+PETER THE BOSS+
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 every 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 manœuvred 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 position 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 solemn 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 got 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.
The 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.
“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.
Peter’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 pinpricks 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 closely, 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 went in
to see him as usual he seemed to have brightened up. He fumbled after my
hand and then he said: ‘You must go and thank my old friend. You must go
and thank old William for all he has done for old Selambshof.’ Yes,
that’s what he said. And I felt so strange because it was just as if
father would not have long to live. That was all I wanted to tell you.”
His guardian looked up from his cards with an expression of solemn
sympathy and quiet reproach:
“Well, well, did he really say that, dear old Oskar? Yes, it really does
me good to hear that there are still some people who are grateful. I
will go and see him as soon as possible.”
Peter went home contented. A visit was exactly what he wished for. The
following day old Hermansson came. It evidently affected him to see the
invalid. Much moved and very solemn he walked up to the bed:
“Good-morning, dear old Oskar!”
Old Selamb grunted something in his beard. He did not seem specially
pleased at the meeting.
“How are things with you, old friend? I am ashamed that I have not been
to see you for such a long time.”
The invalid was still not interested. Peter had to intervene.
“It’s William. Don’t you see, father, that it is William who has been so
good to us all?”
“Yes, Oskar, you recognise old William, don’t you?”
Old Selamb seemed to be growing impatient. He looked critically at his
old friend:
“Seedy,” he muttered, “damned seedy.”
Peter did not like the turn the conversation had taken.
He suddenly sat down on the edge of the bed with his back to old
Hermansson. Then he looked his father full in the eyes, touched his
pocket and showed the corner of a paper bag. Then the invalid’s face
suddenly assumed a keen, wide-awake and almost human expression, and he
stretched out a trembling hand to his son:
“Peter ... look after ... estate,” he muttered, in his deep, rusty
voice. “Peter shall manage the estate....”
“Now he seems to be getting excited again,” whispered Peter to old
Hermansson. “It is dangerous for him to get excited. But he usually
calms down if he gets something to chew.”
Peter took some crumbs of cheese out of the paper bag and gave them to
his father, who devoured them with avidity and then sank into his usual
apathy again.
Old Hermansson stood in deep thought. Here lay the sick friend of his
youth on the bed he would never leave. In a lucid moment he first sends
a touching greeting and then when he came to see him his reason once
more flashes up and he begs help for his first-born. It was almost like
a command from the grave.
Peter’s guardian seized his hand and pressed it warmly:
“Old Oskar shall be obeyed,” he said, “you shall manage Selambshof!”
Peter, alarmed and startled, protested, but the old man was firm:
“You and none else,” he said in a tone that suffered no contradiction.
Then he went home to his patience again.
Peter had succeeded by a clever use of his father’s insatiable greed for
old cheese with caraway seeds in it. Day after day he had been sitting
there on the edge of the bed tempting him with a piece of cheese in his
hands, till the old man learnt the formula that opened the gates of joy
to him.
It is generally the boldest and stupidest tricks that succeed. Peter
never forgot the caraway cheese. He used it, as a matter of fact,
throughout his life.
Thus half a year later Peter became manager at Selambshof. He had
developed quickly. He began as a coarse, lumbering, hulking hireling.
But this massive foundation concealed by a certain smiling good temper
and maudlin sentimentality was rather misleading to those who were not
warned by the quick flashes in his cunning bear’s eyes.
It was at this point that the firstborn of the family got the nickname
“Peter the Boss,” a name which stuck to him all his life and under which
he was known in wide circles.
Thus Peter the Boss now sat enthroned in the office at Selambshof. Now
he wandered in the perfection of his power through the domains of
Selambshof, controlled only by Peter the Boss himself. But he did not
swagger. He did not become an absolute tyrant as old Enoch had been in
his time. He did not worry people too much. He only had a habit of
turning up grinning on the most unexpected occasions. You never knew
where you had him. There was no possibility of pilfering as in Brundin’s
time. Peter was content with that. His desire was not power, but
possession. There were many things he reflected upon, but always from
the point of view of “yours” or “mine,” preferably “mine.” And then
slowly he began to walk in Brundin’s footsteps. But without the boldness
and rashness of that “fairy prince.” He felt his way carefully. He left
no traces. He began with modest schemes. He joked his way through, so
that you never knew when you had him until you suddenly found you had
agreed to something after a jolly evening with cards and drink. One of
the old customers of the estate, for instance, wanted potatoes at the
old price, which was really too low. Peter laughed at him. But when they
sat down to cards, he said he would be damned if he shouldn’t have the
potatoes if he won that night. In this way Peter recovered half the
difference of price and the matter was settled in the early morning.
Peter pretended that he settled the business whilst in his cups, and the
other was welcome to think he had got the better of Peter. Or perhaps
some cab proprietor wanted to buy hay. There was a scarcity of hay that
spring—but not at Selambshof. This was a fine chance for Peter. He
snapped out a very high price. The proprietor offered two-thirds.
Business seemed impossible. But as they sat there hobnobbing with each
other they began to argue about the height of the Eiffel Tower. Peter
maintained it was 300 metres high. If he had not just been reading about
it he would not have mentioned it. The cab proprietor doubted it.
“All right, let us lay a wager,” said Peter. “All right,” replied the
cab proprietor. “A thousand kronor,” said Peter and winked. But the cab
proprietor became thoughtful.
“I am like a little child when I have won a wager,” grinned Peter. The
cab proprietor made a rapid calculation and then agreed to the bet in
the cloud of smoke. And Peter won the bet and the cab proprietor got the
hay at his own price. So you see that even the Eiffel Tower has its
uses.
In this way much business was done in the good old times.
Soon there was not a single turnip sold but Peter the Boss managed in
some cunning way or other to exact his toll. The money came rolling in
and he already had a nice little banking account.
But conscience! Did not Peter understand that this was bad faith towards
his principals? Did he not think it ugly to rob his brothers and sisters
in this way? No, when it came to the point Peter did not think of
principals or brothers and sisters or anything at all in that way. The
whole thing was a matter between himself and Brundin. Peter was taking
his revenge on Brundin, that was all. He beat the nightmare of his
childhood on his own ground. So strange are our victories sometimes.
Peter felt a delightful relief after each successful coup, a relief that
was almost related to a good conscience.
Meanwhile Peter the Boss grew fatter and more good-tempered and jovial.
