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

“Thanks!” said Pelle, holding out his hand. “Then that is settled⁠—no more carts go out. And we must bring the street-cleaners to a standstill too!”

“Then the authorities will put other men on⁠—there are plenty to be found for that work.”

“They won’t do that⁠—or we’ll put a stop to it if they do!”

“That sounds all right! It’ll be a nasty business for the swells! It’s all the same to the poor, they haven’t anything to eat. But suppose the soldiers are ordered to do it! Scavenging must be done if the city isn’t to become pestilential!”

A flash of intelligence crossed Pelle’s face. “Now listen, comrade! When you stop working, deliver up all the keys, so that the authorities can’t touch you! Only put them all in a sack and give them a good shakeup!”

Lars Hansen broke into a resounding laugh. “That will be the deuce of a joke!” he groaned, smacking his thighs. “Then they’ll have to come to us, for no one else will be able to sort them out again so quickly! I’ll take them the keys myself⁠—I’ll go upstairs as innocent as anything!”

Pelle thanked him again. “You’ll save the whole Cause,” he said quietly. “It’s the bread and the future happiness of many thousands that you are now holding in your hands.” He smiled brightly and took his leave. As soon as he was alone his smile faded and an expression of deathly weariness took its place.

Pelle walked the streets, strolling hither and thither. Now all was settled. There was nothing more to strive for. Everything within him seemed broken; he had not even strength to decide what he should do with himself. He walked on and on, came out into the High Street, and turned off again into the side streets. Over the way, in the Colonial Stores, he saw Karl, smiling and active, behind the counter serving customers. “You ought really to go in and ask him how he’s getting on,” he thought, but he strolled on. Once, before a tenement-house, he halted and involuntarily looked up. No, he had already done his business here⁠—this was where the president of the Scavengers’ Union lived. No, the day’s work was over now⁠—he would go home to Ellen and the children!

Home? No home for him now⁠—he was forsaken and alone! And yet he went toward the north; which road he went by he did not know, but after a time he found himself standing before his own door and staring at the rusty little letter box. Within there was a sound of weeping; he could hear Ellen moving to and fro, preparing everything for the night. Then he turned and hastened away, and did not breathe easily until he had turned the corner of the street.

He turned again and again, from one side street into another. Inside his head everything seemed to be going round, and at every step he felt as if it would crack. Suddenly he seemed to hear hasty but familiar steps behind him. Ellen! He turned round; there was no one there. So it was an illusion! But the steps began again as soon as he went on. There was something about those steps⁠—it was as though they wanted to say something to him; he could hear plainly that they wanted to catch up with him. He stopped suddenly⁠—there was no one there, and no one emerged from the darkness of the side streets.

Were these strange footsteps in his own mind, then? Pelle found them incomprehensible; his heart began to thump; his terrible exhaustion had made him helpless. And Ellen⁠—what was the matter with her? That reproachful weeping sounded in his ears! Understand⁠—what was he to understand? She had done it out of love, she had said! Ugh⁠—away with it all! He was too weary to justify her offence.

But what sort of wanderer was this? Now the footsteps were keeping time with his now; they had a double sound. And when he thought, another creature answered to him, from deep within him. There was something persistent about this, as there was in Morten’s influence; an opinion that made its way through all obstacles, even when reduced to silence. What was wanted of him now⁠—hadn’t he worked loyally enough? Was he not Pelle, who had conducted the great campaign? Pelle, to whom all looked up? But there was no joy in the thought now; he could not now hear the march of his fifty thousand comrades in his own footsteps! He was left in the lurch, left alone with this accursed Something here in the deserted streets⁠—and loneliness had come upon him! “You are afraid!” he thought, with a bitter laugh.

But he did not wish to be alone; and he listened intently. The conflict had taken all that he possessed. So there was a community⁠—mournful as it was⁠—between him and the misery around him here. What had he to complain of?

The city of the poor lay about him, terrible, ravaged by the battle of unemployment⁠—a city of weeping, and cold, and darkness, and want! From the back premises sounded the crying of children⁠—they were crying for bread, he knew⁠—while drunken men staggered round the corners, and the screaming of women sounded from the back rooms and the back yards. Ugh⁠—this was Hell already! Thank God, victory was near!

Somewhere he could plainly hear voices; children were crying, and a woman, who was moving to and fro in the room, was soothing them, and was lulling the youngest to sleep⁠—no doubt she had it in her arms. It all came down to him so distinctly that he looked up. There were no windows in the apartment! They were to be driven out by the cold, he thought indignantly, and he ran up the stairs; he was accustomed to taking the unfortunate by surprise.

“The landlord has taken out the doors and windows; he wanted to turn us into the street, but we aren’t going, for where should we