The Red Room
by August Strindberg · English · Gutenberg #37039 · 584,633 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Red Room
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Red Room
Author: August Strindberg
Translator: Ellie Schleussner
Release date: August 11, 2011 [eBook #37039]
Most recently updated: June 30, 2017
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37039
Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Ron Stephens and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RED ROOM ***
Produced by Charlene Taylor, Ron Stephens and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
THE RED ROOM
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
IN MIDSUMMER DAYS
_5/-- nett_
"Strindberg at his cleverest and best,
and those who are interested in his
work should make a point of getting
the book."--_The Observer._
THE
RED ROOM
BY
AUGUST STRINDBERG
AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION
BY ELLIE SCHLEUSSNER
LONDON: HOWARD LATIMER. LTD
GREAT QUEEN STREET, KINGSWAY
MCMXIII
PRINTED BY
BALLANTYNE & COMPANY
LONDON LTD
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF STOCKHOLM 1
II. BETWEEN BROTHERS 15
III. THE ARTISTS' COLONY 24
IV. MASTER AND DOGS 38
V. AT THE PUBLISHER'S 59
VI. THE RED ROOM 70
VII. THE IMITATION OF CHRIST 87
VIII. POOR MOTHER COUNTRY 94
IX. BILLS OF EXCHANGE 107
X. THE NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE "GREY BONNET" 113
XI. HAPPY PEOPLE 124
XII. MARINE INSURANCE SOCIETY "TRITON" 135
XIII. DIVINE ORDINANCE 146
XIV. ABSINTH 156
XV. THE THEATRICAL COMPANY "PHOENIX" 169
XVI. IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS 182
XVII. NATURA.... 197
XVIII. NIHILISM 201
XIX. FROM CHURCHYARD TO PUBLIC-HOUSE 212
XX. ON THE ALTAR 226
XXI. A SOUL OVERBOARD 232
XXII. HARD TIMES 239
XXIII. AUDIENCES 247
XXIV. ON SWEDEN 254
XXV. CHECKMATE 273
XXVI. CORRESPONDENCE 290
XXVII. RECOVERY 299
XXVIII. FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE 304
XXIX. REVUE 314
XXX. EPILOGUE 324
CHAPTER I
A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF STOCKHOLM
It was an evening in the beginning of May. The little garden on "Moses
Height," on the south side of the town had not yet been thrown open to
the public, and the flower-beds were still unturned. The snowdrops had
worked through the accumulations of last year's dead leaves, and were
on the point of closing their short career and making room for the
crocuses which had found shelter under a barren pear tree; the elder
was waiting for a southerly wind before bursting into bloom, but the
tightly closed buds of the limes still offered cover for love-making to
the chaffinches, busily employed in building their lichen-covered nests
between trunk and branch. No human foot had trod the gravel paths since
last winter's snow had melted, and the free and easy life of beasts and
flowers was left undisturbed. The sparrows industriously collected all
manner of rubbish, and stowed it away under the tiles of the Navigation
School. They burdened themselves with scraps of the rocket-cases of
last autumn's fireworks, and picked the straw covers off the young
trees, transplanted from the nursery in the Deer Park only a year
ago--nothing escaped them. They discovered shreds of muslin in the
summer arbours; the splintered leg of a seat supplied them with tufts
of hair left on the battlefield by dogs which had not been fighting
there since Josephine's day. What a life it was!
The sun was standing over the Liljeholm, throwing sheaves of rays
towards the east; they pierced the columns of smoke of Bergsund,
flashed across the Riddarfjoerd, climbed to the cross of the Riddarholms
church, flung themselves on to the steep roof of the German church
opposite, toyed with the bunting displayed by the boats on the pontoon
bridge, sparkled in the windows of the chief custom-house, illuminated
the woods of the Liding Island, and died away in a rosy cloud far, far
away in the distance where the sea was. And from thence the wind came
and travelled back by the same way, over Vaxholm, past the fortress,
past the custom-house and along the Sikla Island, forcing its way in
behind the Haestarholm, glancing at the summer resorts; then out again
and on, on to the hospital Daniken; there it took fright and dashed
away in a headlong career along the southern shore, noticed the smell
of coal, tar and fish-oil, came dead against the city quay, rushed up
to Moses Height, swept into the garden and buffeted against a wall.
The wall was opened by a maid-servant, who, at the very moment, was
engaged in peeling off the paper pasted over the chinks of the double
windows; a terrible smell of dripping, beer dregs, pine needles, and
sawdust poured out and was carried away by the wind, while the maid
stood breathing the fresh air through her nostrils. It plucked the
cotton-wool, strewn with barberry berries, tinsel and rose leaves, from
the space between the windows and danced it along the paths, joined by
sparrows and chaffinches who saw here the solution of the greater part
of their housing problem.
Meanwhile, the maid continued her work at the double windows; in a few
minutes the door leading from the restaurant stood open, and a man,
well but plainly dressed, stepped out into the garden. There was
nothing striking about his face beyond a slight expression of care and
worry which disappeared as soon as he had emerged from the stuffy room
and caught sight of the wide horizon. He turned to the side from whence
the wind came, opened his overcoat, and repeatedly drew a deep breath
which seemed to relieve his heart and lungs. Then he began to stroll up
and down the barrier which separated the garden from the cliffs in the
direction of the sea.
Far below him lay the noisy, reawakening town; the steam cranes whirred
in the harbour, the iron bars rattled in the iron weighing machine, the
whistles of the lock-keepers shrilled, the steamers at the pontoon
bridge smoked, the omnibuses rumbled over the uneven paving-stones;
noise and uproar in the fish market, sails and flags on the water
outside; the screams of the sea-gulls, bugle-calls from the dockyard,
the turning out of the guard, the clattering of the wooden shoes of the
working-men--all this produced an impression of life and bustle, which
seemed to rouse the young man's energy; his face assumed an expression
of defiance, cheerfulness and resolution, and as he leaned over the
barrier and looked at the town below, he seemed to be watching an
enemy; his nostrils expanded, his eyes flashed, and he raised his
clenched fist as if he were challenging or threatening the poor town.
The bells of St. Catherine's chimed seven; the splenetic treble of St.
Mary's seconded; the basses of the great church, and the German church
joined in, and soon the air was vibrating with the sound made by the
seven bells of the town; then one after the other relapsed into
silence, until far away in the distance only the last one of them could
be heard singing its peaceful evensong; it had a higher note, a purer
tone and a quicker tempo than the others--yes, it had! He listened and
wondered whence the sound came, for it seemed to stir up vague memories
in him. All of a sudden his face relaxed and his features expressed the
misery of a forsaken child. And he was forsaken; his father and mother
were lying in the churchyard of St. Clara's, from whence the bell could
still be heard; and he was a child; he still believed in everything,
truth and fairy tales alike.
The bell of St. Clara's was silent, and the sound of footsteps on the
gravel path roused him from his reverie. A short man with side-whiskers
came towards him from the verandah; he wore spectacles, apparently more
for the sake of protecting his glances than his eyes, and his malicious
mouth was generally twisted into a kindly, almost benevolent,
expression. He was dressed in a neat overcoat with defective buttons, a
somewhat battered hat, and trousers hoisted at half-mast. His walk
indicated assurance as well as timidity. His whole appearance was so
indefinite that it was impossible to guess at his age or social
position. He might just as well have been an artisan as a government
official; his age was anything between twenty-nine and forty-five
years. He was obviously flattered to find himself in the company of the
man whom he had come to meet, for he raised his bulging hat with
unusual ceremony and smiled his kindliest smile.
"I hope you haven't been waiting, assessor?"
"Not for a second; it's only just struck seven. Thank you for coming. I
must confess that this meeting is of the greatest importance to me; I
might almost say it concerns my whole future, Mr. Struve."
"Bless me! Do you mean it?"
Mr. Struve blinked; he had come to drink a glass of toddy and was very
little inclined for a serious conversation. He had his reasons for
that.
"We shall be more undisturbed if we have our toddy outside, if you
don't mind," continued the assessor.
Mr. Struve stroked his right whisker, put his hat carefully on his head
and thanked the assessor for his invitation; but he looked uneasy.
"To begin with, I must ask you to drop the 'assessor,'" began the young
man. "I've never been more than a regular assistant, and I cease to be
even that from to-day; I'm Mr. Falk, nothing else."
"What?"
Mr. Struve looked as if he had lost a distinguished friend, but he kept
his temper.
"You're a man with liberal tendencies...."
Mr. Struve tried to explain himself, but Falk continued:
"I asked you to meet me here in your character of contributor to the
liberal _Red Cap_."
"Good heavens! I'm such a very unimportant contributor...."
"I've read your thundering articles on the working man's question, and
all other questions which nearly concern us. We're in the year three,
in Roman figures, for it is now the third year of the new Parliament,
and soon our hopes will have become realities. I've read your excellent
biographies of our leading politicians in the _Peasant's Friend_, the
lives of those men of the people, who have at last been allowed to
voice what oppressed them for so long; you're a man of progress and
I've a great respect for you."
Struve, whose eyes had grown dull instead of kindling at the fervent
words, seized with pleasure the proffered safety-valve.
"I must admit," he said eagerly, "that I'm immensely pleased to find
myself appreciated by a young and--I must say it--excellent man like
you, assessor; but, on the other hand, why talk of such grave, not to
say sad things, when we're sitting here, in the lap of nature, on the
first day of spring, while all the buds are bursting and the sun is
pouring his warmth on the whole creation! Let's snap our fingers at
care and drink our glass in peace. Excuse me--I believe I'm your
senior--and--I venture--to propose therefore...."
Falk, who like a flint had gone out in search of steel, realized that
he had struck wood. He accepted the proposal without eagerness. And the
new brothers sat side by side, and all they had to tell each other was
the disappointment expressed in their faces.
"I mentioned a little while ago," Falk resumed, "that I've broken
to-day with my past life and thrown up my career as a government
employe. I'll only add that I intend taking up literature."
"Literature? Good Heavens! Why? Oh, but that _is_ a pity!"
"It isn't; but I want you to tell me how to set about finding work."
"H'm! That's really difficult to say. The profession is crowded with so
many people of all sorts. But you mustn't think of it. It really is a
pity to spoil your career; the literary profession is a bad one."
Struve looked sorry, but he could not hide a certain satisfaction at
having met a friend in misfortune.
"But tell me," he continued, "Why are you throwing up a career which
promises a man honours as well as influence?"
"Honours to those who have usurped the power, and influence to the most
unscrupulous."
"Stuff! It isn't really as bad as all that?"
"Isn't it? Well, then I must speak more plainly. I'll show you the
inner working of one of the six departments for which I had put down.
The first five I left at once for the very simple reason that there was
no room for me. Whenever I went and asked whether there was anything
for me to do, I was told No! And I never saw anybody doing anything.
And that was in the busy departments, like the Committee on Brandy
Distilleries, the Direct Taxation Office and The Board of
Administration of Employes' Pensions. But when I noticed the swarming
crowd of officials, the idea struck me that the department which had to
pay out all the salaries must surely be very busy indeed. I therefore
put my name down for the Board of Payment of Employes' Salaries."
"And did you go there?" asked Struve, beginning to feel interested.
"Yes. I shall never forget the great impression made on me by my visit
to this thoroughly well-organized department. I went there at eleven
o'clock one morning, because this is supposed to be the time when the
offices open. In the waiting-room I found two young messengers
sprawling on a table, on their stomachs, reading the _Fatherland_."
