+TORD’S EXILE+
Lately Selambshof had not been as quiet as usual. The scattered brothers
and sisters began once more to find the way back to the ancestral home.
The fact of the matter was that the estate was growing more and more
valuable every day. The town had already begun—to Peter’s great joy—to
encroach upon a part of Ekbacken. Now it began to stretch its arms
around Selambshof. And like old King Midas it changed all it touched
into gold.
Yes, it was extraordinarily pleasant to sit there and feel how you were
growing richer and richer every moment. And then they had to look after
their interests, keep an eye on each other, and especially on the
honourable director of Selambshof Limited.
It was curious to watch the Selambs when they were together. They
quarrelled terribly, but stuck together all the same—just like the
Bonaparte family. None believed another. They laid mines and
countermines. They tricked one another until they got even, so that in
the end a sort of rough natural justice prevailed. Peter the Boss now
sat in the prisoner’s dock as a result of a too bare-faced falsification
of the accounts of Majängen and Solberget Ltd. Laura unhesitatingly
accused him, in the clearest and most spirited terms of being a false
old thief. Stellan’s sword play was more skilful and he got in a whole
series of neat little thrusts, each one of which would have been a
sufficient indictment in a prosecution for misrepresentation and
misappropriation. Peter smiled complacently at these accusations, which
he regarded as so many pleasant expressions of recognition of his merit.
He lied with a certain heavy grace to this assembly of expert
connoisseurs. Behind all his lies lay all the same the truth that he had
really done great things for Selambshof. And he realised that in their
inmost hearts his sisters and brothers knew they must look up to him,
Peter the Boss, as the eldest and the head of the family. And after all
the whole quarrel was sunk in the great and glorious consciousness of
the daily increasing value of Selambshof.
But towards the spring these meetings were not quite as agreeable as
usual. That was the fault of Tord. Yes, the despised, neglected, almost
forgotten Tord down there in The Rookery began to cause the high family
council very serious anxiety. He had dismissed the bohemian painter who
had been a parasite on him for several years and instead he had returned
with a woman, a slovenly person who spoke a sort of Norwegian and who
was a very dubious person. Well, that might have passed if Tord had not
got the mad idea of marrying her. The Selambs had had a terrible shock
when they saw in the paper the reading of the banns. And now a fortnight
later they were sitting by a big wood fire in the icy hall of Selambshof
and knew no more than that Tord had driven to town with the woman that
morning. They might already be married by now, though the sisters and
brothers had been told nothing. Really it was extraordinary
behaviour....
Let us now see how Tord Selamb had come to do this most unexpected
thing: arranging for the banns to be read and going to church to be
married.
The story really begins with the severing of Träskängen and the Quarry.
Peter had in some way tricked Tord into being absent at the meeting when
the sale was decided on. This put him into a fury which increased in
violence when Tord saw the secret retreat of his youth defiled by
boundary posts, trenches, blasting and disgusting hordes of insolent
intruders. His protracted fury finally resulted in some immoderate and
indignant articles in the yellow press. Tord was not, of course,
indignant that people should be tricked into living on a marsh and on a
refuse dump. No, he was furious because of this encroachment upon his
dominion of boxes of lizards and frogs. He tried to enlist science in
his cause by clamouring about some rare marsh flowers and an unique
diving bug. It was a vehement defence of the wilderness and an
infuriated battle cry against the town. And the whole concluded with
some mixed reflections of a hermit’s spleen, pseudo-science, artist’s
slang and bad nature-lyrics.
The articles were of course anonymous. But Peter recognised the author
from certain attacks and exposures. He was not ungrateful for this
valuable free advertisement of Majängen and Solberget, which must now
appear to the uninitiated as a glorious paradise in the wilderness. But
for the sake of order he made certain representations to his youngest
brother, which resulted in a quarrel, during which Tord gave vent to his
excitement by letting off his gun, into the air it is true, but still a
gunshot.
