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

money, but is forced to work; damnable places, and there are German hostels where one is treated like a prisoner; all clothes must be taken off in a long corridor, even to one’s shirt; a handful of men examine them, and then everything is put safely away. Thirty or forty naked men are admitted, one after another, to the great bare dormitory.

Paris⁠—the name is like a bubble bursting in one’s ear! There Garibaldi has worked for two years, and he has been there a score of times on passing visits. Paris is the glory of the whole world massed together, and all the convenient contrivances of the world brought to a state of perfection. Here in the town no respectable shoemaker will mend the dirty shoes of the “Top-galeass”; she goes about in downtrodden top-boots, or, if the snipping season has been poor, she wears wooden shoes. In Paris there are women who wear shoes at twenty guineas a pair, who carry themselves like queens, earn forty thousand pounds a year, and are yet nothing but prostitutes. Forty thousand! If another than Garibaldi had said it he would have had all the lasts thrown at his head!

Pelle does not hear what the master says to him, and Jens is in a great hurry for the cobbler’s wax; he has cut the upper of the shoe he is soling. They are quite irresponsible; as though bewitched by this wonderful being, who goes on pouring brandy down his throat, and turning the accursed drink into a many-colored panorama of the whole world, and work that is like a miracle.

The news has soon spread, and people come hurrying in to see Garibaldi, and perhaps to venture to shake him by the hand; Klausen wants to borrow some pegs, and Marker, quite unabashed, looks in to borrow the biggest last. The old cobbler Drejer stands modestly in a corner and says “Yes, yes!” to the other’s remarks. Garibaldi has reached him his hand, and now he can go home to his gloomy shop and his dirty stock and his old man’s solitude. The genius of the craft has touched him, and for the rest of his days has shed a light upon his wretched work of patching and repairing; he has exchanged a handshake with the man who made the cork-soled boots for the Emperor of Germany himself when he went out to fight the French. And the crazy Anker is there too; but does not come in, as he is shy of strangers. He walks up and down the yard before the workshop window, and keeps on peeping in. Garibaldi points his finger to his forehead and nods, and Anker does the same; he is shaking with suppressed laughter, as over some excellent joke, and runs off like a child who must hide himself in a corner in order to savor his delight. Baker Jörgen is there, bending down with his hands on his thighs, and his mouth wide open. “Lor’ Jiminy!” he cries from time to time; “did ever one hear the like!” He watches the white silk run through the sole and form itself into glistening pearls along the edge. Pearl after pearl appears; Garibaldi’s arms fly about him, and presently he touches the baker on the hip. “Am I in the way?” asks old Jörgen. “No, God forbid⁠—stay where you are!” And his arms fly out again, and the butt of the bodkin touches the baker with a little click. “I’m certainly in the way,” says Jörgen, and moves a few inches. “Not in the least!” replies Garibaldi, stitching away. Then out fly his arms again, but this time the point of the bodkin is turned toward the baker. “Now, good Lord, I can see I’m in the way!” says Jörgen, rubbing himself behind. “Not at all!” replies Garibaldi courteously, with an inviting flourish of his hand. “Pray come nearer.” “No, thank you! No, thank you!” Old Jörgen gives a forced laugh, and hobbles away.

Otherwise Garibaldi lets them come and stare and go as they like. It does not trouble him that he is an eminent and remarkable person; quite unperturbed, he puts the brandy-bottle to his lips and drinks just as long as he is thirsty. He sits there, playing thoughtlessly with knife and leather and silk, as though he had sat on the stool all his life, instead of having just fallen from the moon. And about the middle of the afternoon the incomparable result is completed; a pair of wonderful satin shoes, slender as a neat’s tongue, dazzling in their white brilliance, as though they had just walked out of the fairytale and were waiting for the feet of the Princess.

“Look at them, damn it all!” says the master, and passes them to little Nikas, who passes them round the circle. Garibaldi throws back his close-cropped gray head.

“You need not say who has made them⁠—everybody can see that. Suppose now the shoes go to Jutland and are worn there and are thrown on the rubbish-heap. One day, years hence, some porridge-eater goes ploughing; a scrap of the instep comes to the surface; and a wandering journeyman, who is sitting in the ditch nibbling at his supper, rakes it toward him with his stick. That bit of instep, he says, that, or the Devil may fry me else, was part of a shoe made by Garibaldi⁠—deuce take me, he says, but that’s what it was. And in that case the journeyman must be from Paris, or Nuremberg, or Hamburg⁠—one or the other, that’s certain. Or am I talking nonsense, master?”

No; Master Andres can asseverate this is no nonsense⁠—he who from childhood lived with Garibaldi on the highways and in great cities, who followed him so impetuously with that lame leg of his that he remembers Garibaldi’s heroic feats better than Garibaldi himself. “But now you will stay here,” he says persuasively. “Now we’ll work up the business⁠—we’ll get all the fine work of the whole island.” Garibaldi has