Cereals, grain, and vegetables.
It was not the first time Peter had stood there spying. He felt a need,
as it were, to assure himself all the time that the shop was still
there. A fat old man usually stood in the doorway with his thumbs stuck
in the armholes of his waistcoat. He was Brundin’s brother. He knew him
from the crayfish party. Most of the produce of Selambshof went to him.
And Peter had an intuition that here lay the solution of some of the
problems that worried him.
Just fancy if only he could send in a policeman to take a big bag of
money from that fat old rascal! Slowly Peter the Watch-dog sauntered
homewards in the dark and raw November night.
He awoke very early on Sunday morning. First he examined the office
window. Yes, the hooks were still unfastened. Then he might just slip
down to the outhouses for a little. There had been frost during the
night and there were a few light snowflakes in the air. Peter crept into
the barn through a broken shutter. On the ground floor the pig carcases
gleamed with a pale light in the deep twilight. He touched the hard cold
fat. He felt how the pigs hung helpless there. And once more he had a
frantic sense of his duty to defend them against Brundin. He promised
them that they had not died in vain.
Then Peter climbed to the next floor. Here the grain lay about in big
heaps on the floor. He sat down and let the wheat run through his
fingers. Usually it is pleasant to sit in a granary and let the cool,
round, fragrant grains of corn run softly through the fingers. It makes
one think of summer and sunshine and the wide green fields.
But Peter, poor boy, had no such spacious feelings of the prospective
farmer. Everything had been spoilt for him by Brundin. The gifts of the
soil were poisoned for him by a premature greedy anxiety.
At breakfast Peter was very silent. He did not fight with his brothers
and sisters, but of his own free will sat down next to his father, even
though it was not his turn. Today was a great day and he tried to
propitiate the Gods by this sacrifice. You must neglect nothing if you
would succeed. He also stole to Church afterwards in order to be quite
on the safe side. Straight as a poker he sat there trying to be really
attentive, though of course he only listened to his own thoughts. Peter
had a long intimate conversation with his God. And what kind of God had
Peter the Watch-dog? He was related to his sister Hedvig’s God. Both had
grown out of a common parentage. Old Kristin’s servants’ God. Both had
drawn their nourishment from the terrors of those years of helplessness.
But, whilst Hedvig’s God had been reared on the fear of desire and of
sex, Peter’s God was from the first an economic potentate, who severely
punished torn clothes and broken money-boxes, and he had gradually
developed into a protector of the rights of property with the more
specific function of making the bailiff of Selambshof smart. But Peter
was afraid that God might not have had time to consider the matter
properly and therefore he gave him in all humility a number of delicate
little hints as to the most suitable way of dealing with Brundin.
Yes! such was Peter Selamb’s communion with God on this day of great
expectations—which, however, became a day of disappointment.
At last evening came. The bailiff had already driven off to town and the
yard was in darkness. Then Peter crept out in order to steal back
Selambshof from Brundin. If only he could get a glance at that armful of
big blue books all would be clear. His house-breaking was quite
successful, the windows opened, as did also the door of the cupboard and
in there he felt the books side by side. With the precious burden in his
arms Peter stole up the dark stairs to the Observatory. He locked the
door carefully, lit a piece of candle and sank down trembling with
expectation at the table and began to examine the books.
And then he made a terrible discovery. He understood nothing, absolutely
nothing of this system of figures and lines. “Debit,” “credit,” “carried
forward,” etc., stood there. What it all meant he could not make out.
The name Axel Brundin & Co. he found everywhere in the books. It stared
out at him with ever-increasing mystery. It was not at all the
straightforward way that Peter had imagined in connection with sacks of
flour and barrels of potatoes. He found nothing to hold fast to. At last
his head swam. He could not master Brundin’s row of figures.
Peter struck his forehead against the table, cursing and sobbing. This
was a terrible defeat. Hopeless, miserable, stiff with cold, he stole
down from the icy Observatory and put the books back in the cupboard
without having succeeded in stealing a single one of the bailiff’s
secrets.
That night chronicled a grievous relapse into the old sense of
impotence. Peter lay again in a besieged fortress. And the Giant pursued
him through a cycle of gruesome dreams. Amongst other things the
“Dreadful One” ate six recently slaughtered pigs in a trice, whilst
Frida stood stark naked before him and stirred a pail containing Peter’s
blood.
But in spite of all this the old days were over. Peter the Watch-dog
began slowly to pluck up courage again. As he brooded and brooded he
realised at last that it was no longer possible to hunt alone. And so it
came about that Peter too began to haunt Ekbacken. But he took very good
care not to run up against Stellan and Laura, whose road lay in the same
direction. He did not aim so high as they. He had no desire to talk to
his guardian. No, Peter hovered about the old book-keeper, Lundbom. His
opportunity came in the evenings when the old man sat in his own room
smoking his pipe and drinking his hot whisky, with his books in front of
him. He questioned him patiently and insistently until the old man felt
touched by the interest of this promising youth in double-entry Italian
book-keeping, and gave him proper instruction. Peter literally sucked up
the information. He was not difficult to teach. Now he could
calculate—he who had always failed in his examinations in mathematics.
