IV

+PETER THE WATCH-DOG+

Peter’s school report at the end of the term was, as usual, not good,

and he was not promoted. Now he sat in the billiard room on the third

floor grinding away in the summer holidays.

Peter sat drawing his fingers through his rough hair and bent over his

book. We all know that struggle against an incurable lack of

concentration, the bending very closely over an unfortunate text until

the letters begin to swell and jostle each other out of line and

shamelessly vanish in the blue.

Peter lifted his head, puffing as if he had been under water and could

no longer hold his breath. But it was not only the common, boyish

instinct to throw all to the winds and rush out to the day’s adventures

in the forest and field. It was not only the healthy restlessness of a

growing boy that was reflected in his face. He turned and twisted on his

chair and looked about him, and secretly cast stealthy side-glances from

beneath his unkempt shock of hair as if fearing that somebody stood

behind him listening to his thoughts.

Not even when he was alone could he look anything straight in the face.

Now he jumped up and took a turn round the old billiard table covered by

an old torn dust sheet. All round him in the dilapidated room the torn

wallpaper was curling and the dry paint was peeling off the skirting

boards and window frames. Peter stopped a moment in front of a

blackboard that had once been the billiard marker, but which was now

covered with his unsolved algebra problems. He made a weak effort, but

then he flung away the chalk as if it had burnt his fingers, and rushed

suddenly to the window and peeped out.

Since Old Hök’s time the billiard room had been generally called the

conservatory. Its high, narrow fortress-like windows faced three ways,

and from this high point one could look out over the whole of the Selamb

estate. On a stand made of three worn-out cues stood a long, battered

leather-covered telescope. It was here that Peter’s grandfather used to

sit and spy on his people in order mercilessly to sweep down on the idle

or the dishonest. You could still see his old focus marks on the brass

tube of the telescope, and they had crept further and further out as he

grew older and more short sighted.

If anybody had seen Peter by the window overlooking the terrace he would

have thought that Old Hök was not yet quite dead.

The bailiff was going to have a crayfish party for some friends from the

town. He was standing down there hanging up Chinese lanterns. Frida, the

new maid, was handing them to him out of a big clothes basket.

Peter found it impossible to remain any longer at his work. Silently as

a mouse he stole out into the garden. He did not make straight for the

terrace, but walked with long, searching side-glances till at last he

settled on an observation post in the dense lilac hedge. Then he

pretended to be carving a stick, but all the time he kept his eyes on

the little lantern-scene. Brundin was standing in his shirt sleeves with

a long cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth so as not to get the smoke

in his eyes. He was a fair man with small, light, curly mustaches. He

was wearing a check waistcoat, riding breeches and top boots. But even

if he did not look like the Fairy Prince himself, he might at least have

passed for one of the members of his suite. For the moment he was

carrying on with Frida, who made eyes and giggled as if he had tickled

her.

Peter sat and fidgetted. There was a lot of questions that tormented him

like insects. That Brundin fellow had no farm, so how could he be so

awfully smart with his check waistcoat and heavy gold chain stretched

across his vest? And his tie-pin was as big as a penny! And where had he

got all those splendid lanterns. And why should Frida stand there and

dance attendance on him and hand him the lanterns?

All Peter’s brooding and discontent found expression in that one

question: why should our Frida stand there and hand lanterns to Brundin?

And he had to gulp it down time after time lest it should escape his

lips in a loud growl.

No, he could not bear to look any longer.

With his eyes on the ground and his big hands hanging awkwardly by his

sides Peter strolled round the yard and out into the fields. He lumbered

about like a watch-dog, sniffing reflectively at every corner.

Everywhere he scented decay. From his own father, who sat there heedless

and inert on his bench by the front door, and who in the depth of his

decay had no thought for anything else but his next meal, this ruin

spread itself over garden, barn, stable and granary—and out over fields,

meadows and forest. There were a thousand things that whispered of it,

the weeds in the paths, the broken glass of the cucumber frames, the

broken down, moss-covered fences, bottomless patches of road, bare

neglected forest slopes. There were a thousand things Peter would have

liked to ask Brundin about, but when he met him smart and resplendent

with a big cigar in the corner of his mouth, a kind of paralysis of fear

overtook him. Not with red-hot tongs could one have dragged a

straightforward, direct question out of the boy—and that even though the

bailiff had never uttered an unkind word to him, but on the contrary had

cracked good-natured jokes with him and had offered him good things from

town which Peter had grabbed clumsily and disappeared with, like a dog

who is afraid of a thrashing.