Filled with a new indignation, Tord continued his articles and painted
on the wall the devil of capitalistic greed despoiling nature, with
features which resembled those of Peter the Boss to a nicety. He began
to develop a taste for writing. He suddenly felt that he was meant to be
a writer, and was at once seized with a violent contempt for the art of
painting. It is true that all he wrote, except those violent articles of
propaganda, was cast into the editor’s waste paper basket, but that only
increased his irritation without in any way convincing him of his
incapacity. After a quarrel with his old painter-friend over the
relative values of the two arts he without further ado kicked out the
disgusting parasite who had tricked him into wasting the most beautiful
years of his youth with such rubbish as the crayon and the paint brush.
The painter was gone. Libations with Peter were over. Tord was alone,
quite alone with his foxes and crows and mice in the gruesome Rookery.
He got into the habit of making long excursions into the town—the
detestable town. Nothing like it had happened to him since he had
slipped out there as a boy in profound secrecy for some devilment. At
that time he had had a strange, secret partnership with some unknown
vagabond in whose company he had pilfered in the market place and cut
holes in sacks of flour down by Skeppsbron. He remembered the latter
especially because of the strange, soothing satisfaction it afforded him
to stand there in the twilight and feel the cool, velvety flour running
through his fingers into the mud. He had already begun to revel in
destruction, perhaps from a precocious, instinctive hatred of all the
culture on which society is based.
Tord hated the town, but not in the same way as Herman, to whom it meant
lawsuits and a bad conscience. Tord did not suffer from his conscience.
No, he had an instinctive hatred of all the adaptability, refinement,
co-operation and methodical work for which it stood. He detested the
great complex machine in which men are only cogs. It was the complex
purposefulness and relative common sense of teeming civic life which
tormented him.
But Stockholm was becoming a great city and as such it had another side.
It was a jungle, a wilderness of stone, the home of the thronging masses
and of cold emptiness by night. But the town began to exert a certain
fascination over Tord. He was going to be a writer, as we know, and
those who can do nothing else can always explore the special vices of
the imagination. He discovered that loneliness in a crowd has many joys
for a fastidious individualist. The masses are necessary, so that we may
look down on them. In the crush of humanity we dream so easily of the
lofty heights from which all below look like creeping things. It is
always so with the dreams of sterile genius. It would begin at the top,
forgetful of all that lies below.
So much for Tord and the throng. But he did not hold out long. He soon
relapsed into restless despair. He was frightened by the very masses
over which he had just triumphed, and fled, full of loathing, home to
The Rookery.
No, it was better in the emptiness and the cold stony landscape. To
stroll about in the deserted outskirts of the town in the uncertain
spring twilight when the masses of houses rise up like huge banks of
darkness in the waning light and the street lamps look like giant
submarine lilies which have collected all the cold phosphorescent light.
To drift about on still summer’s nights when the lamps are out and
everything sleeps at the bottom of a green sea, where the desires of our
dreams move silently like great fishes. The town in storm and darkness
when the lonely wanderer, stimulated by drink, imagines himself lord of
this brooding deserted world of stone! The town as landscape, as nature,
as the hunting ground of all the wild instincts. The narrow back street
defiles, the dark ambushes of the doorways, the snares of the public
house and the bordel. Hazard, adventure, vice, women! Yes, every evening
the town was a great wild jungle where the chase of women was permitted.
Tord pursued this chase with a restless and obstinate interest. He had
the lonely man’s long vision for a woman’s shadow. He could follow one
after the other for hours but without being able to approach one. He was
consumed by an envious hatred of the enterprise of others more bold. He
returned home dead tired, embittered and lonely, lonely....