With every successful addition he added something to his power and with
every correct subtraction he subtracted something from Brundin’s. Oh,
what bliss it was to feel how his bugbear was again shrinking and
growing less each day.
During these efforts, Peter had not ceased his observations. Now he knew
what had been sent from the estate during four whole months, prices and
all. Then he repeated his bold stroke one Saturday evening when the
bailiff went to town as usual to enjoy himself. But this time he could
decipher the mysterious writing. Oh! it was an hour of feverish triumph
up there in the Observatory. Peter the Watch-dog found at once audacious
frauds to fasten his teeth into, amongst other things, Axel Brundin who
was only debited for 60 barrels of potatoes during November and
December. But Peter knew for certain that the correct figure was 73.
There he had a bite at the two brothers’ hind legs.
Peter lay sleepless the whole night and fed his revenge on Brundin.
Early on Sunday morning he stalked over to Ekbacken and found his
guardian in bed. Now he no longer shunned the public gaze or beat about
the bush. He went straight to the point, was bold and insinuating. He
cast the stolen rye and potatoes straight in old Hermansson’s face. But
his guardian jumped up highly offended.
“What are you saying, boy? Remember that you are talking of a person I
have appointed. How did you get hold of the books? What do you know
about the yield of the estate?”
But Peter was not to be intimidated. He came back time after time with
his rye and his potatoes. Gradually his guardian began to soften.
“But it’s not possible,” he sighed dismally, “I am not accustomed to
people betraying my confidence in this way. Very sad, really very sad,
why did I ever undertake the thankless task of becoming your guardian.
Most sad and unpleasant!”
After this he ordered his shaving water and began to dress. Peter sat
still with his armful of books and watched his guardian. As soon as he
was dressed he recovered his dignity and his authority:
“I shall arrange for an investigation,” he said. “Go back to your
lessons now, my dear Peter. This is no matter for children.”
No, there Uncle Hermansson was right. This was no matter for children.
That’s why he ought to have looked after it better himself.
Peter sauntered home again entirely liberated from his frightened
sensation in the presence of grown-ups, and of their authority and their
ability.
After service old Hermansson came solemnly driving up to Selambshof and
conducted a great investigation in the office in the absence of Brundin.
There was no end to the revelations now. Everyone had something to say
against the bailiff. As soon as the ice was broken, accusations poured
in against the culprit. They almost fought to stick their knives into
him in order to save their own skins.
Evidently Selambshof had been systematically robbed for years.
In the midst of all this, Brundin came driving back from town in a state
of mild intoxication. The old Fairy Prince now cut a poor figure. He
seemed quite nonplussed that the old servants should have so completely
forgotten his gifts to them, his snuff, his gin, and his blind eye to
their own little peculations. For a moment he stiffened and made an
insolent effort to deny everything, but he failed miserably in the face
of Anders’ evidence. Anders had become anxious about his carelessness in
the matter of receipts, etc., and had himself written down all that he
had driven into town in order to protect himself.
Peter did not now stand aside as at the sticking of the pigs. No, he
stood in the midst of the crowd. Now he had a voice in the matter.
Sometimes he laughed suddenly, a giggling, nervous laughter. The boy
seemed suddenly to have grown into something more like a man. When the
examination was over he suddenly looked quite disappointed. For his part
he would have liked to go on for ever. The old servants left, however,
and old Hermansson went home to consult a lawyer. Brundin sat alone in
the office, ruminating. Then Peter thrust his face through the door,
grinning:
“You thief,” he cried. “You cursed thief.”
Oh, it was heavenly to spit at the cracked Colossus, really to trample
the old fear under foot.
No action was brought against Brundin. He himself possessed nothing, but
his brother was frightened into paying a round sum corresponding to the
proved losses of the estate.
Then came the ignominious departure. He had been ill for some days, but
now he was off at last.
Peter did not show himself at first. But down under the lime tree stood
Hedvig. She had come straight home when she heard of the scandal. There
she stood pale and stiff and motionless and watched Brundin’s furniture
being carried out. God only knows what she thought and felt. Perhaps it
was a feeling of dismal deliverance.
Now the sledge with its load of furniture slipped towards the town
crunching through the half-melted snow mixed with sand—a bad surface for
sledging. Brundin had not even put his head outside the door but now he
had to get out. Crestfallen, grey, with downcast eyes, he came out with
a dining-room clock under his arm. Hedvig only stared at him. His eyes
met hers for a moment when he was getting into the sledge. He bowed
awkwardly and then the spring of the clock made a noise as if it had
been broken. Hedvig did not bend her head, did not return his greeting.
She stood there like a graven image and there was something of a rigid
dark triumph in her expression.