The labourers on the estate were the only ones with whom Peter could

talk on the subject. Obeying the instinct of a sort of subordinate, the

future heir pried about for signs of discontent, for hints and

suggestions. But he had little success. It was of importance that he

should be very careful. He turned his questions over and over again in

his mind before they passed his lips. In his timidity and excess of

carefulness he began to beat about the bush so much that often he never

reached his point at all. Those who asked for nothing better than to

speak the truth about the bailiff did not understand what he was driving

at. And cleverer ones and those with a bad conscience saw through him in

their own way, and thought it best to beware of this sneaking, spying

nuisance of a boy and not to criticise those in authority.

Down in the bend of the avenue Peter met Anders, who was driving home

with a load of rye from the Hökar meadow. The boy climbed up in the rye

beside the old stable hand, but he did not think how jolly it was to lie

softly like this among the sheaves glowing with blue cornflowers and to

swing gently along in the half-light under the old elms. Today his

restlessness was worse than ever, and he grew quite bold of speech.

“How much is a load like this worth, Anders?”

“Oh, it’s worth a good deal of money. And it would fetch more if it

wasn’t for the weeds.”

“Who takes care of the money?”

“The bailiff, of course.”

“But Anders, when they pay him the money, how can he know what is ours

and what is his?”

“Well, Master Peter, the bailiff keeps his books.”

“But supposing somebody went and wrote something wrong in his books?”

“No, they can’t, for he keeps his books locked up, you see.”

“But suppose he should forget to write something in the books?”

Peter’s tone was one of entreaty, but Anders was impossible.

“It is his chief work to write down everything in the books,” he

muttered with a side-glance.

Thus Peter helped to drive in the rye. They had reached the barn now and

he jumped down no wiser than before. The cracked old gong rang for

dinner, and it sounded like a funeral bell.

The dining-room smelt of “sluring,” a soup which was the abomination of

all the children. They pushed the chairs about, kicked each other’s

legs, and quarrelled because nobody wanted to sit next to father, who

was horrid at table. They were just like a lot of crows on a branch at

night time, pecking at each other because none wants to sit furthest out

on the branch, in the darkness and emptiness. Finally Tord was pushed

there, he was the smallest and weakest. Frida flung down the soup. It

was worse than ever. There had probably been no time for cooking because

of the preparations for the evening party. Peter shrank and held his

hands to his ears so as not to hear his father eating his soup. There

came a queer smell from the neighbourhood of Tord, who did not touch his

food but pulled out a dirty handkerchief full of snakes’ eggs which he

had found in the manure heap. Stellan waited upon his father. When he

had lapped up his soup, the young man was there in a flash with his own

full plate the contents of which disappeared just as quickly. Laura’s

plate went the same way. Those two always adopted the same strategy. But

Peter and Hedvig did their duty. There were bread fritters to follow.

Old Kristin came in. Nowadays, there was not much left of her. Usually

she sat in her little room mumbling as she knitted. But she still

retained her power over Tord, so he had to sit there with his soup. He

could be shut up with his plate for ever so long without uttering a

sound. He was a strange, silent child, Tord.

Still hungry and out of humour Peter crept down into the garden and

stole whatever he could find to eat there.

Then the steamer arrived with Brundin’s guests. There were corn dealers,

greengrocers, and butchers from the town, nothing but rogues that he did

business with. They at once sat down to smoke and drink punch at a long

table on the terrace. From the beginning there were heard shouts of

coarse, bass voices and roars of laughter, and it was clear that they

had laid a solid foundation for their merriment in some inn in town.

