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

While it was being done, he walked about nervously, and then set off at full speed. As he turned the corner of the house, a window opened and a voice called to him imploringly: “Kongstrup, Kongstrup!” But he drove quickly on, the window closed, and the weeping began afresh.

In the afternoon Pelle was busying himself about the lower yard when Karna came to him and told him to go up to mistress. Pelle went up hesitatingly. He was not sure of her and all the men were out in the fields.

Fru Kongstrup lay upon the sofa in her husband’s study, which she always occupied, day or night, when her husband was out. She had a wet towel over her forehead, and her whole face was red with weeping.

“Come here!” she said, in a low voice. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?”

Pelle had to go up to her and sit on the chair beside her. He did not know what to do with his eyes; and his nose began to run with the excitement, and he had no pocket-handkerchief.

“Are you afraid of me?” she asked again, and a bitter smile crossed her lips.

He had to look at her to show that he was not afraid, and to tell the truth, she was not like a witch at all, but only like a human being who cried and was unhappy.

“Come here!” she said, and she wiped his nose with her own fine handkerchief, and stroked his hair. “You haven’t even a mother, poor little thing!” And she smoothed down his clumsily mended blouse.

“It’s three years now since Mother Bengta died, and she’s lying in the west corner of the churchyard.”

“Do you miss her very much?”

“Oh, well, Father Lasse mends my clothes!”

“I’m sure she can’t have been very good to you.”

“Oh, yes!” said Pelle, nodding earnestly. “But she was so fretful, she was always ailing; and it’s better they should go when they get like that. But now we’re soon going to get married again⁠—when Father Lasse’s found somebody that’ll do.”

“And then I suppose you’ll go away from here? I’m sure you aren’t comfortable here, are you?”

Pelle had found his tongue, but now feared a trap, and became dumb. He only nodded. Nobody should come and accuse him afterward of having complained.

“No, you aren’t comfortable,” she said, in a plaintive tone. “No one is comfortable at Stone Farm. Everything turns to misfortune here.”

“It’s an old curse, that!” said Pelle.

“Do they say so? Yes, yes, I know they do! And they say of me that I’m a devil⁠—only because I love a single man⁠—and cannot put up with being trampled on.” She wept and pressed his hand against her quivering face.

“I’ve got to go out and move the cows,” said Pelle, wriggling about uneasily in an endeavor to get away.

“Now you’re afraid of me again!” she said, and tried to smile. It was like a gleam of sunshine after rain.

“No⁠—only I’ve got to go out and move the cows.”

“There’s still a whole hour before that. But why aren’t you herding today? Is your father ill?”

Then Pelle had to tell her about the bull.

“You’re a good boy!” said the mistress, patting his head. “If I had a son, I should like him to be like you. But now you shall have some jam, and then you must run to the shop for a bottle of blackcurrant rum, so that we can make a hot drink for your father. If you hurry, you can be back before moving-time.”

Lasse had his hot drink, even before the boy returned; and every day while he kept his bed he had something strengthening⁠—although there was no blackcurrant rum in it.

During this time Pelle went up to the mistress nearly every day. Kongstrup had gone on business to Copenhagen. She was kind to him and gave him nice things to eat; and while he ate, she talked without ceasing about Kongstrup, or asked him what people thought about her. Pelle had to tell her, and then she was upset and began to cry. There was no end to her talk about the farmer, but she contradicted herself, and Pelle gave up trying to make anything of it. Besides, the good things she gave him were quite enough for him to think about.

Down in their room he repeated everything word for word, and Lasse lay and listened, and wondered at this little fellow who had the run of high places, and was in the mistress’s confidence. Still he did not quite like it.

“… She could scarcely stand, and had to hold on to the table when she was going to fetch me the biscuits, she was so ill. It was only because he’d treated her badly, she said. Do you know she hates him, and would like to kill him, she says; and yet she says that he’s the handsomest man in the world, and asked me if I’ve seen anyone handsomer in all Sweden. And then she cries as if she was mad.”

“Does she?” said Lasse thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose she knows what she’s saying, or else she says it for reasons of her own. But all the same, it’s not true that he beats her! She’s telling a lie, I’m sure.”

“And why should she lie?”

“Because she wants to do him harm, I suppose. But it’s true he’s a fine man⁠—and cares for everybody except just her; and that’s the misfortune. I don’t like your being so much up there; I’m so afraid you may come to some harm.”

“How could I? She’s so good, so very good.”

“How am I to know that? No, she isn’t good⁠—her eyes aren’t good, at any rate. She’s brought more than one person into misfortune by looking at them. But there’s nothing to be done about it; the poor man has to risk things.”

Lasse was silent, and stumbled about for a little while. Then he came up to Pelle. “Now, see here! Here’s a piece of steel I’ve found, and you must remember always to have