He patted Isaksson, the housekeeper, on the back and lent Stellan, who
was always in a tight corner, money with pleasure. Then he offered punch
and with his customary luck won the whole lot back from him again, so
that Stellan had to write an I.O.U. for the double amount, for he had to
have the money. Stellan rose, shrugging his shoulders, when he had
written it and looked contemptuously at his elder brother:
“Just like the Jews,” he said in his sneering voice. “Hang it all,
Peter, you do look common. It is so under-class to become bloated with
spirit!”
“Dear, oh dear!” said Peter in his softest voice, “didn’t you notice
that before you began to play?”
It is true that Peter drank a good deal. Spirit and business melted
together with him so that he could not distinguish one from the other.
That was why he always drank with a good conscience and grew fat with a
good conscience. Because in Sweden in those days it was still easier for
fat people to do business than for thin.
If Peter could think of nothing else he used to put a bottle in his
pocket and march down to Tord, who now lived in “The Rookery,” with all
his crows and snakes and foxes. He was a queer fish, Tord, but he was
always good enough to drink a glass with. In school he had made himself
impossible long ago, but instead of school he sat at home reading a lot
of bulky old volumes, and amongst the working people of the estate he
was the object of a certain superstitious reverence on account of his
strange ways and his learning. Then one day he flung the books on the
floor and decided to turn painter—animal painter. That was after he had
taken in another inmate, a two-legged one this time, a mysterious
creature who seldom appeared in daylight, but who passed for an artist,
a real artist from the Academy. His name was Eklund and he was an
incurable bohemian, contemptuous of the world, and cynical. Nobody knew
where Tord had caught this fish, but it was probably in some ditch on
the outskirts of the town. Anyhow he was now going to teach Tord to
paint animals.
Yes, Tord was a queer fellow who sooner or later would be sure to go to
the dogs, but nobody would be any the poorer for that, at least not
Peter, so he could always drink a glass with him in anticipation of the
catastrophe. And that strange creature Eklund did not spoil things
either. It tasted rather good to drink with such impossible fellows.
Tord did not, of course, talk much—he usually sat and stared. But with
Eklund one could discuss the profoundest problems, if only he had enough
inside him. He was one of those radical devils who believe neither in
Heaven nor Hell. Peter protested with inimitable sentimentality against
his acid cynicism, but secretly he enjoyed it. In his inmost heart he
had a feeling it somehow sanctioned his little tricks....
About that time the guardian of Selambshof died.
Old Hermansson had of late been so unnaturally sound that he could not
have long to live. And one morning he could not get out of his bed. He
had died during the night from paralysis of the heart.
At the funeral in the little granite church Herman sobbed between his
two old aunts, his only relations. But Peter clung instinctively to his
sister Hedvig. This was something in her line, he thought. Here she held
the direct connections. Far away from the cynicism of Eklund Peter the
Boss stood there anxiously wondering if this business would not bring
him some profit in its train. And had he not been kind to his own aged,
sick father, and had him removed into a better room, and seen to it that
he had the best care? Yes, there in the church Peter was still making
his little efforts to cheat the Almighty. But out here beside the open
grave he grew unctuous. It was no longer cowardice in face of the last
judgment. That was an exquisite refuge when compared with the dark hole
in front of him. Before the grave every man is shaken down to his most
elementary instincts. Peter the Boss ate ashes at the thought of
creeping down there away from everything that he possessed and would
possess. Fancy having nothing more, absolutely nothing! He stood there
pale and ill with his hat in his hand and gulped down the lump in his
throat like a fish out of water. He would willingly have sacrificed a
whole year’s salary if he could have got away from it all.
At last he sat in his carriage and rolled away from Death’s domains into
those of Selambshof. His sickness disappeared by and by. He felt with a
feverish sigh how business was resuming its normal sway over his
thoughts. But still he was like a man who, after a dangerous sea voyage,
feels the movement of the sea even though he is walking on the green
earth.
There was a dinner at Ekbacken. To everybody’s amazement, Peter rose and
made a speech. After the day’s emotions he was very sentimental. Oh, how
delightful it was to let yourself go and to be moved by, and grateful
for, everything, and to be filled with great, beautiful and solemn
emotions. There were no bounds to the greatness and noble philanthropy
of old Hermansson and to what they all had to thank his noble generous
heart for. Peter then turned to the only son of this great and noble
man. He did not need to describe what Herman was suffering at that
moment. But he must not feel himself alone in the world. Everybody
present suffered with him. And if it was hard for Herman to throw
himself at once into business in the midst of his grief, he must never
forget that Selambshof lay next door to old Ekbacken. A helping hand
from Peter Selamb would not be lacking when required....
Peter had tears in his eyes. He was whole-heartedly a “helping hand.”
His emotion was almost genuine, and he felt that his tears watered soil
of which he might himself reap the harvest.
Herman had never liked Peter, but had rather avoided him. But now he had
no power of resistance. Childishly ashamed of his own tears, he sought
cover behind these of Peter. He believed him because just now he felt
the need of belief in somebody. And there was nobody else to hand.
Stellan was so strangely silent and cold just now. He was somehow not
made to be a consoler. But Peter overwhelmed him by his rhapsodies,
helpfulness, and his massive vitality overflowing with life and
animation. There were not many moments when he left Herman alone during
the following days. And he used to talk about Laura. It helped Herman in
the bitter loneliness that fastened upon his still unguarded soul. Twice
Laura had been allowed to go back to her boarding school. And hitherto
she had to a certain extent been right when she thought that both she
and Herman were too young to get married. But now she was to stay at
home, said Peter. He had telegraphed her on the day of the death of
Herman’s father and could not understand why she had not come back
already. Did she really deserve such a husband as Herman, such a jolly
good fellow, heir to an honourable name and a substantial fortune? And
so Peter’s thoughts turned to money again. Did Herman fully realise how
rich he was? Ekbacken—oh, it had immense possibilities! Peter saw them,
because he had already had business experience. And, as he had said
before, he would help Herman in word and deed now when everything had to
be cleared up after the death of his father.
Everything went as Peter wished. He became administrator of the estate
of the late timber merchant and shipbuilder, William Hermansson. A week
ago he would have shaken his head at such a possibility. Now the thing
was almost obvious.