Frida, fresh and not at all shy, in spite of her seventeen years,

flitted about the whole time bearing trays frequently replenished and

was vigorously pinched, tickled and caressed. But in the midst of all

shone Brundin in his check waistcoat, and whenever you looked at him he

sat with glass uplifted and “Your health” on his lips.

Peter hovered about, gloomy and unnoticed, on the fringe of this festive

party. He loitered about the bedroom window, he crept into the lilac

hedge. In the end he secured himself up among the branches of the big

maple tree below the signal-guns on the terrace. From there he saw them

light the gay-coloured lanterns and bring in the enormous dishes of

crayfish, with their fennel crowns to the accompaniment of wild shouts

of welcome. The lanterns swung to and fro and the candles in the big

candlesticks from off the sideboard flickered and flamed as if

intoxicated, and cast a shimmering light on napkins tied round fat

necks, on rolled-up shirt sleeves and rows of sparkling glasses

simultaneously raised.

To crown all Peter saw how Stellan and Laura who had been leaping round

with eager and unrestrained curiosity amongst the merry guests were

called by the bailiff, and how each was given a big portion of crayfish

to eat at the table. Breathlessly Peter held fast to his branch and

communed with the whispering gloom of the great, dark tree top.

Then an old fellow rose and thanked the host. He fumbled with his wine

glass and now and then squeezed out a word, just as if he had been on

the point of suffocation before he got it out. And his shadow, ragged

and giantlike, mounted the loosening plaster of the walls of Selambshof.

“Kalle Brundin,” he shouted, “Kalle Brundin! All here present join with

me! And what do we join in? We join in the belief that this has been a

damned fine party. Damned jolly to see you out here in your old

Selambshof! Thank you, Kalle Brundin! A fourfold hurrah for Kalle

Brundin and his Selambshof. May he live long: hip, hip, hurrah!”

In reply Kalle Brundin pointed with an elegant gesture to the landing

stage and the steamer. And instantly the whole company stumbled towards

it, so that the table was deserted.

Sssh! Bang! there went the first rocket. And then came cracking

grasshoppers and divers that fizzed and spluttered in the water, and

golden rains that vomited sparks round the gate posts, and bright Roman

candles, and then rockets again and crackers and starlights.

Peter slipped down out of the tree. This was too much. He shrank as if

the sparks had rained in his eyes. What was it that sparkled and cracked

but Brundin’s arrogance. This abominable Brundin filled the skies with

his violent, sneering, exultant pride.

But amidst the smell of powder there came some odours from the table and

then it struck Peter that Brundin for the moment was not guarding his

interests on the terrace. In a trice Peter was there. Like a frightened,

thieving dog he gulped down pieces of meat, cake and whatever was left

in the wine glasses. He had not time to taste anything properly and half

choked himself, but somehow it did him good all the same. It was as if

he had stolen back a little of his own, and with a somewhat easier mind

he stole away into the darkness again.

The fireworks were over and the guests stumbled back to their punch

glasses again. But now it seemed as if the last remnants of their

dignity had vanished with the rockets. Some fell down on the chairs as

if their legs had been struck off beneath them. And some stood with

their arms round each others’ necks, panting, as if they would drown

each other in friendship. And others were quarrelling with raised voices

that were lost among the shy shadows of the still August night. But

Brundin sat there unperturbed and contented in the midst of the noise,

like the devil at a horsefair, smiling with half-closed eyes and puffing

at his cigar.

Then Peter heard somebody come stamping out on the kitchen stairs where

he was sitting. It was old Kristin. In the light of the lanterns which

now caught fire and flared up one after the other she raised her

trembling, bony arms like two withered branches. And she muttered a long

string of reproaches and threats against the impious bailiff and his

inhuman company. When she caught sight of Peter her voice, which seemed

to have been worn down to a pale, feeble thread by all the unhappiness

and misery of this world, broke and putting her cold, withered hand on

his head, she said: “You poor orphan children! We all know what happens

to them. You will never grow up to sit at Selambshof. No. No!”

Thereupon old Kristin stumped in again. But Peter felt the chill of that

withered, trembling hand through his whole body right down to his toes.

