Already at the Agricultural school a strange change had begun in Peter Selamb. And it became still more pronounced on his return home. He somehow became more positive. He realised that one cannot go on for ever merely watching and spying on others. It is better to be the object of attention. Peter wanted to be bailiff at Selambshof and for that reason he tried to get friends and supporters. Was the spying and grumbling Peter the Watch-dog endeavouring to secure friends like a politician before an election? Was he not doomed to failure? No, because Peter was no longer the same after his victory over Brundin. Fear had thrown a spell upon him. It had made him ugly and repulsive. But now he had somehow broken the enchantment. To the naked eye he seemed almost human. From fear he had passed quite readily to lying, a not uncommon step. Fear is the parent of a real and deliberate mendacity and somehow it persists under the smiling exterior. As yet Peter did not lie consciously. Alas! the conscious lie is so slight, so harmless, so transparent. No, give me the real, thorough, unconscious lie, especially if it is joined with that particular greed that so often grows up from the deep root of fear. Then we may expect consequences.
As Peter changed, the people round about him also began to change. They were no longer dangerous and malevolent people before whom he had to be on his guard 96every moment. He began to see them in the light of his desires, and that is also a light of its kind. He found to his surprise that these people, formerly so unreliable, not unwillingly allowed themselves to be man?uvred to his advantage. Sometimes they seemed to move round him like mutes in a play, in which Peter Selamb was the hero, and which play must end with his enrichment and aggrandisement. But do not suppose that Peter grew proud, extravagant or reckless. No, he took good care not to awaken any dangerous fear in others. Quite instinctively, and only to hide his real self, he gradually grew more and more good-natured, pleasant and cheerful. It cost him no effort because he felt he would earn money by it. Yes, even his body assumed something of his cunning and grew and expanded about the chest and stomach, in order to remove all angles and give him a more trustworthy appearance, so that he might the more easily achieve his end. Peter never looked so pleased as when someone joked with him about his getting fat.
The first indication of Peter’s new frame of mind was that of learning to play “vira.” He made a third with the bailiff Inglund and old Lundbom from the yard.
As a matter of fact Peter had never been on a really bad footing with the new bailiff. Inglund was an experienced farmer, but obstinate and averse to everything new. He was fond of his ease, the type of man who has worked his whole life for low wages for other people. He did not love authority and was not unwilling to divide his responsibility. He did not mind Peter shadowing him under the pretence of helping him. He liked to teach whatever he knew of his trade. “Next time I can send the boy and need not go myself,” was his thought. And then he would remain on his sofa smoking his pipe and smiling at silly Peter, who ran his errands. Meanwhile Peter’s knowledge grew daily and as he advanced with rapid strides to his 97position of authority he became more and more indispensable. And both were satisfied.
Thus Peter played “vira” with Inglund and Lundbom. With what an agreeable feeling of dangers overcome did he not sit there in the bailiff’s quarters smoking and drinking and sending forth his orders from these seats of power and knowledge. This was different from roaming about in the dark outside, hungry, lonely and frightened. Peter enjoyed the old men’s calm and circumstantial way of talking and telling stories. It was somehow informed with a superior and yet harmless and benevolent wordly wisdom. And one could still feel one’s superior strength. Warmed by his grog Peter sat smiling contentedly and drank in their golden lore of the changing nature of the earth and the varying seasons and the strange ways of money among the labyrinths of the law. And all the time he saw visions of future wealth in the thick clouds of tobacco smoke.
Like all new beginners Peter had, of course, shamelessly good luck. But he did not become disagreeably smug or unpleasantly overweening. That was a great feature in his character. He tried to moderate his good luck in order to be tolerated in the company. And soon he had become quite a shrewd and skilful player.
Peter never regretted having learnt to play “vira.” The cards soon proved an excellent means of communication with useful people. The gatherings in the bailiff’s rooms soon had some offshoots in town. Peter accompanied the bailiff to cheery drinking and card parties with business friends, both buyers and sellers. Thus it was by the paths of rye, potatoes and bacon that Peter penetrated into the town. Here Peter recognised amongst many new faces some of the old ones from Brundin’s great crayfish party. They were all men of seventeen stone with heavy fists and well filled purses. But they no longer pressed Peter down to the ground. On the contrary, he felt a 98solemn exhilaration mingled with hopeful expectation as he sat among these bulging pocketbooks. And whilst he arranged his cards and watched his play he kept his eyes and ears open, learned the correct jargon, studied the market, and did not lose a thread in the skein of business names and connections. During all this time there often came over him the dreamy expression of one who stops in his walk to listen to the rush of a still invisible cataract. It was the rolling of money that Peter heard in the noise of the streets, which is so unfamiliar to country folk. The town to him meant money, the money that would one day roll into Selambshof and fall into Peter’s pockets.
But let us return to the bailiff’s rooms and see Peter’s second adversary. Old Lundbom, who was an expert in the difficult game of “misère,” sat muttering, with his spectacles slipping down over his nose and his extinguished cigar stuck into a gap in his front teeth. From him, too, could Peter derive much useful knowledge. As a managing clerk he knew not only the recognised forms of business and ways of money and the setting forth of it in columns with figures and names. He was also secretly a keen amateur lawyer, was this old nutcracker. The Law of Sweden, text books of civil law, reports of law cases and judgments constituted his favourite reading in his spare time. Once started on that subject he was difficult to stop. It was with a peculiar enjoyment that Peter heard him tell of long and involved lawsuits in which large sums had changed hands. To Peter’s simple understanding the law was nothing else but a collection of all the tricks that could be used to get hold of other people’s money. Old Lundbom would have been very perplexed in his unselfish complacency if he had seen how greedily Peter picked up any information that might possibly be of use to him some day.
One evening—it was as a matter of fact a fine and calm evening in the beginning of July and the hay had just been 99got in—the usual trio sat playing by the light of a lamp out in the porch. Then Peter suddenly heard something which made him think hard. Old Lundbom was speaking about a business that had to be sold at a great loss after the death of the owner because one of the heirs was a minor and had to receive his inheritance in trustee stock.
Here at Selambshof both Laura and Tord were minors! And their father had lain in bed for half a year past. If he died now—how could Peter become bailiff?
Peter tried in vain to lure Lundbom into a discussion of the case of Selambshof. He could not force a direct question over his lips. He was somehow afraid to give himself away, and his old lurking fear beset him again in this stupid, meaningless fashion. It would have been quite natural for him to ask questions about the future risks of the estate. But then we all have such fits....
That night Peter lay sleepless. Selambshof was once more a besieged fortress. Even Brundin’s ghost haunted the dual silence. A sad relapse...!
As early as four o’clock he put on his trousers and stole to his father. The old man lay put away in a small room by himself far away on the ground floor towards the north. In former days the soiled linen had been kept there. Oskar Selamb had now overlived his time seventeen years. There must after all have been something in old Enoch’s toughness and vitality. But last Christmas he had been ill for some time and since then he had never troubled to get up again. He thought it more comfortable in bed. Now he lay there with his chin in the air and his long grey beard in waves over the sheet. He did not snore at all. A spider came out of a corner and ran quickly over the counterpane. Was the old man dead? Peter started and stole with trembling limbs up to the bedside. No! Oskar Selamb lay awake staring with his bleared, grey eyes at the brown damp stains on the ceiling.
“How are you, father?” Peter said anxiously.
100The old man’s voice was as rusty as if it had not been used for years:
“Been running,” he muttered pointing at the damp stains.
“But I asked how you were, father.”
Hedvig occupied the room next door and it was she who nursed the old man. She insisted on doing it. Now her father pointed with his thumb to her room.
“Up?” he wondered anxiously.
“But I wanted to know how you felt, father?”
“Must not wash me,” whined Oskar Selamb. “Cold water!—don’t wash me...!”
Then Hedvig suddenly stood in the door. She was dressed in a torn old dressing gown. Her black hair was brushed tight over the temples and hung over her shoulders in a long shining plait, which looked as if it had been plaited by hard, mean fingers. She was still pale with a strange, deathly pallor, and her dark eyes were awake, as intensely awake as if the sweet drops of sleep had never been poured into them.
“What’s the matter now?”
She spoke in a tone as if she had been lying reproaching herself the whole night.
Peter felt uncomfortable. Did people not sleep in this house of a night. He did not particularly like to see Hedvig. Brundin’s shadow hung over her still. She was like a ghost from the time of his great fear. And then she was religious. She had a sort of secret understanding with the gods of which Peter in his innermost heart was still rather frightened. Yes, however one approached her, one seemed to be burnt up. But all the same Peter managed the business splendidly. He resembled a man playing ball with a live coal which is still too hot to hold for long in his hand. Though frightened himself he directed her fear into a channel where there might slumber things of use to Peter Selamb.
101“I woke up and felt so anxious about father,” he muttered. “I felt as if something was going to happen to him.”
“Do you think I am not listening?” Hedvig said, shrugging her shoulders.
“We have not always been as we ought to be to poor father,” sighed Peter.
Hedvig’s beautiful face hardened and she assumed the expression of an injured martyr.
“Don’t I wear myself out for him? Haven’t I nursed him day and night since he has been confined to his bed?”
Peter was not so convinced that her nursing was so tender. When he thought of lying ill and being washed by Hedvig’s hands he felt cold shivers down his back. But he took care not to show it.
“Yes, Hedvig, you are a real saint. But Laura and Stellan, who never come to see father—and I who—yes, we shall get our punishment.”
Over Hedvig’s face there spread a glimmer of satisfaction.
“What kind of punishment will that be?”