Old Lundbom had to supply the necessary expert knowledge. He was so
touched and so flattered when Peter came and wanted to make him guardian
over his father that he willingly sacrificed his evening hours to clear
up all difficulties of the administration. He had managed Ekbacken’s
business practically alone during recent years—but without having asked
for a penny’s increase of salary. The old man had never realised that
one might be clever on one’s own account too. He was a servant and
nothing but a servant. And now in the midst of his sincere grief at the
death of his beloved old master he took a childish pleasure in seeing
his knowledge of law being put into practice on such an important
occasion.
The winding-up of the estate was entirely Lundbom’s work. It gave Peter
a very interesting insight into the affairs of Ekbacken and six thousand
crowns into the bargain. At first he made a few diffident attempts to
refuse the money that Herman pressed on him. Herman was flushed with
excitement and very stiff in the back. Had not the estate shown more
than three hundred thousand crowns assets? Then he supposed he could
afford to pay a friend for his solicitude and care. Peter gave in in
good time and put the cheque in his pocket with a sigh:
“Thank you, dear Herman! We Selambs are unfortunately too poor to say
no!”
When this matter was settled they walked about a long time on the estate
discussing the future of Ekbacken. Herman wanted to give up building
barges and instead wanted to build racing yachts of a type that had just
won through. It was a high-class and interesting-quality work. He would
build his own boats and compete for prizes just as people kept
racehorses in their stables. It would be a fine advertisement and would
perhaps interest Laura.
Peter looked thoughtful but did not contradict him.
They came out on to the highroad, which was dusty and worn out by the
constantly increasing traffic. The heaps of road metal and the
stone-cutters’ sheds were drawing nearer the old oaks. The town was
grinding the hills around it to powder. Soon the last grey granite
fortress of Ekbacken would fall. But Herman swore that he would defend
his own idyllic home. There were already plenty of people who came to
him and wanted to buy sites for factories. But his father’s old Ekbacken
must not be split up and spoilt in that way.
Peter still did not contradict him. He was absorbed in deep thought.
Suddenly he warmly pressed his future brother-in-law’s hand:
“You are a fine fellow, Herman. Damn me, but you are a fine fellow!”
After this Peter the Boss stalked homewards—with the first great cheque
of his life in his pocket he stalked homewards this cold, still evening
in spring. He felt strangely cool about his forehead, and sometimes he
felt as if he were treading on air. Strange how everything played into
his hands. By making Lundbom guardian he ruled absolutely at Selambshof.
Through Laura he would soon be able to control Ekbacken. And the town
with its thousand possibilities, crept nearer and nearer with every
hour.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
X
+LAURA’S MARRIAGE+
For more than two years Laura had been at a boarding school in
Neuchatel. She had been home a few times, at Christmas and Midsummer,
but soon she had contrived to get away again. It was quite amusing to
meet Herman for a week or two. And it was awfully nice to have him to
think of in lonely and sentimental moments. But she was afraid to bind
herself to him quite definitely.
“We can’t marry yet, of course,” she said, “and then it is better not to
wear out each other’s feelings.”
It was always so delightful to say good-bye to Herman. His grief did her
good. There was always a faithful heart waiting for her whilst she flew
out into the wide world.
And it may even have happened that Laura cried a little in the train.
But it was always with the happiest laughter and the most excited talk
that she rushed back to her school friends. And she was greeted with
delighted shouts of welcome. For though she had no real friend, she was
liked by all. They never got tired of ruffling her unusual, fair hair,
which in the general opinion, was frightfully pretty. She was the
obvious leader whenever they wanted to throw dust in the eyes of the
poor teachers on returning home too late after walks or after mysterious
expeditions in the dense garden of an evening. With a mixture of fear
and unwilling admiration, the good German teachers nicknamed her “Die
blonde Lüge.”
Had Laura so much to lie about then? Well! perhaps a little flirtation
with the students in the town. But nothing serious. As a matter of fact
Laura was very careful—much more careful than one would have believed if
one had been allowed to read her diary, written in profoundest secrecy.
For there she exaggerated and romanced in a most charming manner and
seized every opportunity to make herself interesting to herself. Yes,
she falsified her own memoirs, quite gaily and airily. All of which your
moralist would no doubt consider the height of mendacity, but after all
it does not signify very much when you are at boarding school.
“Die blonde Lüge” had nothing to do with a certain little Polish lady
who was packed off because she came home much too late one evening ...
and who received the following morning a parcel containing neither more
nor less than her corsets.
That was a great and mysterious event which became the subject of
endless whispered conversations, when the light was turned out in the
evenings.
* * * * *
But then there came a telegram and a letter, saying that old Hermansson
was dead and that she must go home. Then Laura felt at once that the
best thing she could do was to fall seriously in love with her faithful
Herman. And strange to say, it was not at all so difficult to say
good-bye to Neuchatel, as she had thought it would be. The prospect of
meeting Herman alone, free, and independent was quite agreeable to her.
Strange, but it actually seemed as if old Hermansson had, in spite of
all his kindness, stood between her and Herman. Now she really enjoyed
indulgence in all the romantic sentiments of her diary.
Before Laura left, the idea came to her that she would become properly
engaged to Herman at a distance. This they did and they exchanged rings
by post. It was a sentimental idea of a schoolgirl conceived in order to
impress the other girls and to make a brilliant exit.
And so Laura at last returned home to make ready for the great wedding
trip with the luxurious hotels and shops and the tunnels and moonlight
nights. She sat there in the train and grew more sure of her love for
Herman. She felt a real thrill when she saw him on the platform, a
delicious thrill straight through her heart. He looked so awfully
handsome, refined, and serious in his tall hat and mourning band, one
could not really wish for a better companion on a wedding trip.
Herman wanted the wedding to take place in the autumn. One could not
have the wedding immediately after the funeral.
Summer came, a delightful summer of sunshine, and Herman was pleasant,
devoted and chivalrous. There was nothing but flowers and admiration and
knightly courtesy. They were out sailing a great deal in Herman’s fine
new cutter, which of course was called “Laura.” Herman himself had
designed the boat and expected a lot from it. He was known as “The
Engineer” at the yard. He had spent a couple of years at the School of
Technology but he had left it because he was dissatisfied with the
instruction. Now he was sitting there holding the tiller, tall, slim and
sunburnt, wearing the uniform of the Royal Yacht Club, which was also
very becoming. And Laura lay in a white sweater and white yachting shoes
in the sunshine on deck and thought it was good that he sat and kept a
look out with his faithful blue eyes whilst the ship of their lives
elegantly tacked into the brilliant future.