Nevertheless it was in this hunting ground that Tord Selamb at last met
his fate. It was one dark, rainy, icy cold evening in March. Hot and
cold, heedless and obstinate he followed a woman. But it did not end as
usual. The dark shadow would not allow itself to be caught; it did not
suddenly vanish in a doorway. The figure in front of him only walked on
and on, against the wind, restlessly, without goal or purpose, it
seemed, but sharply dismissing all who accosted it. Now and then it
dived into a dark back street or crept into a gateway, but more from
caprice than to escape its pursuers. The purposelessness of its roving
movements fascinated Tord in quite a peculiar way. It was like a beast
of the forest, he thought. He had not yet seen its face but its step was
young and springy. This was really no idle loitering. It walked with the
conscious energy of one who is angry and mumbles disjointed phrases to
himself. Then it walked towards the southern heights of the town. Then
steps and a square with melancholy sighing trees, and then a cobbled
back street with a few yellow flickering lamps on posts at the corners
of the ramshackle old houses. It was a cul-de-sac, terminating in a big
wooden barrier. Below glimmered the rough wet sides of the hill, lit up
by the lights along a flight of steps on the other side of a deep, dark,
shaft-like yard. The woman did not appear to notice Tord. She took
something out of her pocket and hurled it down into the depths. It
struck the stone with a faint metallic sound. Tord was now standing
beside her. What had she thrown down? The question burnt his lips but he
remained mute in spite of himself. She turned round and was about to
resume her progress, when a sound was heard from the black bag she
carried in her hand. She suddenly pulled out a little grey kitten and
kissed it:
“Kirre,” she mumbled, “darling little Kirre....”
The kitten was Tord’s fate, it broke for a moment the spell of his
dumbness:
“What did you throw down?” he asked suddenly.
She carefully put the kitten back again and answered without looking at
him, straight into the chilly darkness, but in a tone of triumph and
determination:
“It was the key.”
“What key?”
“To the studio, of course. Beastly, disgusting creature! Now that’s done
with at last!”
And then came her story, disingenuous, straightforward, unblushing, and
with a strong appeal. She had been living with a sculptor who had
recently returned from Paris. She had been with him the whole winter.
Oh, how she had spoilt the beast! Cooked his food and been his model all
the day. She was posing as the young witch. “And everybody said I was a
splendid witch,” she exclaimed, whilst an angry little smile flashed
beneath the dripping brim of her hat. But what had this beast of a
sculptor done when his lump of clay was ready? He had gone to an uncle
in Kalmar to get some money. He would be back in a few days, he said.
But no, not a sign of life for a fortnight. She had been sitting there
cold and starving in company with the witch under her damp cover. But
now that was over. Now she had stuck a knife and fork into the witch’s
hands and an empty breadbasket on her head and the sculptor’s old pipe
in her mouth. And now she had left and only taken Kirre with her. And
down there lay the key and it was impossible to find it again.
“So now you will have to get food for me and the cat and a roof over our
heads,” she said quickly to Tord.
Tord asked for nothing better. For once he did not feel anxious or
suspicious. She seemed to him like a hunted animal. She was like the fox
he had freed from the trap and taken home.
He took her home to The Rookery. Not until the following morning did he
think of asking her name. She was called Dagmar Bru and was the daughter
of a Norwegian musician in Copenhagen, she said. Probably some dissolute
fiddler who scraped in some low-class restaurant. Her mother she could
not remember. She had worked at a lace curtain factory before she came
to the sculptor. Tord could get no more out of her and he did not press
her. He loved hearing how she had hated the mill. There was style about
her. Something wild and free. A beautiful witch! She had fair hair,
plentiful, luxuriant, rough hair. A real mane. It was rather uneven, for
she had simply cut it off where it was entangled. Any jewellery she
could find she put on just like a savage.
Dagmar stayed at The Rookery. Tord would not let her go. He loved her
with a love that consisted largely of scolding and sulking, and which
was therefore sincere. He needed her. At whom otherwise could he hurl
his bitter reflections on Woman. Once when he had been worse than usual
she threatened to go back to her father, the musician. Then he felt how
terribly empty it would be not to have her as a butt for his reproaches.
He became frightened, frightened to the bottom of his heart lest she
should throw away the key of The Rookery as she had done that of the
studio. And then he suddenly did something that he had never dreamed of
before. He asked her to become his wife.
Dagmar said that marriage would be something quite new—one might always
try it.
So they had the banns read and drove to church on the same day as the
great family council met at Selambshof.
