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

culture, but upon whom the sun has shone to make up for it⁠—sunshine-beings like little Johanna and her mother and grandmother, but who’ve been allowed to live. Oh, how nice it’ll be to see for once poor people who aren’t cold!”

“Just let him get off as quickly as possible,” said Ellen, when Morten had gone up to pack; “for if he once gets the poor into his mind, it’ll all come to nothing. I expect I shall put a few of your socks and a little underclothing into his trunk; he’s got no change. If only he’ll see that his things go to the wash, and that they don’t ruin them with chlorine!”

“Don’t you think you’d better look after him a little while he’s packing?” asked Pelle. “Or else I’m afraid he’ll not take what he’ll really want. Morten would sometimes forget his own head.”

Ellen went upstairs with the things she had looked out. It was fortunate that she did so, for Morten had packed his trunk quite full of books, and laid the necessary things aside. When she took everything out and began all over again, he fidgeted about and was quite unhappy; it had been arranged so nicely, the fiction all together in one place, the proletariat writings in another; he could have put his hand in and taken out anything he wanted. But Ellen had no mercy. Everything had to be emptied onto the floor, and he had to bring every stitch of clothing he possessed and lay them on chairs, whence she selected the necessary garments. At each one that was placed in the trunk, Morten protested meekly: it really could not be worth while to take socks with him, nor yet several changes of linen; you simply bought them as you required them. Indeed? Could it not? But it was worth while lugging about a big trunk full of useless books like any colporteur, was it?

Ellen was on her knees before the trunk, and was getting on with her task. Pelle came up and stood leaning against the doorjamb, looking at them. “That’s right! Just give him a coating of paint that will last till he gets home again!” he said, laughing. “He may need it badly.”

Morten sat upon a chair looking crestfallen. “Thank goodness, I’m not married!” he said. “I really begin to be sorry for you, Pelle.” It was evident that he was enjoying being looked after.

“Yes, now you can see what a domestic affliction I have to bear,” Pelle answered gravely.

Ellen let them talk. The trunk was now cram full, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that he would not be going about like a tramp. There were only his toilet articles left now; even those he had forgotten. She drew a huge volume out of the pocket for these articles inside the lid of the trunk to make room for his washing things; but at that Morten sprang forward. “I must have that with me, whatever else is left out,” he said with determination. It was Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, Morten’s Bible.

Ellen opened it at the titlepage to see if it really was so necessary to travel about with such a monster; it was as big as a loaf.

“There’s no room for it,” she declared, and quietly laid it on one side, “that’s to say if you want things to wash yourself with; and you’re sure to meet plenty of unhappy people wherever you go, for there’s always enough of them everywhere.”

“Then perhaps Madam will not permit me to take my writing things with me?” questioned Morten, in a tone of supplication.

“Oh, yes!” answered Ellen, laughing, “and you may use them too, to do something beautiful⁠—that’s to say if it’s us poor people you’re writing for. There’s sorrow and misery enough!”

“When the sun’s shone properly upon me, I’ll come home and write you a book about it,” said Morten seriously.

The following day was Sunday. Morten was up early and went out to the churchyard. He was gone a long time, and they waited breakfast for him. “He’s coming now!” cried Lasse Frederik, who had been up to the hill farm for milk. “I saw him down in the field.”

“Then we can put the eggs on,” said Ellen to Sister, who helped her a little in the kitchen.

Morten was in a solemn mood. “The roses on Johanna’s grave have been picked again,” he said. “I can’t imagine how anyone can have the heart to rob the dead; they are really the poorest of us all.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that!” exclaimed Pelle. “A month ago you thought the dead were the only ones who were well off.”

“You’re a rock!” said Morten, smiling and putting his hands on the other’s shoulders. “If everything else were to change, we should always know where you were to be found.”

“Come to table!” cried Ellen, “but at once, or the surprise will be cold.” She stood waiting with a covered dish in her hand.

“Why, I believe you’ve got new-laid eggs there!” exclaimed Pelle, in astonishment.

“Yes, the hens have begun to lay again the last few days. It must be in Morten’s honor.”

“No, it’s in honor of the fine weather, and because they’re allowed to run about anywhere now,” said Lasse Frederik.

Morten laughed. “Lasse Frederik’s an incorrigible realist,” he said. “Life needs no adornment for him.”

Ellen looked well after Morten. “Now you must make a good breakfast,” she said. “You can’t be sure you’ll get proper food out there in foreign countries.” She was thinking with horror of the messes her lodgers in the “Palace” had put together.

The carriage was at the door, the trunk was put up beside the driver, and Morten and Pelle got into the carriage, not before it was time either. They started at a good pace, Lasse Frederik and Sister each standing on a step all the way down to the main road. Up at the gable window Ellen stood and waved, holding Boy Comfort by the hand.

“It