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

Lasse lay still for a time, blinking his eyes, with his hand groping to and fro over his son’s face.

“Yes, you are really here,” he said faintly, “and I thought you had gone away again. Do you know what, Pelle? You have been the whole light of my life! When you came into the world I was already past the best of my years; but then you came, and it was as though the sun had been born anew! ‘What may he not bring with him?’ I used to think, and I held my head high in the air. You were no bigger than a pint bottle! ‘Perhaps he’ll make his fortune,’ I thought, ‘and then there’ll be a bit of luck for you as well!’ So I thought, and so I’ve always believed⁠—but now I must give it up. But I’ve lived to see you respected. You haven’t become a rich man⁠—well, that need not matter; but the poor speak well of you! You have fought their battles for them without taking anything to fill your own belly. Now I understand it, and my old heart rejoices that you are my son!”

When Lasse fell asleep Pelle lay on the sofa for a while. But he did not rest long; the old man slept like a bird, opening his eyes every moment. If he did not see his son close to his bed he lay tossing from side to side and complaining in a half-slumber. In the middle of the night he raised his head and held it up in a listening attitude. Pelle awoke.

“What do you want, father?” he asked, as he tumbled onto his feet.

“Ach, I can hear something flowing, far out yonder, beyond the sea-line.⁠ ⁠… It is as though the water were pouring into the abyss. But oughtn’t you to go home to Ellen now? I shall be all right alone overnight, and perhaps she’s sitting worrying as to where you are.”

“I’ve sent to Ellen to tell her that I shouldn’t be home overnight,” said Pelle.

The old man lay considering his son with a pondering glance, “Are you happy, too, now?” he asked. “It seems to me as though there is something about your marriage that ought not to be.”

“Yes, father, it’s quite all right,” Pelle replied in a half-choking voice.

“Well, God be thanked for that! You’ve got a good wife in Ellen, and she has given you splendid children. How is Young Lasse? I should dearly like to see him again before I go from here⁠—there will still be a Lasse!”

“I’ll bring him to you early in the morning,” said Pelle. “And now you ought to see if you can’t sleep a little, father. It is pitch dark still!”

Lasse turned himself submissively toward the wall. Once he cautiously turned his head to see if Pelle was sleeping; his eyes could not see across the room, so he attempted to get out of bed, but fell back with a groan.

“What is it, father?” cried Pelle anxiously, and he was beside him in a moment.

“I only wanted just to see that you’d got something over you in this cold! But my old limbs won’t bear me any more,” said the old man, with a shamefaced expression.

Toward morning he fell into a quiet sleep, and Pelle brought Madam Johnsen to sit with the old man, while he went home for Young Lasse. It was no easy thing to do; but the last wish of the old man must be granted. And he knew that Ellen would not entrust the child to strange hands.

Ellen’s frozen expression lit up as he came; an exclamation of joy rose to her lips, but the sight of his face killed it. “My father lies dying,” he said sadly⁠—“he very much wants to see the boy.” She nodded and quietly busied herself in making the child ready. Pelle stood at the window gazing out.

It seemed very strange to him that he should be here once more; the memory of the little household rose to his mind and made him weak. He must see Little Sister! Ellen led him silently into the bedroom; the child was sleeping in her cradle; a deep and wonderful peace brooded over her bright head. Ellen seemed to be nearer to him in this room here; he felt her compelling eyes upon him. He pulled himself forcibly together and went into the other room⁠—he had nothing more to do there. He was a stranger in this home. A thought occurred to him⁠—whether she was going on with that? Although it was nothing to him, the question would not be suppressed; and he looked about him for some sign that might be significant. It was a poverty-stricken place; everything superfluous had vanished. But a shoemaker’s sewing machine had made its appearance, and there was work on it. Strikebreaking work! he thought mechanically. But not disgraceful⁠—for the first time he was glad to discover a case of strikebreaking. She had also begun to take in sewing⁠—and she looked thoroughly overworked. This gave him downright pleasure.

“The boy is ready to go with you now,” she said.

Pelle cast a farewell glance over the room. “Is there anything you need?” he asked.

“Thanks⁠—I can look after myself,” she replied proudly.

“You didn’t take the money I sent you on Saturday!”

“I can manage myself⁠—if I can only keep the boy. Don’t forget that you told me once he should always stay with me.”

“He must have a mother who can look him in the face⁠—remember that, Ellen!”

“You needn’t remind me of that,” she replied bitterly.

Lasse was awake when they arrived. “Eh, that’s a genuine Karlsen!” he said. “He takes after our family. Look now, Pelle, boy! He has the same prominent ears, and he’s got the lucky curl on his forehead too! He’ll make his way in the world! I must kiss his little hands⁠—for the hands, they are our blessing⁠—the only possession we come into the world with. They say the world will be lifted up by the