succeeded as a rule in deceiving them. Yes, it made him feel desperate to think about it; the more he thought of it the more unendurable it was. She was sacrificing herself for him, yet she must condemn all his doings! She knew how to defy starvation far better than he⁠—and she did not understand why they must go hungry!

But from all these painful deliberations she emerged always more prominently capable, incomprehensible, and beautiful in all her strangeness! And he would hurry home, full of burning longing and devotion, continually hoping that this time she would come to him glowing with love, to hide her eyes, full of confusion, on his shoulder. The disappointment only flung him yet more violently into the struggle; the longing of his heart for a tender, careless hand made his own hard.

He was always exerting himself to find some means of making money. At first, of course, there was no way, and he became so completely absorbed in the conflict that finally the question no longer occupied his mind. It lurked in his consciousness, like a voluptuous wish that merely tinged his daily existence; it was as though something within his mind had taken possession of his talent for design, and was always designing beautiful paper money and displaying it to his imagination.

One day when he reached home he found Widow Rasmussen tending the children and working on a pair of canvas shoes. Drunken Valde had left her again⁠—had flown out into the spring! Ellen had gone out to work. A sudden pain shot through him. Her way of doing this, without saying a word to him, was like a blow in the face, and at first he was angry. But disloyalty was foreign to his nature. He had to admit that she was within her rights; and with that his anger evaporated, leaving him bewildered; something within him seemed tottering; surely this was a topsy-turvy world! “I might as well stay at home and look after the children,” he thought bitterly.

“I’ll stay with the children now, Madam Rasmussen!” he said. The woman put her work together.

“Yes, they’ve got a lot to go through,” she said, standing in the doorway. “I don’t myself understand what it’s all about, but one must always do something! That’s my motto. For things can’t be worse than they are. ‘Widow’! Pooh! They won’t let us behave ourselves! A man can scarcely look after himself, let alone a family, in this accursed world⁠—and one needn’t call one’s self Madam to get children! Here have I been knocking about all my life, ruining my health and happiness, and have I earned as much from all my blackguards as would pay for the rags I’ve worn? No; I’ve had to beg them nicely of the fine folks for whom I do washing! Yes, they are ready to skin one alive⁠—Madam Rasmussen has proved that. So I say, one must always try something! Today the boy comes home and says, ‘Mother, they’ve put up the price of firewood again⁠—an öre the two dozen!’ ‘What does that matter to us, boy? Can we buy two dozen at once?’ I say. ‘Yes, mother, but then the one dozen will cost an öre more.’ And eggs, they cost one krone twenty a score where the rich folks buy them⁠—but here! ‘No, my dear madam, if you take two eggs you must pay fifteen öre!’ That makes eight öre for an egg, for if one takes the smallest quantity the profits aren’t in proportion. It’s hard to be poor. If it’s never going to be better, may the devil take him that’s made it all! That was a fine swear!”

Pelle sat playing with Young Lasse. Madam Rasmussen’s words had aroused something in him. That was the eternal complaint, the old, old cry! Whenever he heard it, the world of the poor man became even more plainly visible for what it was⁠—and he ought to know it! It was a frightful abyss that he looked down into; it was bottomless; and it seemed forever to reveal fresh depths. And he was right⁠—he was right.

He sat carelessly drawing something for the child on a scrap of paper, thinking of things quite different; but involuntarily the drawing took shape from within his hand. “That’s money, that’s money!” cried Young Lasse, clapping his hands. Pelle waked up and examined his drawing; sure enough, there was a rough sketch of a ten-kroner note! It flattered his father’s heart that the child had recognized it; and he was seized by the desire to see how like it was. But where in all the world was he to get a “blue”? Pelle, who at this time superintended the collection and distributing of millions, did not possess ten kroner! The pipe! The pipe! That was what the boy got his idea from! His old Christmas present, queerly enough, had a ten-kroner note on the bowl⁠—and that gave him an idea! He got it out and compared it; it was a long time since he had smoked the pipe⁠—he couldn’t afford it. He began eagerly to fill in the drawing while Young Lasse stood by, amusing himself by watching the rapid movements of the pencil. “Father is clever⁠—Father draw!” he said, and wanted to wake his sister so that she could take part in the game.

No, the result was not good! The design would have to be cut in wood and printed in color for the appearance really to be similar. But then Ellen came home, and he hid it away. “Won’t you give up going out to