Then Frida came carrying a tray of empty glasses, pursued by panting and

shouting figures, which let fall coins in the pockets of her apron and

in her hair and down her plump neck inside her cotton blouse. But she

looked over their shoulders at Brundin, who was standing by the corner

of his wing of the house making some mysterious signs.

Then the whole company broke up and returned home by land and down the

avenue the babel of voices gradually disappeared.

Peter was just going to bed. He did not light the lamp, but sat for a

moment balanced on the edge of the bed and listening to Stellan’s

breathing beside him. Then he crept to the window again.

All was dark and silent. Only from a chink in a blind in the bailiff’s

wing a narrow streak of light cut the darkness. Over the dusky house

there hung the witchery of an unknown fear. As Peter stared out he

seemed to see a shadow cross the yard and disappear under the lime tree

by Brundin’s porch. Peter stole quietly down the stairs again. The sky

had clouded over and it had become strangely oppressive. There was

soughing and whispering in the darkness. Peter walked on the edge of the

grass so that the gravel should not crunch beneath his feet. In the

sweet smell under the lime tree he suddenly struck against something

soft, and heard a low, frightened cry.

It was Hedvig, his sister. He had not seen her the whole evening. He

pinched her arm:

“What are you doing here, girl?”

Hedvig was breathing heavily. Through the darkness he could almost see

how pale she was.

“Frida!” It escaped her in a whisper, and she pointed to a window that

stood open where the blind was drawn: “There, there!”

Peter put his arm round her waist in order to pass her on the narrow

grass edge. She was trembling and she seemed in a cold sweat, blended of

shame, curiosity and disgust.

“Go in again,” he mumbled harshly.

She gave a start as if he had struck her and ran in. But Peter stepped

noiselessly up to the open window. There was light inside and he heard

the sound of chairs being moved, giggles and whispering. But it was

impossible to see anything. He carefully pushed aside the blind a little

with a pencil.

Between a box in the window and the corner of a yellow wardrobe he could

catch a glimpse over the end of the bed of some curls of brown hair and

a big, dark hand that pressed against something soft and white.

Peter wanted to lift the blind higher but then a bottle on the

window-sill tipped over and an arm was stretched out and put out the

lamp.

He ran away as if possessed.

Now he lies stretched out on his bed, staring into the darkness. He lies

as still as a terrified insect feigning death.

Fancy that it was Frida—the Frida who brought in his shoes and clothes

in the morning!

Hitherto when Peter had looked at the girl he felt a certain uneasiness

in her presence—an uneasiness which found expression chiefly in giggles

and rudeness. But nothing in the world would have induced him to touch

her.

But Brundin dared! For him nothing was forbidden and nothing dangerous.

He did everything he liked.

By contrast with his own helplessness Brundin became a monster of power

and impudence.

The darkness became oppressive round the poor boy, he suddenly felt the

girl in his inmost being, in the very marrow of his bone. But not her

alone, that was the horror of it! This man whom he dreaded, his pet

horror was also there. His feelings were a strange mixture of shame,

lust, fear, powerlessness, loneliness and grief. The very springs of

life were diverted and unclean from the beginning. Even his first dreams

of awakening were sullied by anxiety, and by cowardly, curious hate.

The more tired Peter became the more distinctly did he feel how the

chill of old Kristin’s hand passed through his body. And Frida dissolved

and disappeared. But Brundin remained. He pursued Peter deep into the

night’s sleep.

His sleep was like that of one in a besieged fortress, where one hears

the shots shattering bit by bit the walls that save one from

destruction.

* * * * *

Yes, this was the story of Peter the Watch-dog.

We must not forget that this thin and anxious figure was the embryo of

the future coarse and brutal Peter the Boss.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

V

+FEAR+

Excited and curious, Frida thrust her head into the girls’ room:

“If you please, Miss Hedvig,—you ought to let me make your bed on a day

like this.”

Hedvig was leaning over her narrow bed with her black hair full of

curling papers. She would soon be fifteen years old now. Her breasts

were already filling out beneath her bodice. Her lips were very red, and

looked almost skinless, in her long pale face.

“No,” she said vehemently, “Kristin must come up.”

