+BRUNDIN’S DOWNFALL+
It had been a long autumn. With grey creeping mists and ankle-deep
slush, November had drawn a close ring round Selambshof.
Peter was alone in the day time. As he had failed again in his
examination, he had had to leave school and it was not yet decided what
he was going to do. But time passed quickly all the same, for recently
he had lots of things to attend to.
For example, the great pig-slaughter. Since six o’clock this morning he
had been strolling about in the dark yard and as soon as dawn came he
was down by the pig-sty behind the cowshed.
The cowherd came trailing one poor pig after another. Then they were
raised on to the slaughter block and instantly Anders, the stable man,
stuck them in the neck so that the blood spurted out. The bailiff was
there himself, and scratched the pigs’ backs with his stick and chatted
in friendly tones to them before execution. But old Kristin was no
longer there with the pail to collect the blood. As long as she kept
going, she had taken part in the slaughter of the pigs. Silent and
solemn she used to stand there bent over her pail, stirring the blood as
did the rest of the tribe in days of old at the great winter sacrifice.
There was a strange emptiness after her. But the crows were still here.
Flocks of them settled in the high bare lime tree and their croaking
seemed like the voice of the grey November day. Now and then they flew
for a moment down towards the steaming hot tripe as if to give a
reminder of their ancient rights.
I-i-i-i! squeaked a pig again, and the crows rose for a moment as if
from the pressure of the cry. But Peter kept near the corner of the
cowshed the whole time; he came no nearer, and Brundin thought he was
frightened:
“Come and help us. What kind of a country lad are you to be frightened
of the killing?”
But the bailiff was mistaken. Peter was not at all frightened because
the pigs were squeaking. He was only afraid that they were squeaking for
Brundin’s benefit and not for his own and Selambshof’s. He stood anyhow
sufficiently near to hear what was called out at the weighing machine,
and if you looked carefully you could see that his lips moved the whole
time. He stood there counting and muttering the figures in an undertone
in order to get them to stick in his memory. For Peter had really a
great deal in his memory. It was not the first time he had stood aside
like this and counted and measured. But then he also knew to a nicety
how much grain, potatoes, milk and butter had been driven into town
during the whole autumn. What cunning, what tricks and pretences, what
long patient watches had not been necessary to keep count of all this.
No, Peter was not troubled for the pigs’ sakes. There was good reason to
look out for Peter the Watch-dog nowadays. He no more looked as if he
was afraid of a beating. And he had become bigger of body and deeper of
voice.
Of course Peter was still afraid of Brundin. But his terror no longer
rose up like a mountain in front of him. Brundin’s great and wonderful
power had already been dealt the first blow. That was when the mighty
Brundin had agreed without protest to Frida’s being dismissed. Peter had
brooded for days over this. And as he pondered he observed that Brundin
did not reach into the clouds. And his great fear shrank up exquisitely
into a little heap of envy, anxiety and angry suspicion.
Peter did not go to his guardian, because it was he who had placed
Brundin in authority. Perhaps he was even in league with the dangerous
fellow. Imagine suspecting old Hermansson! Ignorance is either very
credulous or very suspicious. In this case it was suspicious. And
besides Peter the Watch-dog was one of those who prefer hunting alone.
The pig sticking was finished. The November day was silent and grey as
before.
Peter was still standing on his stone by the corner of the cowshed.
Round him the filth resembled a bog and Brundin came splashing through
it. He no longer looked so good-tempered. His little fairy moustache
curled contemptuously at the rain, the mud, the smell of manure, and the
whole of the November atmosphere. He stopped just in front of Peter,
rocking on his heels and reflecting:
“Yes, Anders, get the dog-cart ready. I am going to town after dinner
after all.”
Peter started. Brundin going into town! Here was an opportunity. He
leaped after the bailiff through the mud. Outside the bailiff’s quarters
he even sidled up to the object of his fear. And he was still like a
great mountain when you came near him—a high mountain with mocking
superior airs.
“I just wanted to come in and glance at the map for a moment,” muttered
Peter.
Brundin hummed a little tune and good-humouredly led the boy into the
office which lay to the right of the entrance hall in the bailiff’s
wing.
Now Peter was actually in the lion’s den. The yellow cracked old plan of
Selambshof hung over the sofa. For a long while Peter was tremendously
interested in it. Then he began to glance round to right and left, and
make strange trampling movements to and fro like a bear on a hot plate.
Indeed he was not exactly beautiful to look at, but deserved perhaps a
certain admiration. As a matter of fact he required a great deal of
self-control to remain in Brundin’s room.
Peter looked for the accounts books of the estate. From outside he had
often stolen a glance at them where they were lying on the writing desk.
But now they were not there. They could not be anywhere else but in the
big brown cupboard between the windows.
The key was in the lock.
Peter sat down on the sofa and turned over the pages of a price list.
Brundin lit his pipe, looked over his papers and did not seem to be in a
hurry. Peter perspired more and more.
At last the bailiff had to leave the room for a moment. Instantly Peter
jumped up and took the key out of the cupboard. And he did more than
that—he lifted off the hooks of one window, both the inner and the
outer—Then another idea seized him: he took up another key from amongst
the rubbish on the writing desk and pushed it into the keyhole of the
cupboard so that nothing should be noticed. He was no fool.
Now the cracked old dinner gong sounded and with his booty in his damp
hands, Peter stole out of the lion’s den.
After dinner came the first disappointment. The dog-cart was never
brought out, for Brundin received some Saturday-guests and put off his
journey to town until Sunday. Peter had got to wait—a difficult task. He
could not stay at home. He felt so brittle and queer from the strain
that he scarcely dared to put his foot down on the ground and still he
had to go on walking and walking. Now he had already reached town and
once there he of course made for the hay market. Shivering, and with a
queer trembling in the pit of his stomach he stood in the Saturday
crush, amidst sacks of potatoes and sides of beef, staring at a big sign
on a low yellow house with a tiled roof: