+THE DANCE OF THE CROW INDIANS+
It was a fine warm summer afternoon, when the mosquito swarms hovered
like high pillars of smoke in the avenue of Selambshof.
But in the garden on the north side of the house Oskar Selamb was
sitting in his usual seat. He was sitting just where the mosses of the
walls hung most heavily over the grey stone base and where the damp
shade beneath the old elm tree seemed full of evil memories. His big
straw hat was pushed far back on his head and his purple trembling hands
were clasped round the handle of his walking stick. His beard grew like
a weed round his weak half open mouth, and he stared in front of him
with a lifeless, taciturn gloom that had little human left in it.
A friend of former days would scarcely have recognized him.
How had Oskar Selamb, owner of Selambshof, father of five young
children, and not much past fifty, come to such a pass? The immediate
cause was probably the death of his wife, but in order really to
understand this tragedy one must go back to the tyranny of old Enoch. It
was he who had broken his son’s spirit. Up to his thirtieth year Oskar
had been little more than a sort of superior farm labourer on the
estate, without any rights, without a will of his own, reviled and
ill-treated by Old Hök, who kept his claws and his beak sharp till the
end. It leaves a mark on a man to have his hopes in life picked piece by
piece out of his breast by a father who feeds his own strong flame of
life by doing so. When the hour of delivery once struck at last, Oskar
Selamb had come to hate his inheritance. Yes, he hated this place of
humiliation, for ever haunted by the old man’s shadow. But he had not
strength to throw it all off and begin afresh. He merely absented
himself as much as possible and let the estate go to ruin. And late in
life he married a servant girl, whom he had raised to the rank of
housekeeper at Selambshof. His friends were not surprised by this
mesalliance. Even during the days of his humiliation he had been fond of
the girl, for which reason of course she had at once been shown the
door. And when Oskar afterwards by chance caught sight of her behind a
bar, he took her into his house and married her, out of pure spite, as
people said, in order to make old Enoch turn in his grave. To tell the
truth, he was not in love with her. It was rather the spasmodic effort
of a weak and vacillating man to kick away the past. His wife was a
small, dark, thin woman with a pointed nose, and moderately capable and
energetic within her domain. Her voice penetrated shrill and alert
through the fumes of the kitchen or the washtub. She remained a
bad-tempered but capable servant of her husband and, later, of the
children. But for her the home would not have held together as well as
it did, for Oskar Selamb became more and more incapable of looking after
anything. And he still spent most of his time in the town. There he sat
among his fellow topers, lost at whist and in business, cursed and
harangued, as weak people do, between his draughts of steaming toddy, on
the evils of the times. Meanwhile Selambshof decayed, Ryssvik was lost,
the forest melted away and the mortgages became heavier and heavier. His
wife bore him in quick succession and with eternal lamentations, five
hungry and crying children. With the sixth she succumbed herself. When
her husband came driving home that autumn morning she already lay dead
in the big double bed.
Oskar Selamb had never loved his wife. He had neglected her, treated her
brutally, and worn her out. But all the same her death gave him the
finishing blow. It was her scolding that had kept him going. Now he sank
irrevocably. His journeys to town grew more frequent then ever. Meaner
and meaner grew the bars outside which his shabby old coach had to wait
till late into the night. He could not even keep himself decent. Old
friends avoided him, whilst discussing with interest whether it was from
joy of getting rid of his wife or from grief at losing her that he was
drinking himself to death.
The more subtle held that it was a combination of these two feelings.
The only one who tried to do something for his friend Oskar was his
neighbour and companion from childhood, William Hermansson, owner of the
Ekbacken sawmill and shipyard. As it happened the Ekbacken establishment
was situated just by the main road into town, and when, nowadays,
William saw Oskar’s dreary looking coach, he stepped out on to his
front-door step and admonished his old friend in carefully chosen words.
He tried in every way to tempt him to decent intercourse in his
respectable and comfortable widower’s home, reminding him of the times
when he had found a refuge there from old Enoch’s tyranny. But Oskar
always drove past with some vague pretext of important meetings and
urgent business.
Within a few months the crash came. Oskar Selamb was brought home a
pitiful wreck after having had a stroke at a miserable little inn in the
slums. After several months he got up from his sickbed, bloated, with
unsteady hands, and no memory, scarcely a human being any more. But
still there was no sign that death would mercifully do its work. After
solemn lamentations, the owner of Ekbacken agreed to become the guardian
of the children, and through his efforts a new bailiff, named John
Brundin, was appointed.
That is how things had been for more than two years at Selambshof. Thus
on the still summer evening we have described Oskar Selamb sat on his
usual seat underneath the old elm. He sat there so motionless that the
sparrows hopped about in front of him on the round stone slab superposed
on an enormous oak stump which did service as a table. But out there in
the slanting golden rays of the sun, round the wing where the bailiff
lived, shimmered clouds of gnats and fine spiders’ webs.
Stellan and Laura were playing in the sand and in the lilac hedge in
front of the house. The simple games of robbers of former days were now
a thing of the past. They wore a bright array of feathers, and carried
bows and tomahawks. They had read Cooper and Marryat and knew how to
choose impressive names and make subtle stratagems. The hedge was also
dense and deep, with fine ambushes and splendid hiding places for
stealthy Indian warfare. Stellan was called “Black Panther” and Laura
“Flying Arrow.” Don’t imagine that she was allowed to impersonate some
pale squaw with a soft flower name. No, she was a young warrior on her
first warpath. “Black Panther’s” voice sounded sharp and commanding when
he was teaching his young companions the use of the bow. “Flying Arrow”
had displayed some squeamishness and had giggled in an unwarriorlike
manner, which was not in keeping with the seriousness of the moment, and
which was duly corrected.
Peter was looking on. Big and clumsy in his outgrown and patched
sailor’s suit, he leant against a rusty rainpipe grinning provocatively.
“Black Panther” ran up to him.
“Won’t you come and play with us and be a Pale-Face?”
“No,” came Peter’s sulky reply in a husky voice, about to break—
“Black Panther” looked round about him wondering how to get some new
excitement into the game, as it was beginning to become dull. His glance
fell with a sudden expression of premature and hopeless loathing on his
father on the seat. But just as suddenly he brightened up—caught hold of
“Flying Arrow” by the arm and pointed at the old man:
“He is a Comanche. He is ‘Heavy Ox.’ We’ll creep up to him from two
sides.”
“Black Panther” and “Flying Arrow” crept across the plot of sand with
sly, watchful eyes. Then “Black Panther” sprang up like a steel spring
released and swung his lasso. “Heavy Ox” was caught. They tied him to
the seat as to a torture post. “Heavy Ox” did not seem to notice
anything. From behind, “Black Panther” even managed to put on his head a
chieftain’s feather crown consisting of some crow’s feathers pushed into
the ribbon of an old, brimless, tattered straw hat. But “Heavy Ox” sat
there with his new and wonderful ornament as solemnly and as
apathetically unconcerned as ever.
Shrill laughter from “Flying Arrow” greeted this ridiculous apparition.
They began to dance round their victim. Swinging their tomahawks and
their bows, they danced to the accompaniment of wild cries of
excitement.
“‘Heavy Ox’ can’t get free! ‘Heavy Ox’ is fat and stupid! ‘Heavy Ox’
shall die. ‘Heavy Ox’ is fat and stupid!”
This sudden wild joy quite surprised the Crow Indians themselves. They
perhaps did not know that there was vengeance in this game. And how much
had they not to avenge! How well they might have called out to “Heavy
Ox”: “That is for the hundreds of meals that were made disgusting by
your nasty snuffling! That’s for your horrid snuffle and for your dull
eyes that don’t see us! That’s for the neglect, the ruin, the incurable
wounds to our tender beings! That’s for the great musty hole in which we
spend our childhood.”
Tired of dancing they sat down to smoke a calumet, whilst still deriding
and challenging their bound enemy.
“Heavy Ox” had taken no more notice of his tormentors than of the flies
that buzzed around him. But now he showed signs of restlessness. And his
restlessness was always of the same kind:
“Is it time for supper soon?” he stammered.
Then they jumped up again and began to dance with a renewal of their
wild exultation:
“‘Heavy Ox’ shan’t get any food. ‘Heavy Ox’ is fat and stupid. ‘Heavy
Ox’ shall die! ‘Heavy Ox’ is fat and stupid!”
Peter was still leaning against the rainpipe. He followed the game with
a half troubled, half pleased, grin. “They will catch it for this,” he
thought. “I have not taken part in it. I have been standing here the
whole time by the rainpipe and have not taken any part in it.”
Then Peter saw Mr. Brundin thrust his head out of a window. It was
beginning to get exciting. The punishment for these reckless children
was drawing nearer. But Peter was at once disillusioned. Brundin only
laughed and puffed at a big cigar. And Peter made a note in his memory
that Brundin only grinned at forbidden and dangerous things.
Then at last something happened. Old Hermansson came walking up the
avenue. And instantly Brundin’s head disappeared from the window. But
“Black Panther” and “Flying Arrow” noticed nothing. Old Hermansson
walked quietly across the sand plot. He was as straight-backed as if he
had been drawn on a slate by a good boy. He walked with his coat
buttoned high up to the throat, his head erect, and his hands behind his
back. He walked with measured dignity and each step seemed to be an
admonition to the careless, the irreverent and the reckless. One can
scarcely imagine anything more typical to children of the grown-up.
Peter stood still with excitement and bit his nails. This was really a
great moment.
Then Mr. Brundin came rushing out of the door. He had put aside the big
cigar and hastened with every mark of respect to free “Heavy Ox” from
his bonds, whilst with serious and angry mien he shook his fist at the
two Indians.
This was something more for Peter to note: a moment ago Brundin had only
grinned and now he became serious when old Hermansson was present.
At last old Hermansson had arrived. Now at last somebody would be
cuffed. But Peter had to wait. Old Hermansson first saw that the
unsuitable ornament was removed from his old friend’s head. Then he
greeted him, obstinately maintaining the habit of speech of past and
happier days.
“How do you do, how do you do, my dear Oskar? I hope you are well. Yes,
it is a fine day today, a very fine day. So I thought I would take a
little walk in order to talk to our good bailiff about the rye-crop.”
Oskar Selamb had recovered his greasy old hat again. But he was clearly
completely insensible to these see-saws of exultation and degradation.
He stared sulkily in front of him and grunted:
“I want my supper—can’t I have my supper?”
“In due time, my dear Oskar. In due time you will certainly have your
supper.”
Now it seemed to be Stellan’s and Laura’s turn. Their guardian placed
himself in front of them and made a little speech:
“Listen carefully now, my children,” he said. “I don’t want to see you
show your father such disrespect again. Honour thy father and mother
that thy days may be long in the land and that it may go well with you.”
Here he shook his head solemnly and let the culprits go. And the fair
and plump little Laura danced away with small side steps like a puppy,
but not before she had cast a coquettish and triumphant glance at Peter
in passing, as if to say,—“Cheated!—there was no thrashing!”
But Stellan stood there with all his war-like array in his hand and with
an air of disillusionment looked at “Heavy Ox,” who was no longer “Heavy
Ox,” but only the familiar dismal figure. Then he lightly shrugged his
shoulders and quietly went away whistling among the currant bushes. With
his quick cold eyes and his proud mouth he did not exactly look like one
of those who fare badly in this world.
It may be that old Hermansson was also somewhat mistaken. It may be that
callousness developed early in life may be one of the conditions of
success in this world. It may be that daily and hourly contact with
degraded humanity simply hardens a little Indian’s heart for life’s
cruel warfare.
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