For some time past Hedvig had made her own bed. She could not bear Frida

to touch anything of hers. She seemed to shiver as in a cold draught and

her teeth began to chatter as soon as the plump, laughing hussy came

near her. But the maid did not pay her back in the same coin. The

excellent Frida had no stiff-necked pride. With a mixture of good nature

and bad conscience she only became more servile. “Kristin? very well.”

Humming softly as usual she vanished down the stairs.

Laura yawned, stretched herself lazily and shook her fair hair. For all

her laziness her arch eyes sparkled. She was not in the least like her

elder sister:

“You really are mad, Hedvig,” she said, jumping out of the bed.

Then Kristin came puffing and muttering up the stairs. Her old black

frock had not shrunk as she herself had done, and it seemed almost empty

when she sank down on the edge of the bed. Her hands twitched and

trembled as if they had gone to sleep in her lap and were dreaming of

knitting needles.

“Well, Hedvig, do you know your catechism, so that we need not be

ashamed of you?”

Laura came up, stark naked, with a lather of soap on her neck:

“Know her catechism? when she is overflowing with it!”

The old woman had no smile for this fresh, plump young thing.

“Are you not ashamed, child, to talk like that of God’s word? And you

won’t be ready in time either.”

Hedvig had done her hair and Kristin helped her on with the white frock

that reached almost to her ankles. She fumbled a long time with the

fastenings at the back, and then she arranged the pleats with bony,

trembling fingers.

“Just like dressing a little bride,” she muttered. “And truth it is that

it is the best of bridegrooms you are meeting today!”

But behind Kristin’s back Hedvig stole a glance at herself in the

mirror. It was with a shy, unsteady look she saw her own image. There

was not a spark of fresh and natural joy.

Now it was breakfast time. The other children, arrayed in their poor

best, were already sitting round the table. But it was impossible to get

Hedvig down. She remained in the little girls’ room, and in the end

Kristin had to take a plate of porridge to her. Laura also soon came

running back. A new frock was anyhow a new frock. And this was almost

the beginning of long skirts and putting the hair up. And perhaps she

might even see Hedvig cry!

A carriage was heard crunching the gravel outside. Hedvig jumped up. It

was only old Hermansson. Yes! of course he must come with them. She sank

down on her chair again. Laura was looking at her with big greedy eyes,

purring like a cat.

“_He_ is also coming,” she said suddenly in a sleek little voice. “I

heard him order the dog-cart.”

Hedvig turned pale, just as one’s knuckles whiten when one clenches

one’s fist.

“What _he_?”

“Mr. Brundin, of course.”

Over Hedvig’s face spread an expression of anxious and obstinate

defiance which made it look almost old. Everybody was waiting about for

an opportunity to point her out, everybody—

“What right has he to come. His place is among the farmhands.” And with

that she pushed Laura out of the room and locked the door.

But then she stole to the window and stood there hidden by the curtain.

Then the bailiff, Brundin, came driving in his little dog-cart. He wore

a fur coat, a top hat thrust back on his head, and red dogskin gloves.

Hedvig devoured him with her eyes, just like a boy who steals his first

glass of strong drink, and is frightened when it burns his throat. Then

she caught sight of Peter. He was standing some distance away with his

coarse red hands hanging out of his short sleeves. He pulled a face at

the bailiff and then looked furtively up at the girls’ room. Hedvig ran

away from the window, and sat down in a corner fidgetting with her

handkerchief. She looked as if she had been struck.

Now they were calling her. Now she _must_ go down—“God! if only it were

over,” she thought. Stiffly and hesitatingly, as if afraid to lose her

balance, she greeted old Hermansson. But she shot past the outstretched

hand of Brundin as if impelled by an invisible force, rushed out to the

carriage and crept into a corner. With her pale face and her screwed-up

eyes, she looked like some strange creature of the twilight which had

been forced out into the merciless spring sunshine.

Old Kristin had to run after her with her coat and hat.