But when Brundin disappeared down the avenue she stole into his empty
house and with a face suddenly grey with the hunger of love she rubbed
it against the empty walls.
But Peter stood down at the corner of the avenue. He had relapsed into
his old habit of going somewhere alone to meditate. He wondered how it
was that Brundin was not put into prison. Fancy if it was because old
Hermansson did not dare to bring Brundin into Court. What was it Kristin
used to say: “It’s a pity for those children who have to have a
guardian,” she used to say. Well, Peter did not exactly believe that old
Hermansson had cheated them. But he had all the same a vague feeling
that the matter ought not to be forgotten.
The distrust we learn during the years when we have a right to be
trustful easily becomes a dangerous weapon.
It was now a little later in the spring. A new bailiff of proved honesty
had been appointed and Peter was sent to an elementary Agricultural
School in the Upland plain.
He did not like being there. The other pupils seemed to him dull, the
soil unfavourable. The Brundin case was still fermenting within him. He
longed to be home. There are many kinds of homesickness, and one of them
is of a kind not suitable for poetry.
Let us now look at our friend Peter during the spring ploughing. The
pupils were standing in a bunch out on the clay and each one had to
plough a plot with the new American steel plough.
“Press harder on the right guide. Not too shallow and not too deep. Look
at the horses. The furrows must be straight as a die.”
Thus said the teacher. Peter was the last. He stood there changing feet
and thinking that he would take root in the clay. At last it was his
turn. He called to the horses and the furrow was started. It was a still
April day with big white clouds in the sky. The horses’ sides and the
newly turned clay soil shone in the sun. Down in a hollow hung a blue
mist and further away a wood of budding birches shimmered like a
purple-brown cloud. But Peter neither saw nor felt anything of all that.
Nor did he enjoy seeing how finely the ploughshare cut through and
turned up the frozen soil. He had no desire just to add furrow to furrow
in the ploughed field. He only thought it was heavy, tiresome, lost
labour. And all the same he looked like a peasant with his coarse
features and his heavy awkward carriage, which he had probably inherited
from his mother’s side. But a poison had entered into the peasant’s
body. It was the infection of the town—the town that had begun to creep
nearer and nearer Selambshof. It was anxiety to turn everything into
money. If only he were back at Selambshof, he thought. But he did not
long for the house or the trees. He longed to sneak about, and spy and
struggle for possession of the money that he already scented. To go
about here ploughing soil that was not even his own made him sick. He
had already developed the habit of looking at everything from the point
of view of ownership. You cannot take any interest in a thing for
itself. No, nothing exists in itself but only as “mine” or “yours,”
principally “mine.” To whom did this field belong? To the County? That
is the same thing as nobody. That was empty, strange, and simply
repellent, thought Peter. He had already begun to fear common interests
and common institutions. They constituted a kind of silent affront to
his selfishness.
Then Peter came slowly back on the return and moved alongside his first
furrow. It did not look very straight. He was reproved by his
instructor—he heard the mumbling and suppressed laughter of his fellow
students. What stupid country bumpkins they were with their lazy
self-confidence. Their rustic self-importance about spray-drains and
dung-wells irritated him. What experience of life had they had? It would
do them good to get caught in the snares of somebody like Brundin and to
be really, thoroughly cheated for once. And then he began to think of
that old story again. There was something strangely fascinating in
thinking of Brundin’s tricks and wheezes. Of course he disapproved of it
all. But he could not help thinking of it, all the same. “So that is
what they call business,” thought Peter. “That is the way to get rich.”
He felt a strange disquietude, one moment he was hot and the next cold.
“I shall never allow anybody to cheat me,” he thought. “But how can you
really make sure? The only way is, of course, to go to meet one’s enemy
and forestall him. You must practise deception, not much, of course, but
sufficient to prevent him from deceiving you.”
Peter had now done his allotted share of the ploughing. He stopped the
horses and wiped his brow.
“You are not ploughing deep enough, or straight enough. This is not a
surface-plough. You ought to get down to the subsoil all the way. What
sort of a growth do you expect to get here?”
“I don’t care a damn,” thought Peter.
Then the Farm gong sounded and they moved homewards along the wet road.
Peter jogged beside the horses with half-closed eyes. He was dreaming of
Selambshof in figures. He had seen them,—when he pried into the books of
the estate. There were rents for land and houses, for fishing rights,
and quarries, for cartage and for the produce of the estate. Enormous
sums in his eyes. “I shall control all that money,” he thought. “I shall
be bailiff, and I shall have my reward, because I saved the estate from
Brundin. No, don’t imagine that I can be kept out of all that.”
Peter breathed heavily. He felt a queer sucking sensation in his
stomach. Fancy if it should all be his. Fancy if one day he should
become rich, rich! No, he no longer had only fear and worries—certain
timid, trembling voluptuous desires contracted his throat.
Is it then to be wondered at that Peter Selamb did not plough deep
enough in the alien and unsympathetic Upland clay?
_These were the days of his betrothal to wealth._
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