Then the day of the great family dinner arrived.
Between resplendent footmen the carriages and the motor cars drove up over the newly-weeded and freshly-raked sand-covered ground in front of the house. For many reasons they had avoided the daylight and chosen the twilight, which concealed the worst neglect.
Peter had received strict orders to behave decently. He stood in the hall underneath an improvised decoration of antelopes’ heads and negro weapons—trophies from Stellan’s African shooting trip—and received the guests. In his new evening dress he felt like a foot that has gone to sleep in a tight boot. He had pins and needles in his whole body. The thought that he would eat and drink as much as he liked quite free of charge could not overcome his fear of Count von Borgk, whom after all these magnificent preparations he imagined to be some sort of wonderful superman, so covered with orders that any other poor devil would feel quite naked in the region of the left lapel. But Peter calmed down when the newly married couple arrived at last and the Count proved to be a gentleman whom Laura could have hidden away in her décolletage. Yes, he was a little dark gentleman with soft eyes, that avoided looking into other people’s eyes, and with an expression round the mouth that was both suffering and sensual. He had thin, hairy hands which seemed to melt away when you shook hands. He spoke a low, singsong Finnish-Swedish with a certain admixture of Slavonic softness and suppleness. And his dress coat was bare, quite bare over his heart.
It was strange to think that this was the hated and feared Count Alexis von Borgk, accused by exiled Finns of a perverse betrayal of his country and of coarse political sadism. Was he one of those neurasthenics of authority who are only able to breathe amid the cold momentous gusts of world politics? Was he one of those strange heraldic beings who are irresistibly attracted by the austere magnificence of a throne; who are linked to the forces of reaction by emblems and ceremonies? Or was he perhaps a weak dreamer who had fallen a victim to the mystery of panslavism and who had nothing but the grey spleen left for anything so mean as a Grand Duchy with a few million souls? Anyhow he was now a man who could no longer retain the post he had chosen, but had retired, having all the same suffered and sacrificed something. A son by a previous marriage with a Russian had fallen in the Russian-Japanese war just after he had been commissioned lieutenant.
But Laura was not in the least affected by this. She took her husband playfully. The Countess had really escaped from the skirmishes of life with surprising ease. Her smile had kept its impertinent freshness. She still continued to look as if she had just got out of bed, and had a little of the warmth of the bed left. And her skin was in some strange way more naked than that of other ladies. This evening a lot of jewellery with some cold green stones shimmered on it, but no pearls. Pearls did not suit her, she thought. Did she perhaps realize that their soft roundness and mellow sheen are symbols of quite a different sort of womanliness?
Among those who did not know her, Laura always created a sensation by having Georg with her. They had not seen him for years and had almost forgotten his existence. And now he suddenly appeared on the scene, a tall, well grown lad of sixteen, dressed up in his first dress shirt and dress coat and still quite shy and confused by this unexpected promotion after years of oblivion and neglect. He was really very like his father, Georg, so like that one was almost startled. There was something open, honest, straight-backed, that the Selambs regarded as stupidity, but with a new admixture of grit and determination that made all except Laura think. She seemed to be merely content with her new possession. Imagine that that overgrown schoolboy in his ridiculous knickers and worn sailor’s blouse should turn out so presentable. Yes, these last days Georg had been paraded, introduced, boasted of, and spoilt. She went with him everywhere just as in the recklessness of love you would show off a new lover. Perhaps it may, as a matter of fact, have been a whimsical motherly falling in love. Perhaps something reserved, even hostile in her son had awakened her feminine desire for conquest. Or was it only secret anxiety born of the glance of shy, uncomprehending fear that Georg first cast upon his new stepfather?
They went in to dinner.
Stellan and his butler had really worked marvels. The shabby old dining-room at Selambshof was impossible to recognize, thanks to a soft wine-red carpet, expensive sconces, handsome high backed chairs, exquisite table silver, and plenty of white orchids.
But it looked all the same as if it was going to be a silent dinner. They were mute after the first nervous talk. They stared at the batteries of untouched glasses in front of each chair as if they signified a troublesome journey with many hardships. Mrs. Elvira sat cool and thin in her armour of jet and black silk and breathed reserve from every fibre of her body. And Hedvig Hill seemed a monument of silence. Words seemed to shrink and freeze away in her neighbourhood. Everybody seemed to be afraid of the wine going down the wrong throat after Peter’s awkward speech of welcome during the soup. All except Laura. She continued, apparently unconcerned and gay, her little flirtation with Georg.
“Your health, Georg dear!”
Georg drank to her attentively and obediently, carefully sipping his glass:
“Put a white orchid in your buttonhole.”
Georg obeyed again. Laura