At last the carriage was full and they started off. Out in the yard in

the sunshine it was still temptingly warm. The lilac bushes had great

green buds and the damp soil of the flower beds was steaming round the

bulbs. But in the avenue they met the cold air from the dirty snow in

the ditches. And whenever a little cloud hid the sun for a moment, they

were back in winter again. It was one of those treacherous and dangerous

days when the cautious and the wise, such as old Hermansson, prefer to

keep their fur coats on.

It was some distance to the Church, which was situated at a crossing of

two roads, by the side of a plain which was chequered by the black,

brown, and green of fallow land, pastures, and young rye.

Behind it rose a bare slope sprinkled with juniper trees which resembled

dark solid flames. The Church was very old, without a tower. With its

high black roof, its coarse walls of rustic stone, it resembled a

fortress, a barn, or a cellar. And there was a musty smell beneath the

vaulted roof, for in spite of the big rusty stove, the cold winter air

still lingered.

With the troop of children close upon his heels old Hermansson squeezed

himself into the high narrow pew. He did so the more calmly as the pew

was at this moment the most respectable place. But to Mr. Brundin the

hard wooden seat of duty at once seemed repugnant.

Hedvig stealthily joined the other children who were to be confirmed,

and sat down under the pulpit.

The clergyman was an old shaggy-bearded man with a face like granite and

reindeer-moss. This teacher of Our Lord began the catechism in a dry,

hard voice, as if he were engaged in an interrogation on the four rules

of arithmetic rather than in partaking of the divine sacrament. In this

severe old Church, confronted by this severe old man, the gospel seemed

to be a vain mockery and punishment, the great punishment, the only

reality. It was strange to hear the young girlish voices answer his

lifeless voice as it spelled out, without a spark of fire, the long

record of judgment. It was as if Death had been sitting on a stone and

piped a tune on a dry bone, while frightened Echo answered from the

green shores of life. There was in the quick, breathless repetition of

the lesson every degree of fear, from the side-glance which would avoid

the whip, down to the low trembling sigh that dies out in a sob. But he

who had ears to hear would nevertheless have been startled by Hedvig’s

voice. She knew her lesson and her voice did not shake, but there was

something unnaturally tense, something of keenest anguish in her voice.

What sort of a God was it whom Hedvig feared and whom she was to receive

today at the altar rails. Let us pause to reflect on his origin and on

his history, which is much older than Hedvig’s first meeting with the

clergyman. From the beginning, he was a God from the Servants’ Hall and

he was an inheritance from Hedvig’s first horror, the Bogey Man!

We never escape from our first impressions and experiences. They bind us

with the fibres of deep-seated roots which we never draw up into the

full light of consciousness.

There Kristin, severe and foreboding, stood over the little sugar thief

whom she had caught: “Hedvig, if you do not leave the sugar box alone,

the Bogey Man will come and take you.”

From the beginning these two experiences blended, and each by

unfortunate association strengthened the influence of the other. The

more frightened she grew of the Bogey Man, the more she thought of the

sugar box, and the more she thought of the sugar box, the more

frightened she grew of the Bogey Man. At last he overshadowed her whole

existence. He was in the dark hole under the kitchen stairs; in

Kristin’s big black book; in the dull eyes of her moribund apoplectic

father, in the hawk-like face of her grandfather in there over the green

sofa. The darker it grew, the more dangerous the Bogey Man became. She

ate her supper slowly, slowly, in order to postpone the inevitable.

Alone and silent in her fear, she sat amongst her sisters and brothers

who romped and struggled round about her. Then they were driven to bed.

“Please, Kristin, don’t pull down the blind. Dear Kristin, please leave

the lamp a little longer.”

It was no use. In vain she pulled the bedclothes over her head, the

Bogey Man was still there, the blackest thing in the darkness. And he

came sneaking into her dreams and groped with his shadow hands about her

little trembling heart so that she often awoke with a loud shriek in the

middle of the night.

In her terror, Hedvig attached herself more and more closely to old

Kristin, who knew all about all these ominous mysteries. And thus it

came about that God succeeded to the Bogey Man.

