Pelle the Conqueror, vol 4 | Page 9

be worthless if he did not win her back.
New worlds grew up before him; he could dimly discern the great
connection between things, and thought he could see how deep down
the roots of life stretched, drawing nourishment from the very darkness
in which he dwelt. But to this he received no answer.
He never dreamt of writing to her. God had His own way of dealing
with the soul, a way with which one did not interfere. It would have to
come like all the rest, and he lulled himself with the foolish hope that
Ellen would come and visit him, for he was now in the right mood to
receive her. On Sundays he listened eagerly to the heavy clang of the
gate. It meant visitors to the prisoners; and when the gaoler came along
the corridor rattling his keys, Pelle's heart beat suffocatingly. This
repeated itself Sunday after Sunday, and then he gave up hope and
resigned himself to his fate.
After a long time, however, fortune favored him and brought him a
greeting.
Pelle took no personal part in the knocking that every evening after the
lights were out sounded through the immense building as if a thousand
death-ticks were at work. He had enough of his own to think about, and

only knocked those messages on that had to pass through his cell. One
day, however, a new prisoner was placed in the cell next to his, and
woke him. He was a regular frequenter of the establishment, and
immediately set about proclaiming his arrival in all directions. It was
Druk-Valde, "Widow" Rasmussen's idler of a sweetheart, who used to
stand all the winter through in the gateway in Chapel Road, and spit
over the toes of his well-polished shoes.
Yes, Valde knew Pelle's family well; his sweetheart had looked after
the children when Ellen, during the great conflict, began to go out to
work. Ellen had been very successful, and still held her head high. She
sewed uppers and had a couple of apprentices to help her, and she was
really doing pretty well. She did not associate with any one, not even
with her relatives, for she never left her children.
Druk-Valde had to go to the wall every evening; the most insignificant
detail was of the greatest importance. Pelle could see Ellen as if she
were standing in the darkness before him, pale, always clad in black,
always serious. She had broken with her parents; she had sacrificed
everything for his sake! She even talked about him so that the children
should not have forgotten him by the time he came back. "The little
beggars think you're travelling," said Valde.
So everything was all right! It was like sunshine in his heart to know
that she was waiting faithfully for him although he had cast her off. All
the ice must melt and disappear; he was a rich man in spite of
everything.
Did she bear his name? he asked eagerly. It would be like her--intrepid
as she was--defiantly to write "Pelle" in large letters on the door- plate.
Yes, of course! There was no such thing as hiding there! Lasse Frederik
and his sister were big now, and little Boy Comfort was a huge fellow
for his age--a regular little fatty. To see him sitting in his perambulator,
when they wheeled him out on Sundays, was a sight for gods!
Pelle stood in the darkness as though stunned. Boy Comfort, a little
fellow sitting in a perambulator! And it was not an adopted child either;
Druk-Valde so evidently took it to be his. Ellen! Ellen!
He went no more to the wall. Druk-Valde knocked in vain, and his six
months came to an end without Pelle noticing it. This time he made no
disturbance, but shrank under a feeling of being accursed. Providence
must be hostile to him, since the same blow had been aimed at him

twice. In the daytime he sought relief in hard work and reading; at night
he lay on his dirty, mouldy-smelling mattress and wept. He no longer
tried to overthrow his conception of Ellen, for he knew it was hopeless:
she still tragically overshadowed everything. She was his fate and still
filled his thoughts, but not brightly; there was indeed nothing bright or
great about it now, only imperative necessity.
And then his work! For a man there was always work to fall back upon,
when happiness failed him. Pelle set to work in earnest, and the man
who was at the head of the prison shoemaking department liked to have
him, for he did much more than was required of him. In his leisure
hours he read diligently, and entered with zest into the prison
school-work, taking up especially history and languages. The prison
chaplain