Herman entered the boat for several races. Unhappily owing to a series
of annoying accidents, such as bad luck with the wind, and small
breakdowns, he was unable to win a prize. But anyhow there was open-air
dancing afterwards and a regatta with Chinese lanterns and fireworks.
And Laura came home quite excited with dancing and wine and the sound of
lapping water in a blue darkness full of kisses and the sound of
clinking glasses and songs and hearty curses and bright, sinuous,
reflections and sudden bouquets of light shooting up above the edge of
the forests.
Laura was really unreservedly happy during this period. It seemed as if
the happy care-free years down in a Southern atmosphere had set fire to
her and thawed her. She had acquired a certain sweetness that was
unusual under the skies of Selambshof. During these summer months it
seemed as if Selambshof had lost its power over her. She hovered
laughingly around the coarse and greedy imp, Peter the Boss. She smiled
at Hedvig’s bitter, stiff and offended airs. She moved like a happy and
contented stranger in and out of this dreary malevolent house, where the
former naughty Laura had once sat drinking vinegar in order to escape
into the world.
Laura was just twenty years old. The particular kind of egoism that
comes from bad nerves was completely alien to her. She blossomed out
under kisses, which had not yet become the serious business of life. It
was her season of roses. All the good elements in her nature had their
great opportunity. Would this soft mellow rose-perfume penetrate to the
core of her being? Where there is a fund of health there are always
possibilities. Things had never looked so promising.
Laura had taken it into her head that they would take a flat in town.
The idea was constantly in her mind. What supreme comfort it would be to
live amongst restaurants, shops and theatres with plenty of pin money!
She begged and implored Herman, but on this point he was really
immovable. He felt it would be treason to his dead father to leave
Ekbacken. And lo! Laura yielded like a good child. She even liked him
because he knew his own mind.
She also gave in on another point. She had dreamed that they would start
on their great wedding trip at once. But Herman, who had a dispute,
concerning shore rights, with the town to attend to, had to wait till
the spring, when the matter would be regulated. He had to defend his
dead father’s old Ekbacken. He seemed to gather strength from the
mourning band on his sleeve.
If only that strength had survived a little longer.... The wedding day
came nearer and nearer.
Stellan came home from the summer manœuvres, brought his heels together
with a slight click of his spurs and greeted his pretty sister with
ironical politeness. He had grown into a witty and elegant young
officer. The uniform was exactly the right mask for his easy cynicism
and light irony. Now he kissed Laura’s hand.
“So you’re going to get married,” he said, “and you’re sticking to your
old lake. What an idyl, my dear Laura.”
Laura snatched her hand away shyly. She somehow could not answer with a
smile. Stellan made quite another impression on her than the others at
Selambshof. He was the real brother of the old, naughty Laura. Her love
was in some way afraid of him. Yes, she was also afraid on Herman’s
account. Quite instinctively Laura did all she could to avoid Stellan
during the next days, though it was he who had undertaken all the
arrangements for the wedding.
Now the morning of the wedding had arrived. Laura came for the last time
out of the room in which she had slept as a little girl. She left it
without regrets. Selambshof had never been a home. She remembered how
lonely she had been these last days. Nobody had sat by her bedside the
last night and talked late in whispers far into the night. She was not
afraid. One could not be afraid of Herman. No, but she had been lying in
her bed longing to have at least a little letter from a school friend to
read.
As Laura walked down the passage she suddenly heard Stellan’s voice in
the smoking room. It must have been Peter he was talking to, because the
replies sounded like coarse mutterings. She was just stealing past the
door to find Hedvig, for today she felt a strange aversion to meeting
her brothers alone. But then something made her stop and listen. She
heard her own name and Herman’s pronounced. “Laura ... she ... will be
able to twist the poor boy round her little finger....”
It was Stellan’s voice—curiously penetrating—like drinking iced water.
Then she heard Peter mumble in a thick voice, expressive at one and the
same time of satisfaction and discontent:
“There are sure to be difficulties in the long run with Ekbacken—not a
business man at all.”
Laura heard no more, for somebody had begun to hammer in the hall. For a
moment she stood motionless. She felt a little sick from the smell of
freshly scrubbed floors, which lingered in the dark passage. She
suddenly felt the oppressiveness of the high dismal house again. For a
fraction of a second a strange sensation of being in some way cheated
shot through her. Then she became angry—exceedingly angry with Stellan
and Peter. But she said nothing, she did not go in to them, but hurried
down to Ekbacken to greet Herman and convince herself that he was still
the same. She remained there so long that he grew anxious lest she
should not have time to dress for the wedding.
Then the guests began to arrive. Stellan had managed to collect quite a
fair number of fine folk. The dowager from Kolsnäs and her son were
there. Lähnfeldt’s elegant carriage drove up to the door. But Percy Hill
was abroad and was only represented by the fine old Dutch master he had
sent as a wedding present. Peter’s contribution was a collection of the
wealthiest customers of Selambshof. Herman had very few relatives left,
except the two old aunts, who had been at the funeral and who looked
very shy and plain.
Hedvig demonstratively put on a dark severe-looking frock and she spread
a chill around her. Tord was not there. He did not go to bourgeois
parties.
The marriage ceremony was to take place in the hall, which was decorated
with all the bright autumn flowers the old gardener had been able to
collect in the garden.
They had almost succeeded in concealing the shabbiness and gloom of the
room. Laura was late. The clergyman had already had time to smell the
dahlias three times before she appeared. Her expression had something of
both defiance and anxiety, as if the guests had assembled there to amuse
themselves at her expense. But Herman’s looks apologized both for the
delay and for his having to stand on the right of his lady.
Laura’s voice sounded impatient when she answered her “yes.” It sounded
as if she had been kept waiting at the booking office window before a
long journey.
During dinner she was also nervous. She was silent, and emptied her
glass absent-mindedly, and drummed with her fingers on the table during
the clergyman’s speech. The speech was somewhat lugubrious. It seemed as
if he had only two speeches to choose from, one for weddings and the
other for funerals, and as if he had fallen on the wrong one.
Laura’s brothers were sitting opposite, further down the table. There
was a challenging and hostile flash in her eyes, as she looked at them.