But this intimacy during the long hours of twilight with an old, tired,

and harried creature who had not the sense to spare tender ears, was

dangerous. In everyday life Kristin’s God was a mean and nagging

kitchen-God whose chief business was to punish the maids’ laziness and

pilfering. But he had also his greater and more threatening moods when

he emerged from his past in a small soldiers’ cottage in a mighty

Småland forest in order to punish incendiaries and murderers and to look

after brownies and trolls. When on Sunday evenings Kristin sat reading

aloud from the Old Testament her voice would assume an expression of

cruel lamentation, something submissively threatening which gripped

Hedvig with a deep awe of the people through the dim and distant ages.

In the dark, Hedvig grew frightened of God. Not even school when it

began with its monotonous and mechanical cramming, not even the

alleviating joys of companionship, could kill her fear. Amidst the noise

of the class-room she sat alone in communion with both the great and the

dangerous. Before she could read properly, she spelled out greedily and

eagerly the tale of the fall of man and the ten commandments. Especially

the seventh commandment made a deep impression on her. Here was the

terrible fascination of the unknown. By and by she began to read the

Bible for herself. There was much to brood over, much that nourished her

fears, which now began to undergo strange transformation. She could sit

for hours thinking of such expressions as “circumcision,”

“menstruation,” then she imagined she bore a son. Her gaze fastened on

passages concerning the sin of fornication, the great Babylonian harlot,

Absolom’s exploits on the roof of the house with King David’s

concubines.

The darkness enclosing Hedvig’s God began to be oppressive. His too

early threats provoked the very sins which he intended to prevent. She

brooded over evil till at last it began to stir in her blood. Her ever

present fear developed into stealthy, premature curiosity. It was no

longer anything so white and innocent as sugar that Hedvig now stole.

No! In the forbidden box now lay worm eaten, half rotten fruit fallen

from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. But there was still the

same fatal and even more intimate association of ideas as in the case of

the sugar and the Bogey Man.

Soon Hedvig’s curiosity found something different from the shadowy

figures of the old rat-eaten family Bible to brood over and to spy out,

namely, the bailiff and Frida.

That sultry night when Peter caught her peeping under the blind into

Brundin’s window had been a fateful night in her life. The discovery of

the secret of the bailiff’s wing was the greatest and most dangerous

discovery she had yet made. Hot and cold by turns, tempted, frightened,

caught in the act, she had crept to bed. Her soul was outraged. Night

and day the memory of that scene remained with her. She was afraid of

Peter, disgusted with Frida, but could not get the man out of her

thoughts. It was like an obsession. She avoided him, scarcely greeted

him, could not for anything in the world look him in the face. But

secretly she devoured him with her eyes. His bold, wicked self-assurance

had some inexpressible allurement for her. She found herself incessantly

following this sinner, and then fled, frightened and ashamed, to her

bed. But as she had shaped her God out of fear, he had no pity and could

not help her. This girlish love might have been the means of leading her

out into the fresh air if it had not been of such a strange and stunted

kind. As it was, it only threw her back more and more upon herself.

Such was the Hedvig who now knelt by the altar rails and received the

bread and the wine from the hand of the old clergyman. She had grown up

in the shadow of her own dreams like one of those long white shoots that

grew down in the deep darkness. Not one poor single little bud of her

being had been able to open out in the clear sunshine of the busy,

living world. In a pew behind sat the genteel farmer, Brundin, with his

pert military moustache, not for a moment suspecting that he was a

terrible Behemoth, sucking the nourishment out of a poor little woman’s

soul.

Communion was over. The girls rose with tear-stained faces and walked

slowly, hesitatingly, down the aisle. Hedvig was pale and dry-eyed.

Outside it had suddenly begun to snow, wet ice-cold snow, and it was

pathetic to see her as she stood amongst these thinly clad, shivering

children, slowly and awkwardly bidding each other good-bye, and looking

like butterflies that have left their chrysalis too soon and have no

flowers to rest on. The girl from Selambshof was better dressed than the

poor peasant girls. And she was the prettiest of them too. But she

looked more forlorn and colder than the poor lonely little snow-drops

that shivered amongst the snowflakes on a poor man’s grave behind her.

Old Hermansson had something to say to the Vicar. Brundin came up to

Hedvig and made his compliments.

