Pelle the Conqueror, Martin Andersen Nexø [best fantasy books to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: Martin Andersen Nexø
Book online «Pelle the Conqueror, Martin Andersen Nexø [best fantasy books to read .TXT] 📗». Author Martin Andersen Nexø
He spoke from the depths of his soul, and saw surprise in their faces. What in the world did he want? Did he want them all to go to prison only because he himself had been there? Was that all that was left of the old Pelle—Lightning, as he was then called? He was certainly rather weak in the legs; there wasn’t much of his eloquence left! They quickly lost interest and began to talk together in undertones; there came only a little desultory applause here and there from the corners.
Pelle felt the disappointment and indifference, and smiled. He no longer had need of storms of approbation; he listened for it now within himself. This much he had learned by standing up there, namely, that he had not done with the men below; he was, in fact, only just beginning with them. His work had been swept away: well then he would build up a new one that was better. He had sat in his prison-cell and learned long-suffering.
He took a seat below the platform among the leaders of the meeting, and felt that he was really a stranger there. It was out of compassion they had drawn him into the meeting; he read in their eyes that the work that had been done was done without him, and that he came at an inopportune moment. Would they have to reckon with him, the harebrained fellow, now again, or did he mean to emigrate? Alas, he did not give much impetus to the Movement! but if they only knew how much wisdom he had gained in his solitude!
He did not talk, but looked on absently, trying to listen through the noise for something lasting. They laughed and drank and made speeches—for him too; but all this was so unnecessary! They had gained confidence, they spoke quite openly, there was a certain emancipation in their general behavior; taken as a whole, they made a good impression. But the miracle? the incomprehensible? He missed a little anxiety behind the prosperity, the deep, silent pondering that would show that they had gazed into a new world. Did they not hear the undertone at all, since they were making such a noise—the unceasing, soft rhythm that was in his own ears continually and contained the whole thing? The stillness of the cell had made his hearing acute; the boisterous laughter, which expressed their pleasure in life, caused him suffering.
Beside a large blackboard on the platform stood one of the leaders, writing up the victories of the day, amid the rejoicing of the crowd. Pelle slipped out unnoticed, and was standing on the steps, breathing in the quiet night air, when a young man came up to him and held out his hand. It was his brother-in-law, Frederik Stolpe. “I just wanted to wish you welcome back,” he said, “and to thank you for what you said in there.”
“How is Ellen?” Pelle asked in a low voice.
“She’s only pretty well. She lives at 20, Victoria Street, and takes in washing. I think she would be glad to see you.” He looked searchingly at Pelle. “If you like, I can easily arrange for you to meet at my place.”
“Thank you!” Pelle answered, “but I’ll go out to her early tomorrow morning.” He no longer needed to go by circuitous routes.
IIPelle was awakened by a distant sound resembling thunder, that came nearer and nearer out of the night and kept close to the prison. He lay still and listened shudderingly in the hope of hearing the reassuring step of the watchman passing his door, while fancies chased one another in his heavy head like riderless horses. The hollow, threatening sound grew ever louder and clearer, until it suddenly shattered the stillness of the night with a thunderous roar, which seemed to bring everything crashing down. It was as though a great gulf had opened and swallowed everything.
In one panic-stricken bound he was at the window, his heart beating tumultuously; but the next moment he was ashamed of his mistake. It had been the same terrifying Doomsday that he had dreaded in the days of his childhood, when the lightning zigzagged among the rocks at home; and yet it was nothing but the noise of the first farm-carts as they passed from the highroad onto the stone paving of the town. It was the solitude brooding in his imagination, making
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