She suddenly raised her glass to Peter, who looked like a dressed-up
farmhand:
“Your health, Mr. Bailiff!” she said. “It feels queer to be in evening
dress, doesn’t it?”
Her voice sounded strained. She looked quickly and appealingly at
Herman, who, however, did not seem to understand. Angry at not receiving
any support, though it was for his sake she was taking her revenge, she
now turned on Stellan. Stellan had placed himself beside Elvira
Lähnfeldt, now a slim and distinguished-looking young lady, who chatted
about horses and tennis. He seemed to enjoy paying her attention. He did
it with the expression of a man who is already accustomed to succeed
with the ladies. “Look at me,” he seemed to be saying, “I am privileged
to wear a full dress uniform. I belong to the few who look dressed up
when they wear civilian clothes. I am born for the good things in life,
for pretty women and a fine setting.” But Laura knew her elegant
brother. She knew how to penetrate his arrogant self-assurance. Her
voice became suddenly tender and affecting:
“Stellan,” she said, looking into his eyes over the sparkling champagne,
“Old Hermansson died so suddenly that neither you nor I had an
opportunity of thanking him. Now as you are sitting with Herman in front
of you, I think you ought to stand up and make a speech to his father’s
memory. For if he had not been so awfully decent and helped you, instead
of being such a really smart officer and lady’s man as you are now, you
would have been quite an ordinary little bank-clerk or teacher of
mathematics or something equally ridiculous and civilian!”
Miss Lähnfeldt looked as if she had heard something positively indecent.
Stellan bit his lip and grew a trifle pale. He did not rise, and he made
no speech, but he straightened himself as if to salute and lifted his
glass, without saying a word, to Herman, who looked very embarrassed and
could not understand at all what had come over his dear Laura.
But Laura at once became wildly gay. She had had her revenge and she
could now say good-bye to stupid old Selambshof.
She looked smiling over all the flowers and the heads in order to say a
last contemptuous good-bye to the old dining-room where she had eaten so
much porridge and where they had given each other so many kicks
underneath the table. Then her glance fastened on the portrait of old
Enoch over the green settee. It was more visible than usual because of
two sconces which had been moved in from the blue room. The old man
stood there with his steel-capped stick in his thin claw-like hand and
fixed his glance upon her. Laura had never observed before what
scornful, sneering eyes he had. It was as if he looked straight through
her love.
“You may wriggle about, my doll, but you can’t get away from me,
anyway.”
She took Herman’s hand: “Won’t it soon be over?” she murmured.
At last they said good-bye. Laura was already standing in the porch
dressed in her fur coat. Then she saw Herman walk up to Stellan and
Peter and pat them on the shoulders. He looked very moved and solemn and
magnanimous. She could understand that he asked them not to be annoyed
with her. Stellan shrugged his shoulders, and she could see by his lips
what he answered:
“Stage-fright....”
Then the silence of the cold star-lit autumn night was broken by a roar
of deep bass voices, and then there was the pattering of rice against
the carriage windows and a forward jerk of the horses.
Laura flung herself into Herman’s arms. She wanted to flee away from
something at any cost—as if she did not want to see anything or know
anything.
The following day Hedvig came in to Peter, who was lying on the sofa
with a pipe that had gone out in the corner of his mouth, feeling a
little stale after the wedding celebrations which he and his companions
had continued noisily until the early morning. Hedvig came slipping in
and looking paler and more severe than ever. Peter felt really
frightened of her. He felt like a big, swollen gland which has secreted
the worst excretions of sin.
“You will have to get somebody else to nurse father,” said Hedvig, “I am
not going to stay here any longer. There is nothing but dissipation and
vileness. Nobody seems to think that we may be dead tomorrow. I am going
to take a course in nursing and then I shall join the Red Cross.”
Peter began to fear new unforeseen expenses. He begged and prayed, he
clumsily touched on all sorts of points. Finally he stretched out a
finger and poked it into the region of her heart:
“Hedvig, dear, one fine day you will also get married.”
Peter stopped dead. He felt as if he had sandpaper in his throat. Hedvig
stood motionless and stared at him, with loathing in her eyes:
“You are disgusting” she said, in a low voice. “I hate all men. I will
never, never marry!”
And with that she left the room.
A fortnight later Hedvig had started as a probationer at a hospital. And
she never put her foot inside Selambshof.
Peter did not know if he felt this as a loss or relief. Sometimes he
felt as if his bad conscience had left him. Sometimes he felt a little
alarmed. With the departure of Hedvig he seemed to have lost his last
connection with “The Powers.”
But Mrs. Laura at Ekbacken was very annoyed when Peter stalked in one
day and told her about Hedvig’s new move.
“It really is a pity about Hedvig,” the little wife exclaimed. “Just
think how really beautiful she can be sometimes, Herman. It almost hurts
one. Couldn’t we find her a husband some way or other, Herman dear?”
Mrs. Laura still lived on her honeymoon and she thought that all people
ought to marry.
Herman moved away the pink silk ribbon of her coquettish boudoir cap and
kissed her hair:
“She is as pretty as anyone can be who is not fair,” he whispered.
By now Peter had gone again. This sort of thing was unbearable. They
don’t care a straw either for me or Hedvig, he thought sadly in his
loneliness. But wait a little, Laura has still got claws in her silky
hands. Herman will feel them soon enough.
This thought consoled him a little.
* * * * *
The honeymoon was scarcely over before Mrs. Laura realised that there
would be no wedding trip that spring.
No, she was definitely cheated of it, cheated of her grand wedding trip.
She had not imagined things would turn out like that. This might
possibly have been permitted to occur in the remote future, but just now
she had desired nothing but happy surprises.
At first Laura told Herman nothing. She felt that it would be
humiliating to admit her condition. But she observed him secretly. She
watched for a searching or a triumphant expression in his face. Has he
been expecting this? Was he only playing with me when he spoke about the
wedding trip, she thought. And she felt something in her heart that
almost resembled dislike. But then it struck her how sad and strange and
really impossible it was that she was feeling dislike of her _own_
Herman. And then she went down to the office and let him kiss her behind
old Lundbom’s back. But she was not yet able to speak about it. She felt
a strange cold shame at her condition. In her there was nothing groping
with tender hands towards the new life. It was as if this tender seed of
life had been growing outside her and not beneath her heart.