* * * * *
Laura was warming her toes on the fender and quickly swallowed a third
cup of coffee:
“Tord is an egoist,” she exclaimed in a tone of moral indignation. “He
is an awful egoist. He has no regard for others.”
All agreed. Stellan’s ever watchful irony seemed to have vanished. He
found nothing ridiculous in such words on Laura’s lips. He felt with a
queer sort of bitterness that in Tord the Selamb egoism had declined
from the high plane on which it was assured of success in the world. He
was dangerous, Tord, he did not hide what ought to be hidden, he
unmasked them all; he was a caricature of them.
Peter stood watching in the window. He made a sign. A cab came driving
up the avenue. It was Tord and that woman. No doubt about it. Tord wore
a white tie. It was the first time they had ever seen him in a white
tie. And the woman had a bouquet of flowers in her hand. They had come
from church....
Stellan stamped on the floor:
“Damn him! He must get out of this. I can’t have him within five miles’
distance of my mess and my club!”
“We ought to have let the police take that woman,” fumed Laura. “And
Tord ought to be in some kind of home. Hasn’t he even tried to shoot
Peter?”
Peter had kept silent the whole time and looked very mysterious. Now he
thought the right moment had arrived:
“I was out duck shooting a week or two ago,” he grunted. “It was at a
place called Järnö which lies far out at sea. A fine island. And it is
for sale. Fancy if we put Tord in a boat and took him out there....”
At that moment somebody stepped into the hall. It was Mrs. Dagmar Selamb
in an open fur coat, white silk frock and somewhat down-at-heel shoes.
She did not look at all nervous or anxious. There was something
light-hearted, something irrepressibly carefree about her:
“How do you do,” she said. “I thought I would call whilst I still had
some decent clothes!”
She was greeted by amazed, icy silence.
Dagmar shook her fair mane with a little flash of impatience:
“Perhaps it seems strange that I haven’t brought him with me. He is
playing with his Japanese mice, poor fellow, and in his new black
evening dress, too! We must excuse him. ‘I won’t go up to those
bourgeois!’ he screamed. ‘But I am going,’ I said. ‘They have done
nothing to me,’ I said. Well, and here I am. The whole family is
assembled, I see....”
Again a few moments of the same silence. Dagmar’s features were at last
overshadowed by a certain doubt as to whether she was welcome.
Then Peter suddenly stepped up to her and took her hand:
“Congratulations,” he said, “congratulations.”
And suddenly all of them smiled, struck by the same thought as Peter.
They were splendid, those Selambs. They realised at once that it was
important to gain an ally.
“You can’t be very comfortable down in The Rookery,” said Laura.
Dagmar threw her coat on a chair and sat down by the fire:
“Oh, it’s good enough for us.”
Peter followed Laura:
“But how would it be to have your own place?”
Dagmar laughed:
“I see, you want to get rid of us!”
“It is for Tord’s sake,” continued Stellan. “We had thought it would be
a little surprise. He is such a lover of nature....”
“I suppose it is somewhere at the end of the world,” asked Dagmar.
“Not at all,” Peter cut in. “It is out in the skerries by the sea. You
couldn’t have a finer view. And such lots of game, sea birds and
capercailzie and hares and foxes. That would be something for Tord.
Fancy to be one’s own master and live exactly as one likes....”
Dagmar’s eyes suddenly lit up:
“The sea, you say. And do you think I could go out every morning and lie
down quite naked in the sunshine?”
“Of course, that’s just what I mean.”
Dagmar was too absorbed in her thoughts to hear Laura snigger.
“I am perfectly mad on lying naked in the sunshine,” she said, in a
serious tone.
“Good, then we agree.”
“Yes, I like your proposal very much. But how shall we manage to get
Selamb to agree? He is so crazy sometimes, poor fellow. You simply can’t
imagine.”
“Oh! be careful in the beginning” said Peter. “Flatter him a bit. Tell
him that he has money enough to buy his own estate. That he ought to
free himself from that cursed fellow, Peter the Boss. But our little
sister-in-law will know better than I what to say.”
