Pelle the Conqueror — Complete

by Martin Andersen Nexø

On the night before his wedding he lay restlessly tossing to and fro. Something seemed to follow him in his sleep. At last he woke, and was sensible of a stifled moaning, that came and went with long intervals in between, as though the “Ark” itself were moaning in an evil dream. Suddenly he stood up, lit the lamp, and began to polish his wedding- boots, which were still on the lasts, so that they might retain their handsome shape. Lasse was still asleep, and the long gangway outside lay still in slumber.

The sound returned, louder and more long-drawn, and something about it reminded him of Stone Farm, and awaked the horror of his childish days. He sat and sweated at his work. Suddenly he heard some one outside—some one who groped along the gangway and fumbled at his door. He sprang forward and opened it. Suspense ran through his body like an icy shudder. Outside stood Hanne’s mother, shivering in the morning cold.

“Pelle,” she whispered anxiously, “it’s so near now—would you run and fetch Madam Blom from Market Street? I can’t leave Hanne. And I ought to be wishing you happiness, too.”

The errand was not precisely convenient, nevertheless, he ran oft. And then he sat listening, working still, but as quietly as possible, in order not to wake Father Lasse. But then it was time for the children to get up; for the last time he knocked on the wall and heard Marie’s sleepy “Ye—es!” At the same moment the silence of night was broken; the inmates tumbled out and ran barefooted to the lavatories, slamming their doors. “The Princess is lamenting,” they told one another. “She’s lamenting because she’s lost what she’ll never get again.” Then the moaning rose to a loud shriek, and suddenly it was silent over there.

Poor Hanne! Now she had another to care for—and who was its father? Hard times were in store for her.

Lasse was not going to work to-day, although the wedding-feast was not to be held until the afternoon. He was in a solemn mood, from the earliest morning, and admonished Pelle not to lay things cross-wise, and the like. Pelle laughed every time.

“Yes, you laugh,” said Lasse, “but this is an important day—perhaps the most important in your life. You ought to take care lest the first trifling thing you do should ruin everything.”

He pottered about, treating everything as an omen. He was delighted with the sun—it rose out of a sack and grew brighter and brighter in the course of the day. It was never lucky for the sun to begin too blazing.

Marie went to and fro, considering Pelle with an expression of suppressed anxiety, like a mother who is sending her child into the world, and strives hard to seem cheerful, thought Pelle. Yes, yes, she had been like a mother to him in many senses, although she was only a child; she had taken him into her nest as a little forsaken bird, and with amazement had seen him grow. He had secretly helped her when he could. But what was that in comparison with the singing that had made his work easy, when he saw how the three waifs accepted things as they were, building their whole existence on nothing? Who would help them now over the difficult places without letting them see the helping hand? He must keep watchful eye on them.

Marie’s cheeks were a hectic red, and her eyes were shining when he held her roughened hands in his and thanked her for being such a good neighbor. Her narrow chest was working, and a reflection of hidden beauty rested upon her. Pelle had taught her blood to find the way to her colorless face; whenever she was brought into intimate contact with him or his affairs, her cheeks glowed, and every time a little of the color was left behind. It was as though his vitality forced the sap to flow upward in her, in sympathy, and now she stood before him, trying to burst her stunted shell, and unfold her gracious capacities before him, and as yet was unable to do so. Suddenly she fell upon his breast. “Pelle, Pelle,” she said, hiding her face against him. And then she ran into her own room.