After a few weeks Laura had no need to decide whether to tell or not—she
simply could not hide it. She felt sick and she could not for ever run
away and hide every morning. Laura had never been ill since she had the
measles as a child. She felt a cold dread. It was as if her body were
insulted every day. In her mirror she seemed to see how ugly and pale
she was already growing. Still Herman said nothing. He was only doubly
tender and attentive. But Laura saw all the same a flash of irritating
pride and satisfaction in his eyes. And she turned away and set her
teeth. What sort of a knight was this whose kisses at once produced
sickness. She seemed to feel his pride like a pain within her. And then
a torrent of complaints and accusations broke from her. Herman had
cheated her out of her wedding trip! And she had not been allowed to
live in town, as she wanted! And now she was ill, awfully ill! And she
was getting ugly, old and ugly! And soon she would probably be dead—Yes,
this would certainly mean her death!
Herman made no reply to all these accusations, which induced in him a
solemn mood. He stroked her hair softly and calmly as one would in
putting a crying child to sleep. And in the end Laura could find no
other place than his arms in which she could cry out her heart.
After a time she grew calmer. The first crisis was over. It looked as if
she would submit to her fate with a certain equanimity.
One dark and wet December day Laura was sitting in the bedroom window
sewing some small garments. She always locked the door so as not to be
taken by surprise. The sewing did not amuse her, but she did it in order
to pass the time.
“Ugh!” she had pricked her finger. She stared at the red drop of blood,
and with a long sigh let the sewing fall into her lap.
Out of doors it was drizzling from the grey winter sky. Through the bare
lilac hedge Laura could see the yard. There lay the cutter, their
cutter, drawn up forlorn under its ugly unpainted cover. Their beautiful
summer cutter! It looked like a butterfly with the wings pulled off, and
the crutches were its legs. It suddenly occurred to Laura that the boat
had never won a prize. There had always been something to prevent it.
Supposing it was not so finely designed and built after all!
Laura suddenly felt terribly depressed at this thought. She could not
understand herself why she felt so sad. She rose up groaning and went to
her chest of drawers. In the bottom drawer beneath her chemises and bits
of ribbon, there lay a small locked box. She found the key hidden
amongst her jewellery. Then she took out her diary, the romantic diary
from Neuchatel, and sat down to read it from beginning to end. She
hastened nervously through its pages and it seemed as if she had jumped
with great anxious strides back into the past. But there was no refuge
there. She could not help sneering at all that sloppy, girlish nonsense.
No, the past was past. As she was turning a page, a drop of blood fell
on it. Laura threw away the book. Then she saw that there were many
drops of blood on her light grey dressing gown also. “Blood,” she
thought with a shiver. “I shall give my blood. I shall suffer and
sacrifice myself for another. People say that it is a splendid and
glorious sensation. But I am not made that way. Herman must teach me. He
must treat me more severely—bend me to it—.”
Laura dashed on her fur coat and galoshes and flew down to the office
where Herman sat talking to Lundbom about the lawsuit, which looked as
if it would be prolonged.
But Herman did not handle her firmly. He was only kind and indulgent and
gave her much well-meant advice: “You must not go about thinking of
disagreeable things: you must just make yourself comfortable and let me
look after you.” And then he telephoned for theatre tickets for the
evening.
Herman did not understand that he had a soul to fight for, a soul round
which the magic circle was about to close again.
Laura could not help pondering over this lawsuit, over the shore rights.
If Herman had not allowed it to interfere she would now have been on her
wedding trip. And then all this would not have happened. No! then this
would not have happened. How Laura arrived at this conviction seems
strange, but, as we all know, our most sensible thoughts are not the
most persistent ones.
Laura began to hate that lawsuit. Sometimes it almost seemed as if she
wanted Herman to lose it. What if she should go over to Peter and talk
it over with him for a moment. For the first time Laura had a certain
furtive feeling of attraction to Selambshof. She had not been there
since her wedding. But now the spirit of family called gently to its
erring child.
Peter sat in his office writing in his books. The room was thick with
tobacco smoke and Peter the Boss looked so coarse and vulgar that Laura
at once dismissed all the subterfuges she had thought out.
“Herman’s lawsuit?” muttered Peter, “well, between ourselves, I should
have settled the matter while the door was still open. The Town Council
offered forty thousand for the little strip of shore and it was a fine
offer. If Herman had accepted, they would never have found out that his
title was doubtful. It all hangs on some old papers dating from the
eighteenth century, and then justice is like a lottery. But Herman won’t
give up the least bit of Ekbacken of his own free will, and of course
that’s very fine of him—but, if one wants to strike fine attitudes...!”
Peter leered with half-closed eyes through the smoke, with his dull
peasant cunning. Compared with Herman, Peter looked a real monster. But
all the same Laura listened attentively to his words. She waited
greedily for a shrug of his shoulders or a note of tolerant contempt, in
order that she might, as she thought, become angry with him and say
something really nasty. But in point of fact she was seeking with a
strange sort of hunger to effect a secret reconciliation with something
within herself, something that had been concealed by the rosy veil of
her foolish sentimentality.
On her way home Laura stopped in the course of the avenue by the big oak
which she and Stellan had tricked Herman into climbing. “Were you hoarse
yesterday, Herman?” Oh! how furious she was with her husband for having
allowed himself to be tricked that day!
For several days she went about at Ekbacken looking at Herman from
hiding places and ambushes. She felt a stranger to him as she beheld his
open countenance. A certain expression of unperturbed self-confidence in
him annoyed her in some way. What was he really so confident about? He
does not listen or watch, nor does he fight to defend me and mine, she
thought. Why is he not cleverer and quicker than Peter and Stellan? Why
does he not look through them? Why does he not look through me? Laura
had a strange feeling of the insecurity of Herman’s position—that there
was a conspiracy against him, against them. And she had an irresistible
desire to arouse him, to perturb him, and goad him on with insidious
words. They were sitting planning summer yachting trips, when she
suddenly exclaimed:
“Fancy if you could explore a little ashore too, Herman.”
When that shaft missed its mark she began to prophesy losses and
misfortunes:
“I am sure you will lose that stupid lawsuit, Herman.”
Herman replied by placing a shawl over her shoulders. Then she seized
the most dangerous weapon she could think of and told him of the
conversation she had overheard between Stellan and Peter on her wedding
day:
“Just fancy! they said that you were not a business man at all, Herman;
that you were a good-natured simpleton that anyone could twist round his
little finger. That’s what they said, and I think they ought to pay for
that. You ought somehow to put them down a peg.”
