Pelle the Conqueror Part 41

Pelle walked along the beach, regretting that he had not leaped upon them again at once while the flush of victory was still upon him: it was too late now. If he had, it might perhaps have been said of him too that he could lick all the rest of the cla.s.s together; and now he must be content with being the strongest boy in the school.

A wild war-whoop from the school made him start. The whole swarm of boys was coming round the end of the house with sticks and pieces of wood in their hands. Pelle knew what was at stake if he gave way, and therefore forced himself to stand quietly waiting although his legs twitched. But suddenly they made a wild rush at him, and with a spring he turned to fly. There lay the sea barring his way, closely packed with heaving ice.

He ran out on to an ice-floe, leaped from it to the next, which was not large enough to bear him--had to go on.

The idea of flight possessed him and made the fear of what lay behind overpoweringly great. The lumps of ice gave way beneath him, and he had to leap from piece to piece; his feet moved as fast as fingers over the notes of a piano. He just noticed enough to take the direction toward the harbor breakwater. The others stood gaping on the beach while Pelle danced upon the water like a stone making ducks and drakes. The pieces of ice bobbed under as soon as he touched them, or turned up on edge; but Pelle came and slid by with a touch, flung himself to one side with lightning rapidity, and changed his aim in the middle of a leap like a cat. It was like a dance on red-hot iron, so quickly did he pick up his feet, and spring from one place to another. The water spurted up from the pieces of ice as he touched them, and behind him stretched a crooked track of disturbed ice and water right back to the place where the boys stood and held their breath. There was n.o.body like Pelle, not one of them could do what he had done there! When with a final leap he threw himself upon the breakwater, they cheered him. Pelle had triumphed in his flight!

He lay upon the breakwater, exhausted and gasping for breath, and gazed without interest at a brig that had cast anchor off the village. A boat was rowing in--perhaps with a sick man to be put in quarantine. The weather-beaten look of the vessel told of her having been out on a winter voyage, in ice and heavy seas.

Fishermen came down from the cottages and strolled out to the place where the boat would come in, and all the school-children followed. In the stern of the boat sat an elderly, weather-beaten man with a fringe of beard round his face; he was dressed in blue, and in front of him stood a sea-chest. "Why, it's Boatswain Olsen!" Pelle heard one fisherman say. Then the man stepped ash.o.r.e, and shook hands with them all; and the fisherman and the school-children closed round him in a dense circle.

Pelle made his way up, creeping along behind boats and sheds; and as soon as he was hidden by the school-building, he set off running straight across the fields to Stone Farm. His vexation burnt his throat, and a feeling of shame made him keep far away from houses and people.

The parcel that he had had no opportunity of delivering in the morning was like a clear proof to everybody of his shame, and he threw it into a marl-pit as he ran.

He would not go through the farm, but thundered on the outside door to the stable. "Have you come home already?" exclaimed La.s.se, pleased.

"Now--now Madam Olsen's husband's come home!" panted Pelle, and went past his father without looking at him.

To La.s.se it was as if the world had burst and the falling fragments were piercing into his flesh. Everything was failing him. He moved about trembling and unable to grasp anything; he could not talk, everything in him seemed to have come to a standstill. He had picked up a piece of rope, and was going backward and forward, backward and forward, looking up.

Then Pelle went up to him. "What are you going to do with that?" he asked harshly.

La.s.se let the rope fall from his hand and began to complain of the sadness and poverty of existence. One feather fell off here, and another there, until at last you stood trampling in the mud like a featherless bird--old and worn-out and robbed of every hope of a happy old age. He went on complaining in this way in an undertone, and it eased him.

Pelle made no response. He only thought of the wrong and the shame that had come upon them, and found no relief.

Next morning he took his dinner and went off as usual, but when he was halfway to school he lay down under a thorn. There he lay, fuming and half-frozen, until it was about the time when school would be over, when he went home. This he did for several days. Toward his father he was silent, almost angry. La.s.se went about lamenting, and Pelle had enough with his own trouble; each moved in his own world, and there was no bridge between; neither of them had a kind word to say to the other.

But one day when Pelle came stealing home in this way, La.s.se received him with a radiant face and weak knees. "What on earth's the good of fretting?" he said, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his face and turning his blinking eyes upon Pelle--for the first time since the bad news had come. "Look here at the new sweetheart I've found! Kiss her, laddie!" And La.s.se drew from the straw a bottle of gin, and held it out toward him.

Pelle pushed it angrily from him.

"Oh, you're too grand, are you?" exclaimed La.s.se. "Well, well, it would be a sin and a shame to waste good things upon you." He put the bottle to his lips and threw back his head.

"Father, you shan't do that!" exclaimed Pelle, bursting into tears and shaking his father's arm so that the liquid splashed out.

"Ho-ho!" said La.s.se in astonishment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "She's uncommonly lively, ho-ho!" He grasped the bottle with both hands and held it firmly, as if it had tried to get away from him.

"So you're obstreperous, are you?" Then his eye fell upon Pelle. "And you're crying! Has any one hurt you? Don't you know that your father's called La.s.se--La.s.se Karlsson from Kungstorp? You needn't be afraid, for La.s.se's here, and he'll make the whole world answer for it."

Pelle saw that his father was quickly becoming more fuddled, and ought to be put to bed for fear some one should come and find him lying there.

"Come now, father!" he begged.

"Yes, I'll go now. I'll make him pay for it, if it's old Beelzebub himself! You needn't cry!" La.s.se was making for the yard.

Pelle stood in front of him. "Now you must come with me, father! There's no one to make pay for anything."

"Isn't there? And yet you're crying! But the farmer shall answer to me for all these years. Yes, my fine landed gentleman, with your nose turned up at every one!"