"The '_Fatherland_'?"
Struve, who had up to the present been feeding the sparrows with sugar,
pricked up his ears.
"Yes. I said 'good morning.' A feeble wriggling of the gentlemen's
backs indicated that they accepted my good morning without any decided
displeasure; one of them even went to the length of waggling the heel
of his right foot, which might have been intended as a substitute for a
handshake. I asked whether either of the gentlemen were disengaged and
could show me the offices. Both of them declared that they were unable
to do so, because their orders were not to leave the waiting-room. I
inquired whether there were any other messengers. Yes, there were
others. But the chief messenger was away on a holiday; the first
messenger was on leave; the second was not on duty; the third had gone
to the post; the fourth was ill; the fifth had gone to fetch some
drinking water; the sixth was in the yard 'where he remained all day
long'; moreover, no official ever arrived before one o'clock. This was
a hint to me that my early, inconvenient visit was not good form, and
at the same time a reminder that the messengers, also, were government
employes.
"But when I stated that I was firmly resolved on seeing the offices, so
as to gain an idea of the division of labour in so important and
comprehensive a department, the younger of the two consented to come
with me. When he opened the door I had a magnificent view of a suite of
sixteen rooms of various sizes. There must be work here, I thought,
congratulating myself on my happy idea of coming. The crackling of
sixteen birchwood fires in sixteen tiled stoves interrupted in the
pleasantest manner the solitude of the place."
Struve, who had become more and more interested fumbled for a pencil
between the material and lining of his waistcoat, and wrote "16" on his
left cuff.
"'This is the adjuncts' room,' explained the messenger.
"'I see! Are there many adjuncts in this department?' I asked.
"'Oh, yes! More than enough!'"
"'What do they do all day long?'"
"'Oh! They write, of course, a little....'"
"He was speaking familiarly, so that I thought it time to interrupt
him. After wandering through the copyists', the notaries', the clerk's,
the controller's and his secretary's, the reviser's and his
secretary's, the public prosecutor's, the registrar of the exchequer's,
the master of the rolls' and the librarian's, the treasurer's, the
cashier's, the procurator's, the protonotary's, the keeper of the
minutes', the actuary's, the keeper of the records', the secretary's,
the first clerk's, and the head of the department's rooms, we came to a
door which bore in gilt letters the words: 'The President.' I was going
to open the door but the messenger stopped me; genuinely uneasy, he
seized my arm and whispered: 'Shsh!'--'Is he asleep?' I asked, my
thoughts busy with an old rumour. 'For God's sake, be quiet! No one may
enter here unless the president rings the bell.' 'Does he often ring?'
'No, I've never heard him ringing in my time, and I've been here twelve
months.' He was again inclined to be familiar, so I said no more.
"About noon the adjuncts began to arrive, and to my amazement I found
in them nothing but old friends from the Committee on Brandy
Distilleries, and the Board of Administration of Employes' Pensions. My
amazement grew when the registrar from the Inland Revenue Office
strolled into the actuary's room, and made himself as comfortable in
his easy-chair as he used to do in the Inland Revenue Office.
"I took one of the young men aside and asked him whether it would not
be advisable for me to call on the president. 'Shsh!' was his
mysterious reply, while he took me into room No. 8. Again this
mysterious shsh!
"The room which we had just entered was quite as dark as the rest of
them, but it was much dirtier. The horsehair stuffing was bursting
through the leather covering of the furniture; thick dust lay on the
writing-table; by the side of an inkstand, in which the ink had dried
long ago, lay an unused stick of sealing-wax with the former owner's
name marked on it in Anglo-Saxon letters; in addition there was a pair
of paper shears whose blades were held together by rust; a date rack
which had not been turned since midsummer five years ago; a State
directory five years old; a sheet of blotting-paper with Julius Caesar,
Julius Caesar, Julius Caesar written all over it, a hundred times at
least, alternating with as many Father Noahs.