However strange it may sound, Laura was nevertheless still fighting for
her love when she spoke like this. It was the last spasm of her feeling
for him. But Herman understood nothing. He only became serious and
pulled a face for a moment. Then he dismissed the subject:
“Nonsense, child, you misunderstood them. How can you imagine such a
thing. Near relations like that! Besides I have stolen from them the
best thing they had, their pretty sister.”
He wanted to kiss her on the neck, but Laura pushed him violently away
from her and ran into the bedroom, seized by an unreasoning frenzy.
The last months before the birth of the child were very difficult for
Herman. He was exiled from the bedroom into the smoky atmosphere of the
study, where he had to sleep on a sofa. He was a ridiculous, superfluous
and disagreeable person in his own home. Even the maids were rude to
him. He went about in a constant state of nervousness in this house
where he was the only man. The poor fellow did not revolt, but his face
grew longer and longer. He busied himself with his beloved cutter, since
he was not allowed to busy himself with Laura. Above all he felt a
compelling need to go and amuse himself with his summer things. It was
as if he were still a child, longing for the promise of the summer
holidays. He still cherished their semblance of liberty without
responsibility. But in the evening he took refuge in spirit and his
father’s game of patience—hoping that his beloved and exquisite Laura
would return to him after the birth of her child.
But Laura lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. She was full of
bitterness and disappointment. Something within her that had been
deliciously softened now hardened again and left a scar behind. She was
full of anger against Herman, who was not man enough to break down her
egoism; who gave her a child but was unable to make her feel a mother.
Laura was very ill towards the end. She felt her pains and her
helplessness as direct insults by Herman. Sometimes she almost went mad
with fear at her approaching delivery. For a woman whose being is
cramped by egoism the agony of childbirth is doubly terrible. There is
no joy in the suffering. It is martyrdom without faith. After a struggle
of three days she gave birth to a boy. When they wanted to place the
child beside her, she pushed it away with her last remaining strength:
“Take it away,” she muttered, “I don’t want to see it.”
That was the first day. Afterwards she calmed down and showed a certain
interest in her child. But she could not bear to hear it cry. Then it
had to be taken away into another room at once. And she could not be
persuaded to suckle the newborn child. Thus far Nature had forced her,
but now at last she could say “No.” Oh what a joy to be able to say “no”
at last!
When a mother is not delivered of her egoism it grows sevenfold worse.
There is something mysterious in the quick recovery of women after
child-birth. In a week and a half Mrs. Laura was up again, well and
flourishing, more beautiful than ever, without any trace of all the
suffering that she had passed through—at least no outward traces. She
made a very charming picture with her son, when she occasionally
condescended to bend over his bed and pat his cheek. Herman, who had
already forgiven her for not wanting to suckle their little Georg, was
quite ready with his admiration and chivalrous attentions to the young
mother.
And Laura accepted the homage calmly and unmoved.
Herman was still a very young man. He could not go about for ever
satisfied with the sensation of being a happy father. There came a
moment when he wanted to receive some of the gracious caresses that were
occasionally bestowed on little Georg. He found something especially
bewitching in Laura’s new fulness, in the milky whiteness of her skin,
in her lazy, contented, catlike purring after the storm she had passed
through. But he was far too sensitive to behave roughly. And there was
something in that purring that made him a little shy and timid. He went
about with a new and hesitating love as if he were the fiancé of his own
wife. He seized every opportunity to pay her little attentions and to
make her little presents which she graciously deigned to accept. Soon,
Herman thought, I shall be a happy man again. But Laura smiled and
shrugged her shoulders. She was playing with her tall fiancé. She gave
him her little finger. But when he suddenly wanted the whole hand she
shook her head and said “no,” a pitiless purring little “no.”
Herman reproached himself. “I have not behaved properly,” he thought. “I
have been too rough and hasty.” And then once more he played the
chivalrous fiancé for a while, and tried to get her out in the yacht as
he did last summer, but no! the lake amused her no longer. Then he
heaped amusements, jewels, and pretty clothes upon her. She developed a
studied coquetry and opened out boldly in the sunshine.
Now it was their wedding day. Herman waited on her with an enormous
bunch of red roses; he appeared at dinner in full dress and drank her
health in champagne and appealed to their sweet memories. At last he
thought she would be able to celebrate the anniversary of their wedding.
For a moment Laura seemed touched. But it was only the champagne. At the
last moment she turned away from him, froze up, and talked of her
delicate health, of an uncontrollable anxiety, and held up the child as
a shield between herself and her husband. And then the key grated in the
bedroom door and Herman was shut out.
Laura sat down on the edge of her bed and slowly picked Herman’s roses
to pieces. She felt that she would never again belong to him. It was not
only cowardly selfishness in face of the new demands of life. She was no
longer afraid, because her body had already forgotten. No, she no longer
wanted to belong to _him_. It was the air itself here at old
Hermansson’s Ekbacken that did not suit her.
Laura flicked away the last rose petal. “He allowed me to lock the
door,” she thought, with a shrug of her shoulders, “I am much stronger
than he is.”
It is dangerous for a woman of Laura’s temperament to begin to think
like that.
* * * * *
Herman’s wounded pride did not rebel, he did not seek any revenge. He
was miserable, and in despair. He fell on his knees and begged and
entreated her, humiliated himself before her. And then she despised him,
grew tired of him, and became cruel, deliberately cruel, so that
afterwards she was half surprised at herself.
Herman flew to drink and neglected his work. All ordinary business was
of course still in Lundbom’s hands but Herman supervised the building on
the slips. Now he roamed about brooding and gloomy, gave orders and
counter-orders, began to quarrel with his men and then suddenly he threw
it all up and went down to stare at the dump. Yes! that had been the
result of his lawsuit. The ground over which the town had acquired the
shore rights was his, but they had begun to fill in the lake in order to
build a quay. Barge after barge came along with broken china and bricks,
rubbish, and sweepings. The evil smelling dump already stretched far out
into the lake. One could see it all from the windows of Ekbacken and the
comfort of the old place was gone. Herman would stand there for hours
with his hands in his pockets, and reflect with a certain melancholy
pleasure how the town dumped its rubbish there under his very nose. Then
he would go inside and sit down and drink.
