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

the village was awaiting the return of one such lad as this, and he did not come. And one day word came that bark so-and-so had gone to the bottom with all on board. It was the winter storms, said the boys, spitting like grown men. The brothers and sisters were kept away from school for a week, and when they came back Pelle eyed them curiously: it must be strange to have a brother lying at the bottom of the sea, quite young! “Then you won’t want to go to sea?” he asked them. Oh, yes, they wanted to go to sea, too!

Another time Fris came back after an unusually long playtime in low spirits. He kept on blowing his nose hard, and now and then dried his eyes behind his spectacles. The boys nudged one another. He cleared his throat loudly, but could not make himself heard, and then beat a few strokes on his desk with the cane.

“Have you heard, children?” he asked, when they had become more or less quiet.

“No! Yes! What?” they cried in chorus; and one boy said: “That the sun’s fallen into the sea and set it on fire!”

The master quietly took up his hymnbook. “Shall we sing ‘How blessed are they’?” he said; and they knew that something must have happened, and sang the hymn seriously with him.

But at the fifth verse Fris stopped; he could not go on any longer. “Peter Funck is drowned!” he said, in a voice that broke on the last word. A horrified whisper passed through the class, and they looked at one another with uncomprehending eyes. Peter Funck was the most active boy in the village, the best swimmer, and the greatest scamp the school had ever had⁠—and he was drowned!

Fris walked up and down, struggling to control himself. The children dropped into softly whispered conversation about Peter Funck, and all their faces had grown old with gravity. “Where did it happen?” asked a big boy.

Fris awoke with a sigh. He had been thinking about this boy, who had shirked everything, and had then become the best sailor in the village; about all the thrashings he had given him, and the pleasant hours they had spent together on winter evenings when the lad was home from a voyage and had looked in to see his old master. There had been much to correct, and things of grave importance that Fris had had to patch up for the lad in all secrecy, so that they should not affect his whole life, and⁠—

“It was in the North Sea,” he said. “I think they’d been in England.”

“To Spain with dried fish,” said a boy. “And from there they went to England with oranges, and were bringing a cargo of coal home.”

“Yes, I think that was it,” said Fris. “They were in the North Sea, and were surprised by a storm; and Peter had to go aloft.”

“Yes, for the Trokkadej is such a crazy old hulk. As soon as there’s a little wind, they have to go aloft and take in sail,” said another boy.

“And he fell down,” Fris went on, “and struck the rail and fell into the sea. There were the marks of his sea-boots on the rail. They braced⁠—or whatever it’s called⁠—and managed to turn; but it took them half-an-hour to get up to the place. And just as they got there, he sank before their eyes. He had been struggling in the icy water for half-an-hour⁠—with sea-boots and oilskins on⁠—and yet⁠—”

A long sigh passed through the class. “He was the best swimmer on the whole shore!” said Henry. “He dived backward off the gunwale of a bark that was lying in the roads here taking in water, and came up on the other side of the vessel. He got ten rye rusks from the captain himself for it.”

“He must have suffered terribly,” said Fris. “It would almost have been better for him if he hadn’t been able to swim.”

“That’s what my father says!” said a little boy. “He can’t swim, for he says it’s better for a sailor not to be able to; it only keeps you in torture.”

“My father can’t swim, either!” exclaimed another. “Nor mine, either!” said a third. “He could easily learn, but he won’t.” And they went on in this way, holding up their hands. They could all swim themselves, but it appeared that hardly any of their fathers could; they had a superstitious feeling against it. “Father says you oughtn’t to tempt Providence if you’re wrecked,” one boy added.

“Why, but then you’d not be doing your best!” objected a little faltering voice. Fris turned quickly toward the corner where Pelle sat blushing to the tips of his ears.

“Look at that little man!” said Fris, impressed. “And I declare if he isn’t right and all the rest of us wrong! God helps those that help themselves!”

“Perhaps,” said a voice. It was Henry Bodker’s.

“Well, well, I know He didn’t help here, but still we ought always to do what we can in all the circumstances of life. Peter did his best⁠—and he was the cleverest boy I ever had.”

The children smiled at one another, remembering various things. Peter Funck had once gone so far as to wrestle with the master himself, but they had not the heart to bring this up. One of the bigger boys, however, said, half for the purpose of teasing: “He never got any farther than the twenty-seventh hymn!”

“Didn’t he, indeed?” snarled Fris. “Didn’t he, indeed? And you think perhaps you’re clever, do you? Let’s see how far you’ve got, then!” And he took up the hymnbook with a trembling hand. He could not stand anything being said against boys that had left.

The name Blue-bag continued to stick to Pelle, and nothing had ever stung him so much; and there was no chance of his getting rid of it before the summer came, and that was a long way off.

One day the fisher-boys ran out on to the