"'This is the office of the Master of the Rolls; we shall be
undisturbed here,' said my friend.
"'Doesn't the Master of the Rolls come here, then?' I asked.
"'He hasn't been here these five years, and now he's ashamed to turn
up.'
"'But who does his work?'
"'The librarian.'
"'But what is his work in a department like the Board of Payment of
Employes' Salaries?'
"'The messengers sort the receipts, chronologically and alphabetically,
and send them to the book-binders; the librarian supervises their being
placed on shelves specially adapted for the purpose.'"
The conversation now seemed to amuse Struve; he scribbled a word every
now and then on his cuff, and as Falk paused he thought it incumbent on
him to ask an important question.
"But how did the Master of the Rolls get his salary?"
"It was sent to his private address. Wasn't that simple enough?
However, my young friend advised me to present myself to the actuary
and ask him to introduce me to the other employes who were now dropping
in to poke the fires in their tiled stoves and enjoy the last glimmer
of the glowing wood. My friend told me that the actuary was an
influential and good-natured individual, very susceptible to little
courtesies.
"I, who had come across him in his character as Registrar of the
Exchequer, had formed a different opinion of him, but believing that my
friend knew better, I went to see him.
"The redoubtable actuary sat in a capacious easy-chair with his feet on
a reindeer skin. He was engaged in seasoning a real meerschaum pipe,
sewn up in soft leather. So as not to appear idle, he was glancing at
yesterday's _Post_, acquainting himself in this way with the wishes of
the Government.
"My entrance seemed to annoy him; he pushed his spectacles on to his
bald head; hiding his right eye behind the edge of the newspaper, he
shot a conical bullet at me with the left. I proffered my request. He
took the mouthpiece of his meerschaum into his right hand and examined
it to find out how far he had coloured it. The dreadful silence which
followed confirmed my apprehensions. He cleared his throat; there was a
loud, hissing noise in the heap of glowing coal. Then he remembered the
newspaper and continued his perusal of it. I judged it wise to repeat
my request in a different form. He lost his temper. 'What the devil do
you want? What are you doing in my room? Can't I have peace in my own
quarters? What? Get out, get out, get out! sir, I say! Can't you see
that I'm busy. Go to the protonotary if you want anything! Don't come
here bothering me!'
"I went to the protonotary.
"The Committee of Supplies was sitting; it had been sitting for three
weeks already. The protonotary was in the chair and three clerks were
keeping the minutes. The samples sent in by the purveyors lay scattered
about on the tables, round which all disengaged clerks, copyists and
notaries were assembled. In spite of much diversity of opinion, it had
been agreed to order twenty reams of Lessebo paper, and after
repeatedly testing their cutting capacity, the purchase of forty-eight
pairs of Grantorp scissors, which had been awarded a prize, had been
decided on. (The actuary held twenty-five shares in this concern.) The
test writing with the steel nibs had taken a whole week, and the
minutes concerning it had taken up two reams of paper. It was now the
turn of the penknives, and the committee was intent on testing them on
the leaves of the black table.
"'I propose ordering Sheffield doubleblades No. 4, without a
corkscrew,' said the protonotary, cutting a splinter off the table
large enough to light a fire with. 'What does the first notary say?'
"The first notary, who had cut too deeply into the table, had come
across a nail and damaged an Eskilstuna No. 2, with three blades,
suggested buying the latter.
"After everybody had given his opinion and alleged reasons for holding
it, adding practical tests, the chairman suggested buying two gross of
Sheffields.
"But the first notary protested, and delivered a long speech, which was
taken down on record, copied out twice, registered, sorted
(alphabetically and chronologically), bound and placed by the
messenger--under the librarian's supervision--on a specially adapted
shelf. This protest displayed a warm, patriotic feeling; its principal
object was the demonstration of the necessity of encouraging home
industries.