Once when he was half drunk he struck Laura, when for the fiftieth time
she cast the unsuccessful lawsuit in his face. It was a feeble
hesitating blow that only recoiled on his own suffering heart. But Laura
accepted it with secret satisfaction. She had already begun to plan how
she might escape with the greatest possible profit from this besieged
fortress, whilst retaining all the honours of war.
An unhappy marriage is the finest arsenal of egoism. In the constant
clash of two wills, selfishness sharpens its edge, and in the suffering
of an opponent tempers its steel.
Laura developed surprisingly fast. It was not long before she understood
with masterly cunning how to push Herman to extremes and to make him
compromise himself seriously whilst she herself wisely kept quiet. It
was she who encouraged him to seek men’s company and to amuse himself in
town so that he should be spoken of as a reveller and a drunkard.
Finally it was she who in devious ways reminded him that the world was
full of women and thus furtively placed in his hands an instrument of
revenge for her coldness. Otherwise Herman would never have been able to
make up his mind. He was, as it were, hypnotised by her. Certainly it
seemed as if it was directly by her secret influence that he threw
himself with the courage of despair, and without a spark of desire, into
the arms of a waitress at the nearest public house. But all the same,
some childish hopes of making Laura jealous must have seized him, for a
woman’s voice began to ask for him on the telephone and the poor boy
tried to look provokingly cheerful when he answered. These conversations
on the ’phone were followed by nights out which in their turn were
followed by forced explanations which Laura had never asked for.
Finally, in order to reveal the situation quite clearly to her, he began
to forget and leave lying about short incriminating notes where Laura
must find them. She almost felt sorry for him. But anyhow she took great
care of the letters.
With a selection of these documents in her little silk bag Laura now
paid a visit to Selambshof. She went off in a state of clear, cool
exhilaration like a business man who is about to settle up a difficult
piece of business. It seemed as if she wanted to gather strength amidst
the old surroundings before the decisive battle. But all this did not
prevent her from playing the martyr, a rôle that was really more
pleasant than she had anticipated. Even when confronting Peter the Boss
it had its satisfaction, though she felt that he looked through her
completely. Peter, of course was disgusting. She was almost ashamed to
meet him in the streets in town. And all the same here in his office she
felt a strange affinity to him. Yes, it was almost like quenching one’s
thirst to look at his coarse ugliness. And now she suddenly knew
instinctively that their wishes concerning Herman coincided.
Laura presented her husband’s compromising letters with a tragic mien
and she soon saw Peter’s eyes looking at her with almost frightened
admiration. “How the deuce have you already brought him so far?” they
seemed to ask. But meanwhile he poured forth expressions of good-natured
and sentimental commiseration, in much the same way as a dog dribbles
when it catches sight of a rich piece of food. But afterwards he showed
his teeth:
“Valuable papers,” he muttered.
It came out so suddenly that Laura had some difficulty in preserving her
mien of martyrdom.
“Of course I can no longer live with Herman,” she sighed.
“These letters are worth at least a hundred thousand,” said Peter.
“I want to know how to set about getting a divorce. It’s probably a
dreadful business.”
Peter thought for a moment and then he brightened up:
“I will speak to Lundbom. He knows everything.”
“Lundbom?”
“Yes, Lundbom’s the man. He won’t suspect that it concerns you two. He
is absolutely blind to everything personal.”
In spite of her martyr’s air Laura laughed low:
“Hum! That really would be rather funny.”
Peter had a free consultation with Lundbom at their next card party.
Lundbom saw no escape for the faithless spouse; either hopeless and
scandalous divorce proceedings or a friendly settlement with a promise
to surrender the children and a handsome allowance.
Armed with this information Laura made a great scene with Herman. Now
all of a sudden she pretended to be insulted, in despair, and mortally
wounded in her wifely dignity. She took the matter in such deadly
earnest and was so absorbed in the dramatic situation that she almost
began to believe in her feelings herself. Herman was aghast. His first
feeling was one of wild joy that she had after all suffered, that she
still loved him. This made him forget that it was she herself who had
placed his revenge in his hands. But after her first outburst Laura
continued more calmly, with profound reproach in her tone. Herman might
have waited for her. A little patience only and everything would perhaps
have been all right between them again. “You might have excused a poor
woman who has had to pass through so much.”
Laura was magnificent when she said all this. Her words fell like molten
lead on Herman’s heart. He confessed his helplessness, his despair at
his indulgence in spirits, and his disgust at his sorry folly with the
other woman, who had never given him a moment’s relief. He was filled
with a deep despair and remorse and begged her forgiveness with tears
streaming from his eyes.
It was the old, banal, and horrible struggle, in which the result is a
foregone conclusion, the struggle between the one who loves and the one
who is loved.
Laura was merely irritated by Herman’s tears. Did she suspect that they
sprang from sources which in her had already dried up? Was that why her
tone was so hard and dry? When one cannot be Love one wishes to be Fate.
Oh! there was a secret luxury in standing there stiff and unyielding:
“You have killed my love,” she said, “I want a divorce and I shall take
Georg. You have no right to refuse.”
Herman staggered as if he had been struck in the face. The violence of
the blow prevented him from seeing how the whole thing had been
pre-arranged.
He stood there gazing around him in front of an image of stone and
muttered alternate prayers and curses till at last he ran out of the
room, slamming the door behind him.
But Herman could not get away from the fact that Laura had everything
beautifully arranged. She had public opinion on her side, she had
witnesses and letters. If he wanted to escape the horrible divorce
proceedings he must accept her conditions. So he had to take the
familiar journey to Copenhagen and give up little Georg, and mortgage
Ekbacken heavily in order to purchase a nice little annuity for his
wife.
He stayed on in his lonely home with a bleeding hatred. Sometimes he did
not know whether it was hatred or love. But Laura made a triumphant
entry with baby and annuity into an elegant little flat in Karlavägen,
in the same house as Stellan had his little two-roomed bachelor flat.
She was determined to enter society in order to amuse herself and for
this purpose Stellan’s brother officers and his circle of fine friends
might be invaluable for a divorced young wife.
The very evening that Laura moved in, she went down to see Stellan:
“I did not stay at the old lake,” she said, “and the little idyl did not
materialise.”
“No, no!” said Stellan. “Shall we play a game of écarté?”
And they did.
------------------------------------------------------------------------