“Well, Hedvig, that went off splendidly! Now you are a big grown-up lady

and I suppose I must call you Miss Hedvig. But we must not let it snow

any longer on your white hat.”

He led her to the carriage which was waiting with the hood up, helped

her in and fastened the apron. Hedvig drew back as if his touch had

scorched her. When he had gone she sat there trembling and with

chattering teeth. Will he drive before or after us, she thought. If he

drives before us, I can sit and look at him the whole time. But when her

guardian at last arrived and they started with Brundin in front, she

stared obstinately at a hole in the apron, because she was afraid of

God.

Both old Hermansson and Brundin were to stay for dinner. A gloomy snow

light filled the dining-room and there was a fire burning, just as in

mid-winter. Hedvig sat stiff and silent in the place of honour, and

scarcely tasted the food. Then her guardian solemnly drew forth a

present from his coat pocket. It was a little watch with Hedvig’s

initials engraved on it. He made a short admonitory speech before giving

it to her and hoped that she would learn to make the same good use of

time as he had done when he was young. He even finished with a little

verse:

“May this watch the right time tell

To a little girl who works right well.”

Hedvig sat fidgetting on her chair with downcast eyes, as if she were

being scolded. It was with difficulty that she stood up and returned

thanks for the gift with a stiff curtsey.

Now it was Brundin’s turn to put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a

red case, opened the lid with a snap and, bowing gallantly, handed her a

narrow gold brooch.

“Well, Miss Hedvig, I also take the liberty of offering a simple little

gift. Please accept it, Miss Hedvig. Hall-marked!”

Hedvig blanched. Her glass trembled against the edge of her plate as she

set it down. Her dark eyes fastened, wide-open with fright, on a spot on

the wall opposite. She stretched out her hand like a blind man and

groped for the case. But she stopped half way. She had suddenly caught

sight of Frida, who, with a bottle of port in one hand and a napkin in

the other, forgot her duties and bent over Brundin’s shoulder to stare

greedily at the glittering ornament. Hedvig’s voice, unnaturally tense,

suddenly cut the silence:

“No, I don’t want the brooch—give it to ... to Frida instead.”

She covered her face with her hands and ran upstairs and threw herself

on her bed.

Nobody round the table said anything. Frida tittered a little. Then she

stood crimson and fidgetted for a moment before she could pull herself

together and go out. Brundin muttered something that sounded like a

curse, and sat silently playing with his little fair moustache, looking

half embarrassed and half self-satisfied. Peter almost collapsed with

excitement.

Now Brundin will be kicked out, he thought, and an agreeable, cold

shiver passed through his bones. Old Hermansson had become rigid, with

his spoon half way between his mouth and his plate and looking very

upset. At last Laura’s voice broke the spell:

“Hedvig is mad,” she said and jumped up as she sat on her chair, for she

had a curious trick of being able to jump whilst sitting.

“There now, she is spoiling everything,” thought Peter, and gave her a

pinch under the table. Quite right, old Hermansson did not seize Brundin

by the collar and kick him out. Instead he rose with slow dignity, and

took up the case and the brooch:

“I will teach this ill-bred girl how to receive a well-meant gift,” he

said, with an air that promised full amends to Brundin. Then he stalked

off after Hedvig.

He found her lying full length on her bed in her white frock, which

looked like a shroud. She lay there dry-eyed staring up at the ceiling.

“Now put this brooch in your frock, Hedvig, and go down and say thank

you nicely,” he said.

A shiver passed through her and the skin on her thin arms looked like

goose flesh.

“Please, please, leave me alone,” she begged.

“Put the brooch on at once!”

“No, no, it is sinful,” she stammered and turned her face to the wall.

Then old Hermansson thought he ought not to insist any longer. He left

the case on the table beside the bed and went downstairs again.

“The poor child has had a trying day today,” he said to the bailiff.

“She seems strangely upset. I thought I ought to let her put off her

apologies.”

Then he returned to his tart.

But up in her room Hedvig lay with the red case on her breast. Suddenly

she tore out the brooch and stuck the pin deep into her left hand. Then

she sucked drop after drop of the slowly oozing blood.

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