"But this being equivalent to a charge brought against the
Government--seeing that it was brought against one of its employes--the
protonotary felt it his duty to meet it. He started with a historical
digression on the origin of the discount on manufactured goods--at the
word discount all the adjuncts pricked up their ears--touched on the
economic developments of the country during the last twenty years, and
went into such minute details that the clock on the Riddarholms church
struck two before he had arrived at his subject. At the fatal stroke of
the clock the whole assembly rushed from their places as if a fire had
broken out. When I asked a colleague what it all meant, the old notary,
who had heard my question, replied: 'The primary duty of a Government
employe is punctuality, sir!' At two minutes past two not a soul was
left in one of the rooms.
"'We shall have a hot day to-morrow,' whispered a colleague, as we went
downstairs. 'What in the name of fortune is going to happen?' I asked
uneasily. 'Lead pencils,' he replied. There were hot days in store for
us. Sealing-wax, envelopes, paper-knives, blotting-paper, string.
Still, it might all be allowed to pass, for every one was occupied. But
a day came when there was nothing to do. I took my courage in my hands
and asked for work. I was given seven reams of paper for making fair
copies at home, a feat by which 'I should deserve well of my country.'
I did my work in a very short time, but instead of receiving
appreciation and encouragement, I was treated with suspicion;
industrious people were not in favour. Since then I've had no work.
"I'll spare you the tedious recital of a year's humiliations, the
countless taunts, the endless bitterness. Everything which appeared
small and ridiculous to me was treated with grave solemnity, and
everything which I considered great and praiseworthy was scoffed at.
The people were called 'the mob,' and their only use was to be shot at
by the army if occasion should arise. The new form of government was
openly reviled and the peasants were called traitors.[A]"
[A] Since the great reorganization of the public offices, this
description is no longer true to life.
"I had to listen to this sort of thing for seven months; they began to
suspect me because I didn't join in their laughter, and challenged me.
Next time the 'opposition dogs' were attacked, I exploded and made a
speech, the result of which was that they knew where I stood, and that
I was henceforth impossible. And now I shall do what so many other
shipwrecks have done: I shall throw myself into the arms of
literature."
Struve, who seemed dissatisfied with the truncated ending, put the
pencil back, sipped his toddy and looked absent-minded. Nevertheless,
he thought he ought to say something.
"My dear fellow," he remarked at last, "you haven't yet learned the art
of living; you will find out how difficult it is to earn bread and
butter, and how it gradually becomes the main interest. One works to
eat and eats to be able to work. Believe me, who have wife and child,
that I know what I'm talking about. You must cut your coat according to
your cloth, you see--according to your cloth. And you've no idea what
the position of a writer is. He stands outside society."
"His punishment for aspiring to stand above it. Moreover, I detest
society, for it is not founded on a voluntary basis. It's a web of
lies--I renounce it with pleasure."
"It's beginning to grow chilly," said Struve.
"Yes; shall we go?"
"Perhaps we'd better."
The flame of conversation had flickered out.
Meanwhile the sun had set; the half moon had risen and hung over the
fields to the north of the town. Star after star struggled with the
daylight which still lingered in the sky; the gas-lamps were being
lighted in the town; the noise and uproar was beginning to die away.
Falk and Struve walked together in the direction of the north, talking
of commerce, navigation, the crafts, everything in fact which did not
interest them; finally, to each other's relief, they parted.
Falk strolled down River Street towards the dockyard, his brain
pregnant with new thoughts. He felt like a bird which had flown against
a window-pane and now lay bruised on the ground at the very moment when
it had spread its wings to fly towards freedom. He sat down on a seat,
listening to the splashing of the waves; a light breeze had sprung up
and rustled through the flowering maple trees, and the faint light of
the half moon shone on the black water; twenty, thirty boats lay moored
on the quay; they tore at their chains for a moment, raised their
heads, one after the other, and dived down again, underneath the water;
wind and wave seemed to drive them onward; they made little runs
towards the bridge like a pack of hounds, but the chain held them in
leash and left them kicking and stamping, as if they were eager to
break loose.
