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

youthful couple, made of sugar, who held one another embraced, while behind them was a highly glazed representation of the rising sun. Up the steps of the pyramid various other figures were scrambling to the top, holding their arms outstretched toward the summit. Wine was poured out when they came to the cake, and Morten made a little speech in Pelle’s honor, in which he spoke of loyalty toward the new comrade whom he had chosen. Apparently the speech concerned Ellen only, but Pelle understood that his words were meant to be much more comprehensive; they had a double meaning all the time.

“Thank you, Morten,” he said, much moved, and he touched glasses with him.

Then Stolpe delivered a speech admonishing the newly-married pair. This was full of precious conceits and was received with jubilation.

“Now you see how father can speak,” said Madam Stolpe. “When nothing depends on it then he can speak!”

“What’s that you say, mother?” cried Stolpe, astonished. He was not accustomed to criticism from that source. “Just listen to that now⁠—one’s own wife is beginning to pull away the scaffolding-poles from under one!”

“Well, that’s what I say!” she rejoined, looking at him boldly. Her face was quite heated with wine. “Does anyone stand in the front of things like father does? He was the first, and he has been always the most zealous; he has done a good stroke of work, more than most men. And today he might well have been one of the leaders and have called the tune, if it weren’t for that damned hiccuping. He’s a clever man, and his comrades respect him too, but what does all that signify if a man hiccups? Every time he stands on the speaker’s platform he has the hiccups.”

“And yet it isn’t caused by brandy?” said the thickset little Vanishing Man, Albert Olsen.

“Oh, no, father has never gone in for bottle agitation,” replied Madam Stolpe.

“That was a fine speech that mother made about me,” said Stolpe, laughing, “and she didn’t hiccup. It is astonishing, though⁠—there are some people who can’t. But now it’s your turn, Frederik. Now you have become a journeyman and must accept the responsibility yourself for doing things according to plumb-line and square. We have worked on the scaffold together and we know one another pretty well. Many a time you’ve been a clown and many a time a sheep, and a box on the ears from your old man has never been lacking. But that was in your fledgling years. When only you made up your mind there was no fault to be found with you. I will say this to your credit⁠—that you know your trade⁠—you needn’t be shamed by anybody. Show what you can do, my lad! Do your day’s work so that your comrades don’t need to take you in tow, and never shirk when it comes to your turn!”

“Don’t cheat the drinker of his bottle, either,” said Albert Olsen, interrupting. Otto nudged him in the ribs.

“No, don’t do that,” said Stolpe, and he laughed. “There are still two things,” he added seriously. “Take care the girls don’t get running about under the scaffold in working hours, that doesn’t look well; and always uphold the fellowship. There is nothing more despicable than the name of strikebreaker.”

“Hear, hear!” resounded about the table. “A true word!”

Frederik sat listening with an embarrassed smile.

He was dressed in a new suit of the white clothes of his calling, and on his round chin grew a few dark downy hairs, which he fingered every other moment. He was waiting excitedly until the old man had finished, so that he might drink brotherhood with him.

“And now, my lad,” said Stolpe, taking the cover from the “tureen,” “now you are admitted to the corporation of masons, and you are welcome! Health, my lad.” And with a sly little twinkle of his eye, he set the utensil to his mouth, and drank.

“Health, father!” replied Frederik, with shining eyes, as his father passed him the drinking-bowl. Then it went round the table. The women shrieked before they drank; it was full of Bavarian beer, and in the amber fluid swam Bavarian sausages. And while the drinking-bowl made its cheerful round, Stolpe struck up with the Song of the Mason:

“The man up there in snowy cap and blouse,
He is a mason, any fool could swear.
Just give him stone and lime, he’ll build a house
Fine as a palace, up in empty air!
Down in the street below stands half the town:
Ah, ah! Na, na!
The scaffold sways, but it won’t fall down!

“Down in the street he’s wobbly in his tread,
He tumbles into every cellar door;
That’s ’cause his home is in the clouds o’erhead,
Where all the little birds about him soar.
Up there he works away with peaceful mind:
Ah, ah! Na, na!
The scaffold swings in the boisterous wind!

“What it is to be giddy no mason knows:
Left to himself he’d build for ever,
Stone upon stone, till in Heaven, I s’pose!
But up comes the Law, and says⁠—Stop now, clever!
There lives the Almighty, so just come off!
Ah, ah! Na, na!
Sheer slavery this, but he lets them scoff!

“Before he knows it the work has passed:
He measures all over and reckons it up.
His wages are safe in his breeches at last,
And he clatters off home to rest and to sup.
And a goodly wage he’s got in his pocket:
Ah, ah! Na, na!
The scaffold creaks to the winds that rock it!”

The little thickset slater sat with both arms on the table, staring right in front of him with veiled eyes. When the song was over he raised his head a little. “Yes, that may be all very fine⁠—for those it concerns. But the slater, he climbs higher than the mason.” His face was purple.

“Now, comrade, let well alone,” said Stolpe comfortably. “It isn’t the question, tonight, who climbs highest, it’s a question of amusing ourselves merely.”

“Yes, that may be,” replied Olsen, letting his head sink again. “But the slater, he climbs the highest.” After which he sat there murmuring to himself.

“Just leave