“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....