He remained in his seat till midnight; the wind fell asleep, the waves
went to rest, the fettered boats ceased tugging at their chains; the
maples stopped rustling, and the dew was beginning to fall.
Then he rose and strolled home, dreaming, to his lonely attic in the
north-eastern part of the town.
That is what young Falk did; but old Struve, who on the same day had
become a member of the staff of the _Grey Bonnet_, because the _Red
Cap_ had sacked him, went home and wrote an article for the notorious
_People's Flag_, on the Board of Payment of Employes' Salaries, four
columns at five crowns a column.
CHAPTER II
BETWEEN BROTHERS
The flax merchant, Charles Nicholas Falk--son of the late flax
merchant, one of the fifty elders of the burgesses, captain of the
infantry of militia, vestryman and member of the Board of
Administration of the Stockholm Fire Insurance, Charles John Falk, and
brother of the former assessor and present writer, Arvid Falk--had a
business or, as his enemies preferred to call it, a shop in Long Street
East, nearly opposite Pig Street, so that the young man who sat behind
the counter, surreptitiously reading a novel, could see a piece of a
steamer, the paddle-box perhaps, or the jib-boom, and the crown of a
tree on Skeppsholm, with a patch of sky above it, whenever he raised
his eyes from his book.
The shop assistant, who answered to the not unusual name of Andersson,
and he had learnt to answer to it, had just--it was early in the
morning--opened the shop, hung up outside the door a flax tress, a fish
and an eel basket, a bundle of fishing-rods, and a crawl of unstripped
quills; this done, he had swept the shop, strewn the floor with
sawdust, and sat down behind the counter. He had converted an empty
candle-box into a kind of mouse-trap, which he set with a hooked stick;
immediately on the appearance of his principal, or any of the latter's
friends, the novel on which Andersson was intent dropped into the box.
He did not seem afraid of customers; for one thing it was early in the
morning and for another he was not used to very many customers.
The business had been established in the days of the late King
Frederick--Charles Nicholas Falk had inherited this statement from his
father, to whom it had descended from his grandfather; it had
flourished and earned a good deal of money until a few years ago; but
the disastrous chamber-system killed trade, ruined all prospects,
impeded all enterprise, and threatened all citizens with bankruptcy.
So, at least, Falk said; others were inclined to believe that the
business was mismanaged; to say nothing of the fact that a dangerous
competitor had established himself close to the lock. Falk never talked
of the decline of the business if he could help it, and he was shrewd
enough carefully to choose occasion and audience whenever he touched
upon _that_ string. If an old business connexion expressed surprise, in
a friendly way, at the reduced trade, he told him that his principal
business was a wholesale trade in the provinces, and that he was
looking upon the shop merely in the light of a sign-board; nobody
doubted this, for he had, behind the shop, a small counting-house where
he generally could be found when he was not in town or at the Exchange.
But it was quite another tale if any of his acquaintances, such as the
notary or the schoolmaster, for instance, expressed the same friendly
uneasiness. Then he blamed the bad times, the result of the new
chamber-system; this alone was to blame for the stagnation of trade.
Andersson was disturbed in his reading by two or three boys who were
standing in the doorway, asking the price of the fishing-rods. Looking
out into the street he caught sight of our Mr. Arvid Falk. Falk had
lent him the book, so that it could safely be left on the counter; and
as his former playfellow entered the shop, he greeted him familiarly,
with a knowing look.
"Is he upstairs?" asked Falk, not without a certain uneasiness.
"He's at breakfast," replied Andersson, pointing to the ceiling.
A chair was pushed back on the floor above their heads.
"He's got up from the table now, Mr. Arvid."