“Oh, father might die, for example. Do you know what would happen if father dies before Tord is of age? They will sell the estate for an old song and we shall become paupers. But if we can keep it we are sure to be well off, all of us.”
Peter said no more. He only sighed and then he went back to his room to recover his lost sleep.
That same day old Selamb was moved up into a big, light and airy room facing east. Peter spied on Hedvig and received several proofs that his words had taken effect. She was evidently frightened, for secretly she redoubled her efforts. Enviously and with a look of silent reproach to the whole world she watched incessantly over her father. With a sort of gloomy, obstinate determination she wore herself out with her cares.
102Peter’s own worry was agreeably relieved. He felt that he had given the matter into good hands. Sister Hedvig was now to be numbered among the many that struggled in the cause of Peter Selamb.
Peter had a habit of stealing in to glance at the old man now and then. It was quite edifying to see him lying there washed and brushed between white sheets in the sparkling sunshine. Peter felt something of the pleasure of the merchant who goes to his safe and turns over his gilt-edge securities. One day Peter brought a bunch of flowers in his hand. Flowers in Peter’s hand! That was, of course, a piece of pure superstition, the offer of a bribe to the Powers. His expression was strange, for he was probably afraid of being found out. But as nobody was in the room he put the flowers quickly into a glass and placed them on the bed-table. Then he stood there quite a long while with his head on one side and he felt quite moved.
After that there were almost always flowers in the glass when Peter came. Yes, Hedvig had also begun to pick flowers. And they did not wither in her hand. No, they looked perfectly fresh and bright on the bed-table. But all the same there was a kind of suspicious aversion in her movements, and she did not like to look at them. It was all so new and strange. One would scarcely have recognised the old Selambshof. A stranger coming in for a few days only would have thought that he was moving amongst the angels.
The only one who did not like the change was old Selamb. He had grown accustomed to the dim light, the dirt, the knocks, and sour faces. This quiet, bright room worried him in some way. Into his dull brain some thought of illness and death must have penetrated when he found himself treated like a feeble invalid. He followed Hedvig’s silent movements with suspicious glances. He was stubborn, whined, and indulged in foolish little 103pinpricks and impotent acts of spite, all of which she suffered with a secret joy as adding spice to her martyrdom. But the old man’s hate was especially directed towards the flowers, that strange innovation that smelt of a funeral. One day the glass was empty and he pointed with a grin under the bed. He had thrown them into the bedchamber.
And so that was the end of the flowers, and indeed there could never be flowers for long within the four walls of Selambshof. Peter was not very disappointed. One can’t always be sentimental. Moreover during subsequent “vira” parties Peter had made further inquiries and now knew more. The matter would not be so hopeless even if his father did die. But he took good care not to tell Hedvig. There was no harm in being careful.
It now only remained to enlist old Hermansson in the company of those who lived and worked for Peter Selamb. He felt that this was where the shoe pinched. But though he loitered about Ekbacken he still refrained from approaching the old man. He came over to consult his guardian about the management of the estate. He did not directly complain of the bailiff, but he managed to convey discreetly that the bailiff spent most of his time lying on his sofa, smoking his pipe. But still the old man did not grasp his excellent idea of dismissing Inglund and making the capable and conscientious Peter bailiff.
However much Peter pondered over the matter he could not guess why old Hermansson was so distant and on his dignity toward him, whilst he yet seized every occasion to show his fatherly interest in Stellan. That lazy, supercilious Stellan who strutted about in his uniform and sneered and looked important when he occasionally came home after his idiotic drill. Peter had an economic contempt for everything in uniform, which showed how simple he was, and how much he still had to learn from life. If he had only observed old Hermansson a little more 104closely, as with his head held high and his hand inside the lapel of his coat he strutted up and down the avenue by the side of Stellan with his glittering braid and sword belt, he would perhaps have understood a good deal better.
Everything striking and challenging stirred Peter’s egoism, though it still sought to hide itself.
Whilst he scratched his head, a thought flashed through his brain: “If I could think of something sufficiently mad, perhaps it would work better,” he thought, and soon after he conceived the brilliant idea that was to bring matters to a successful issue.
After weeks of careful preparation he marched off one day to Ekbacken. It was a fine windy day in May and down at the repairing slip they were just fitting out Herman’s fine, new cutter. Herman himself was standing on the pier dressed in the uniform of the Royal Yacht Club and gave orders to a crowd of lazy-looking youths who had succeeded the old sailors. Peter shook his head as he passed. It positively hurt him to see such expensive toys.
In the smoke-room at Ekbacken a card table and an easy chair were placed between the Marieberg stove and a new piece of furniture, a mahogany and glass monstrosity containing coloured silk ribbons and the gilt insignia of all the secret societies in which the owner of the house held high rank. There old Hermansson now sat playing patience.
“What do you want here, my friend?” muttered the old man without looking up from his cards.
“Well, there was something I had to tell you. You know that it is a very long time since father said anything rational. But today when I ............