Dagmar rose smiling, pleased with the cunning which she would display.
“Good, there’s my hand. I shall be like a snake. Good-bye, all of you.
He must have something to eat. I think you are jolly nice, all of you!”
With that Mrs. Dagmar Selamb went out in her shabby shoes—not without a
certain savage grace.
And so they bribed Tord’s wife on her wedding day.
The solemn family council laughed and laughed. Laura writhed:—“Lying
quite naked in the sun,” she screamed. “I am mad on lying absolutely
naked in the sun.”
The laughter was soon followed by a quarrel, one of the sharpest in the
history of the family council. And of course it was on a question of
money. Tord had nothing but his shares in Selambshof, no ready money.
There was first a keen debate as to who ought to collect the purchase
money. Peter sat silent and let the others talk. Yes, Peter the Boss had
suddenly become strangely indifferent. His cigar seemed to absorb him
completely. This was a mock battle that he did not mind them fighting.
He knew very well that he was the only one who had ready money. At last
he said quietly that perhaps he could manage to scrape together a
little.
The others suddenly grew suspicious of Peter’s indifference.
“You have been arranging the whole thing beforehand. You think you are
going to earn money by this. You are going to cheat Tord,” they cried.
Peter defended himself like a bear amongst a swarm of bees, half
conscious of his guilt and half pleased, but without feeling their
stings very much. He blinked his eyes, grunted and beat them off with
both his hands.
“Good, don’t let us talk any more about it. I am not a member of any
smart clubs. I don’t entertain. I like my whiskey and soda with Tord
even though he does shoot at me occasionally.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Stellan cut in. “What conditions have you thought
of?”
“A moment ago I was really prepared to buy some of Tord’s shares,” Peter
said reproachfully.
“At what price?” asked Laura with a sneer.
“At par,” grunted Peter. And it was as if he had torn this offer out of
his bleeding heart.
His sister and brother laughed ironically, pitilessly. It would be very
nice indeed to be able to buy the shares at that price. No, at least
double. They were consumed by a noble indignation. They were full of
fight in the cause of poor Tord. Peter was laid on the rack and was
mercilessly compelled to offer more and more. He pulled faces, puffed,
swore, writhed, but it was all of no use. Selamb against Selamb, diamond
cut diamond. Finally they set to work coolly and keenly without the aid
of lies. Things went so far that there were threats of dismissing the
manager from his post. They all thought they had been cheated by Peter.
Now was the opportunity for revenge. He was forced to give a binding
guarantee of one hundred thousand crowns for half of Tord’s shares and
not to take any commission on the purchase of Järnö.
Thus unconsciously Tord did a good stroke of business whilst he sat
there feeding his Japanese mice—thanks to the envy of his brothers and
sisters.
As things turned out there was no need to handle Tord delicately. He
agreed at once when he heard of an island full of living creatures. And
the sea! That would be something for his poetic bent. And when Peter,
who had done all he possibly could in the matter, came and put the sixty
thousand crowns that were left after the purchase of Järnö into his
hands, he was so astounded that he forgot his suspicions for a whole
week. Then for the first time he began to tell Dagmar that that cursed
Peter had of course cheated him, though he could not say exactly how.
He was, as a matter of fact, right. Peter had at the last moment got
Järnö five thousand crowns cheaper than his sisters and brothers were
told. So he earned a little on the business all the same.
Thus Tord moved out to Järnö with a lot of cages. He had a whole
menagerie. And Dagmar looked rather like a tamer of wild animals.
The old dilapidated dwelling house lay in a little garden among the
small patches of cultivated ground below the rocks in the southern part
of the island. Tord could not live there. It was too tame—too close to
his tenant’s little red cottage. No, they must build a log hut of coarse
timber on the highest cliff, a real eagle’s eyrie with a view over his
estate of stones and water!
Here we shall find him later on, just as before in the old Rookery by
the muddy bay of Lake Mälare—but all the same as if grown greater by the
sea and the winter loneliness.