Pelle the Conqueror by Martin Andersen Nexø (great novels to read .TXT) 📕

he’d learn manners at last. But there’s no grit in you⁠—that’s the trouble; you put up with all his sauciness.”

“If I were to lay a stone in his way⁠—why, who would be good to him, if his poor head wanted to lie soft? Grandmother ought to know how much he needs someone who believes in him. And there’s nothing else I can do for him.”

“Yes, yes; work away and wear yourself out, so that there’s always something for the great fellow to smash if he has a mind to! But now you go to bed and lie down; I’ll wait up for Peter and give him his food, if he comes; you must be half dead with weariness, you poor worm.”

“There’s an old proverb says, ‘A man’s mother is the devil’s pother,’ but it don’t apply to you, grandmother,” said the mother of the boys mildly. “You always take my part, although there’s no need. But now you go to bed! It’s far past your bedtime, and I’ll look after Peter. It’s so easy to manage him if only he knows that you mean well by him.”

The old woman behaved as though she did not hear; she went on knitting. The boys remembered that they had brought something with them; a bag of coffee-beans, some sugar-candy, and a few rolls.

“You waste all your hard-earned shillings on me,” said the mother reproachfully, and put the water to boil for the coffee, while her face beamed with gratitude.

“They’ve no young women to waste it on,” said the old woman dryly.

“Grandmother’s out of humor this evening,” said Morten. He had taken off the old woman’s glasses and looked smilingly into her gray eyes.

“Out of humor⁠—yes, that I am! But time passes, I tell you, and here one sits on the edge of the grave, waiting for her own flesh and blood to get on and do something wonderful, but nothing ever happens! Energies are wasted⁠—they run away like brook-water into the sea⁠—and the years are wasted too⁠—or is it lies I’m telling you? All want to be masters; no one wants to carry the sack; and one man seizes hold of another and clambers over him just to reach an inch higher. And there ought to be plenty in the house⁠—but there’s poverty and filth in every corner. I should think the dear God will soon have had enough of it all! Not an hour goes by but I curse the day when I let myself be wheedled away from the country; there a poor man’s daily bread grows in the field, if he’ll take it as it comes. But here he must go with a shilling in his fist, if it’s only that he wants a scrap of cabbage for his soup. If you’ve money you can have it; if you haven’t, you can leave it. Yes, that’s how it is! But one must live in town in order to have the same luck as Peter! Everything promised splendidly, and I, stupid old woman, have always had a craving to see my own flesh and blood up at the top. And now I sit here like a beggar-princess! Oh, it has been splendid⁠—I’m the mother of the biggest vagabond in town!”

“Grandmother shouldn’t talk like that,” said the mother of the boys.

“Yes, yes; but I’m sick of it all⁠—and yet I can’t think about dying! How can I go and lay me down⁠—who would take a stick to Peter?⁠—the strong man!” she said contemptuously.

“Grandmother had better go quietly and lie down; I can manage Peter best if I’m alone with him,” said the wife, but the old woman did not move.

“Can’t you get her to go, Morten?” whispered the mother. “You are the only one she will listen to.”

Morten lectured the old woman until he had enticed her away; he had to promise to go with her and arrange the bedclothes over her feet.

“Now, thank goodness, we’ve got her out of the way!” said the mother, relieved. “I’m always so afraid that father might forget what he’s doing when he’s like he is now; and she doesn’t think of giving in to him, so it’s flint against flint. But now I think you ought to go where the rest of the young folks are, instead of sitting here and hanging your heads.”

“We’ll stay and see whether father comes,” declared Morten.

“But what does it matter to you⁠—you can say good day to father at any time. Go now⁠—listen⁠—father prefers to find me alone when he’s like this and comes home merry. Perhaps he takes me in his arms and swings me round⁠—he’s so strong⁠—so that I feel as giddy as a young girl. ‘Ho, heigh, wench, here’s the “Great Power”!’ he says, and he laughs as loud as he used to in his rowdy young days. Yes, when he’s got just enough in him he gets as strong and jolly as ever he was in his very best days. I’m glad it’s soon over. But that’s not for you⁠—you had better go.” She looked at them appealingly, and shrank back as someone fumbled at the door. Out-of-doors it was terrible weather.

It was only the youngest, who had come home from her day’s work. She might have been ten or twelve years old and was small for her age, although she looked older; her voice was harsh and strident, and her little body seemed coarsened and worn with work. There was not a spot about her that shed or reflected a single ray of light; she was like some subterranean creature that has strayed to the surface. She went silently across the room and let herself drop into her grandmother’s chair; she leaned over to one side as she sat, and now and again her features contracted.

“She’s got that mischief in her back,” said the mother, stroking her thin, unlovely hair. “She got it always carrying the doctor’s little boy⁠—he’s so tall and so heavy. But as long as the doctor says nothing, it can’t