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

it, but they hurried past, only now and then one of them would wonder a little at his strange appearance. He himself knew most of them as well as if it had been yesterday he had had to do with those thousands, for the intermediate years had not thrust new faces in between him and the old ones. Now and again he met one of his men walking on the pavement with his wife on his arm, while others were standing on the electric tramcars as drivers and conductors. Weaklings and steady fellows⁠—they were his army. He could name them by name and was acquainted with their family circumstances. Well, a good deal of water had run under the bridge since then!

He went into a little inn for travelling artisans, and engaged a room.

“It’s easy to see that you’ve been away from this country for a day or two,” said the landlord. “Have you been far?”

Oh, yes, Pelle had seen something of the world. And here at home there had been a good many changes. How did the Movement get on?

“Capitally! Yes, awfully well! Our party has made tremendous progress; today we shall take the town!”

“That’ll make a difference in things, I suppose?”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t say that for certain. Unemployment increases every year, and it’s all the same who represents the town and sits in parliament. But we’ve got on very well as far as prices go.”

“Tell me⁠—there was a man in the Movement a few years ago called Pelle; what’s become of him?”

The landlord scratched his parting. “Pelle! Pelle! Yes, of course. What in the world was there about him? Didn’t he make false coins, or rob a till? If I remember right, he ended by going to prison. Well, well, there are bad characters in every movement.”

A couple of workmen, who were sitting at a table eating fried liver, joined in the conversation. “He came a good deal to the front five or six years ago,” said one of them with his mouth full. “But there wasn’t much in him; he had too much imagination.”

“He had the gift of the gab, anyhow,” said the other. “I still distinctly remember him at the great lockout. He could make you think you were no end of a fine fellow, he could! Well, that’s all past and gone! Your health, comrade!”

Pelle rose quietly and went out. He was forgotten; nobody remembered anything about him, in spite of all that he had fought for and suffered. Much must have passed over their heads since then, and him they had simply forgotten.

He did not know what to do with himself, more homeless here in this street, which should have been his own, than in any other place. It was black with people, but he was not carried with the stream; he resembled something that has been washed up to one side and left lying.

They were all in their best clothes. The workmen came in crowds on their way either from or to the polling-booths, and some were collected and accompanied thither by eager comrades. One man would shout to another across the road through his hollowed hand: “Hi, Petersen! I suppose you’ve voted?” Everywhere there was excitement and good humor: the city was to be taken!

Pelle went with the stream over Queen Louise’s Bridge and farther into the city. Here the feeling was different, opinions were divided, people exchanged sharp words. Outside the newspaper-offices stood dense crowds impeding the wheel-traffic as they waited patiently for the results that were shown in the windows. Every time a contested district came in, a wave of movement passed through the crowd, followed by a mighty roar if a victory was recorded. All was comparatively quiet; people stood outside the offices of the papers that bore the color of their party. Only the quarrelsome men gathered about their opponents and had their hats bashed in. Within the offices the members of the staff were passing busily backward and forward, hanging up the results and correcting them.

All the cafés and restaurants were full of customers. The telephone rang incessantly, and messengers kept coming with lists from the telegram bureaus; men fought over the results in front of the great blackboard and chances were discussed at the tables and much political nonsense was talked.

Pelle had never seen the city so excited, not even during the great lockout. Class faced class with clenched fists, the workmen even more eager than the upper class: they had become out-and-out politicians. He could see that the Movement had shifted its center of gravity over this. What was necessary was to gain seats; today they expected to get the upper hand in the city and a firm footing out in the country. Several of the old leaders were already in parliament and brought forward their practical experience in the debate; their aim now was nothing less than to usurp the political power. This was bold enough: they must have been successful, after all. He still possessed his old quickness of hearing as regards the general feeling, and perceived a change in the public tone. It had become broader, more democratic. Even the upper classes submitted to the ballot now, and condescended to fight for a majority of votes.

Pelle could see no place for himself, however, in this conflict. “Hi, you there! I suppose you’ve voted?” men shouted to him as they passed. Voted! He had not even the right to vote! In the battle that was now being fought, their old leader was not even allowed to take part as an ordinary soldier.

Out of the road! They marched in small bands on their way to the polling-booths or the Assembly Rooms, taking up the whole pavement, and Pelle readily moved out of their way. This time he did not come like a king’s son for whom the whole world stood waiting.

He was of the scum of the earth, neither more nor less, one who had been thrown aside and forgotten. If he succeeded