Everything was arranged to take the inventory. Astonishing order prevailed in Bäck's garret; something unusual had happened there; the place was swept and cleaned. All his things were set out: medicine chest dusted, stuffed birds placed in a row, the collection of eggs exposed to view. The silver-headed Spanish cane stood in a corner; the old peruke hung with a melancholy look on its hook; the innermost mysteries of Bäck's bureau, the pale locks of hair from former days, were drawn forth to be valued in roubles and kopeks; probably not at high amounts. An alderman, with an official air, had taken his place at the old oak table, where a large sheet of official paper now occupied the space usually reserved for the surgeon's carpenter's tools; a clerk was sharpening his pencil opposite the alderman, and the old grandmother as hostess, had presented herself with moist eyes to deliver up Bäck's property, as the old man had no relations. One thing, however, was still unopened: it was the old seal-skin trunk under the surgeon's bed. The official's eyes occasionally wandered there with a pious thought of the profit to be derived from the inheritance; but no one knew what the trunk contained, and who was the rightful and legal heir.
It was time to begin. Svanholm and Svenonius were called as appraisers. The alderman coughed once or twice, assumed a judicial air, and then said:
"Whereas it has come to the knowledge of the worthy magistrate that the deceased surgeon of the High Crown, Andreas Bäck, met his death on the ice whilst engaged in bird-shooting; and although not found in body, is in soul, rightfully and lawfully killed..."
"I would most humbly beg to contradict that!" suddenly interrupted a voice from the door.
The effect was truly marvellous.
The magistrate lost both his wits and official bearing; he turned his eyes upwards, and his eloquent tongue for the first time refused its office. The secretary sprang up like a rocket, and knocked over the learned Svenonius, who, being somewhat deaf, had not heard the cause of the sudden commotion. The brave Svanholm was in a terrible plight; one could have sworn that not even at Karstula had he gone through such an ordeal. He looked as white as a ghost, and tried in vain to compel his left foot to advance. The old grandmother was the only one who showed self-possession; she put on her spectacles, went straight to the new-comer, and shook her ancient head dubiously, as if to say that it was very wrong of corpses to come to life again.
But old Bäck—for who else could it be?—was not at all daunted. His feelings had quite a different character. When he beheld his dear old garret so altered, his precious effects on show, and the magistrate in full activity with what Bäck thought none of his business, he was seized, excusably enough, with righteous anger, and took the myrmidons of the law by the neck, one after the other, and threw them without ceremony from the room. Then came the turn of brother Svenonius, who was not spared, and finally Svanholm, before he could utter a word, found himself rolling headlong down the stairs. All this happened in the twinkling of an eye. Only the grandmother remained. When Bäck met her mild, reproachful glance, he was ashamed, and came to his senses.
"Well, well," said he, "you must not take it ill, cousin; I shall teach brooms and dusters to disorder my room ... be so kind as to take a seat. It would provoke a stone to see such actions. See how these wretches have scrubbed my room and dusted my birds. It is a positive crime!"
"Dear cousin," said the grandmother, at once vexed and delighted, "I am the one to be blamed; we thought you must be drowned."
"Drowned, indeed!" muttered the surgeon. "I tell you, cousin, that poor powder isn't so easily got rid of. It is true that I floated around on that miserable ice-floe for three whole days and nights. It wasn't exactly a warm bed and spread table, but it served. I shot a venturesome seal. It was pretty oily, I assure you, but 'better that than nothing.' I had a tinder-box and salt, too; so I made a fire of my game bag, and fried a steak. On the fourth day I drifted to firm ice at West Bothnia, and marched ashore. 'Now it's time to go home,' I thought. Said and done; I sold my gun and hired a team. And I tell you what, cousin, they would have been spared from upsetting my room, and sticking their noses into my affairs, had not the Swedes quadrupled the rate, compared with old times. My purse was empty before I came to Haparanda. Then I thought, 'let the Medical College go to the dogs!' and began my old practice with the lancet and 'essentia dulcis,' as I went along; and all the old women—God bless you, I thought you were going to sneeze—and all the old women were amazed to see former times revived. In this manner I was able to reach home—a little too late, but still in time to throw out my uninvited guests."