This made Pelle afraid. "But father, father!" he cried. "Don't go up there! He'll be in such a rage, he'll turn us out! Remember you're drunk!"

"Yes, of course I'm drunk, but there's no harm in me." He stood fumbling with the hook that fastened the lower half of the door.

It was wrong to lay a hand upon one's own father, but now Pelle was compelled to set aside all such scruples. He took a firm hold of the old man's collar. "Now you come with me!" he said, and drew him along toward their room.

La.s.se laughed and hiccupped and struggled; clutched hold of everything that he could lay hands on--the posts and the animals' tails--while Pelle dragged him along. He had hold of him behind, and was half carrying him. In the doorway they stuck fast, as the old man held on with both hands; and Pelle had to leave go of him and knock his arms away so that he fell, and then drag him along and on to the bed.

La.s.se laughed foolishly all the time, as if it were a game. Once or twice when Pelle's back was turned, he tried to get up; his eyes had almost disappeared, but there was a cunning expression about his mouth, and he was like a naughty child. Suddenly he fell back in a heavy sleep.

The next day was a school holiday, so there was no need for Pelle to hide himself. La.s.se was ashamed and crept about with an air of humility.

He must have had quite a clear idea of what had happened the day before, for suddenly he touched Pelle's arm. "You're like Noah's good son, that covered up his father's shame!" he said; "but La.s.se's a beast. It's been a hard blow on me, as you may well believe! But I know quite well that it doesn't mend matters to drink one's self silly. It's a badly buried trouble that one has to lay with gin; and what's hidden in the snow comes up in the thaw, as the saying is."

Pelle made no answer.

"How do people take it?" asked La.s.se cautiously. He had now got so far as to have a thought for the shameful side of the matter. "I don't think they know about it yet here on the farm; but what do they say outside?"

"How should I know?" answered Pelle sulkily.

"Then you've heard nothing?"

"Do you suppose I'll go to school to be jeered at by them all?" Pelle was almost crying again.

"Then you've been wandering about and let your father believe that you'd gone to school? That wasn't right of you, but I won't find fault with you, considering all the disgrace I've brought upon you. But suppose you get into trouble for playing truant, even if you don't deserve it?

Misfortunes go hand in hand, and evils multiply like lice in a fur coat.

We must think what we're about, we two; we mustn't let things go all to pieces!"

La.s.se walked quickly into their room and returned with the bottle, took out the cork, and let the gin run slowly out into the gutter. Pelle looked wonderingly at him. "G.o.d forgive me for abusing his gifts!" said La.s.se; "but it's a bad tempter to have at hand when you've a sore heart.

And now if I give you my word that you shall never again see me as I was yesterday, won't you have a try at school again to-morrow, and try and get over it gradually? We might get into trouble with the magistrate himself if you keep on staying away; for there's a heavy punishment for that sort of thing in this country."

Pelle promised and kept his word; but he was prepared for the worst, and secretly slipped a knuckle-duster into his pocket that Erik had used in his palmy days when he went to open-air fetes and other places where one had to strike a blow for one's girl. It was not required, however, for the boys were entirely taken up with a s.h.i.+p that had had to be run aground to prevent her sinking, and now lay discharging her cargo of wheat into the boats of the village. The wheat already lay in the harbor in great piles, wet and swollen with the salt water.

And a few days later, when this had become stale, something happened which put a stop forever to Pelle's school attendance. The children were busy at arithmetic, chattering and clattering with their slates, and Fris was sitting as usual in his place, with his head against the wall and his hands resting on the desk. His dim eyes were somewhere out in s.p.a.ce, and not a movement betrayed that he was alive. It was his usual position, and he had sat thus ever since playtime.

The children grew restless; it was nearly time for them to go home. A farmer's son who had a watch, held it up so that Pelle could see it, and said "Two" aloud. They noisily put away their slates and began to fight; but Fris, who generally awoke at this noise of departure, did not stir.

Then they tramped out, and in pa.s.sing, one of the girls out of mischief stroked the master's hand. She started back in fear. "He's quite cold!"

she said, shuddering and drawing back behind the others.

They stood in a semicircle round the desk, and tried to see into Fris's half-closed eyes; and then Pelle went up the two steps and laid his hand upon his master's shoulder. "We're going home," he said, in an unnatural voice. Fris's arm dropped stiffly down from the desk, and Pelle had to support his body. "He's dead!" the words pa.s.sed like a s.h.i.+ver over the children's lips.

Fris was dead--dead at his post, as the honest folks of the parish expressed it. Pelle had finished his schooling for good, and could breathe freely.

He helped his father at home, and they were happy together and drew together again now that there was no third person to stand between them.

The gibes from the others on the farm were not worth taking notice of; La.s.se had been a long time on the farm, and knew too much about each of them, so that he could talk back. He sunned himself in Pelle's gently childlike nature, and kept up a continual chatter. One thing he was always coming back to. "I ought to be glad I had you, for if you hadn't held back that time when I was bent upon moving down to Madam Olsen's, we should have been in the wrong box. I should think he'd have killed us in his anger. You were my good angel as you always have been."

La.s.se's words had the pleasant effect of caresses on Pelle; he was happy in it all, and was more of a child than his years would have indicated.

But one Sat.u.r.day he came home from the parson's altogether changed. He was as slow about everything as a dead herring, and did not go across to his dinner, but came straight in through the outer door, and threw himself face downward upon a bundle of hay.

"What's the matter now?" asked La.s.se, coming up to him. "Has any one been unkind to you?"

Pelle did not answer, but lay plucking at the hay. La.s.se was going to turn his face up to him, but Pelle buried it in the hay. "Won't you trust your own father? You know I've no other wish in the world but for your good!" La.s.se's voice was sad.