Both young men seemed familiar with the noise and its purport. Heavy,
creaking footsteps crossed the floor, apparently in all directions, and
a subdued murmur penetrated through the ceiling to the listeners below.
"Was he at home last night?" asked Falk.
"No, he was out."
"With friends or acquaintances?"
"Acquaintances."
"Did he come home late?"
"Very late."
"Do you think he'll be coming down soon, Andersson? I don't want to go
upstairs on account of my sister-in-law."
"He'll be here directly; I can tell by his footsteps."
A door slammed upstairs; they looked at each other significantly. Arvid
made a movement towards the door, but pulled himself together.
A few moments later they heard sounds in the counting-house. A violent
cough shook the little room and then came the well-known footsteps,
saying: stamp--stamp, stamp--stamp!
Arvid went behind the counter and knocked at the door of the
counting-house.
"Come in!"
He stood before his brother, a man of forty who looked his age. He was
fifteen years older than Arvid, and for that and other reasons he had
accustomed himself to look upon his younger brother as a boy towards
whom he acted as a father. He had fair hair, a fair moustache, fair
eyebrows, and eye-lashes. He was rather stout, and that was the reason
why his boots always creaked; they groaned under the weight of his
thick-set figure.
"Oh, it's only you?" he said with good-natured contempt. This attitude
of mind was typical of the man; he was never angry with those who for
some reason or other could be considered his inferiors; he despised
them. But his face expressed disappointment; he had expected a more
satisfactory subject for an outburst; his brother was shy and modest,
and never offered resistance if he could possibly help it.
"I hope I'm not inconveniencing you, brother Charles?" asked Arvid,
standing on the threshold. This humble question disposed the brother to
show benevolence. He helped himself to a cigar from his big,
embroidered leather cigar-case, offering his brother a smoke from a box
which stood near the fire-place; that boxful--visitors' cigars, as he
frankly called them, and he was of a candid disposition--had been
through a shipwreck, which made them interesting, but did not improve
them, and a sale by auction on the strand, which had made them very
cheap.
"Well, what is it you want?" asked Charles Nicholas, lighting his
cigar, and absent-mindedly putting the match into his pocket--he could
only concentrate his thoughts on one spot inside a not very large
circumference; his tailor could have expressed the size of it in inches
after measuring him round the stomach.
"I want to talk business with you," answered Arvid, fingering his
unlighted cigar.
"Sit down!" commanded the brother.
It was customary with him to ask people to sit down whenever he
intended to take them to task; he had them under him, then, and it was
more easy to crush them--if necessary.
"Business? Are we doing business together?" he began. "I don't know
anything about it. Are you doing business? Are you?"
"I only meant to say that I should like to know whether there's
anything more coming to me?"
"What, may I ask? Do you mean money?" said Charles Nicholas,
jestingly, allowing his brother to enjoy the scent of his good cigar.
As the reply, which he did not want, was not forthcoming, he went on:
"Coming to you? Haven't you received everything due to you? Haven't you
yourself receipted the account for the Court of Wards? Haven't I kept
and clothed you since--to be strictly correct, haven't I made you a
loan, according to your own wish, to be paid back when you are able to
do so? I've put it all down, in readiness for the day when you will be
earning your livelihood, a thing which you've not done yet."
"I'm going to do it now, and that's why I'm here. I wanted to know
whether there's still anything owing to me, or whether I am in debt."
The brother cast a penetrating look at his victim, wondering whether he
had any mental reservations. His creaking boots began stamping the
floor on a diagonal line between spittoon and umbrella-stand; the
trinkets on his watch-chain tinkled, a warning to people not to cross
his way; the smoke of his cigar rose and lay in long, ominous clouds,
portentous of a thunderstorm, between tiled stove and door. He paced up
and down the room furiously, his head bowed, his shoulders rounded, as
if he were rehearsing a part. When he thought he knew it, he stopped
short before his brother, gazed into his eyes with a long, glinting,
deceitful look, intended to express both confidence and sorrow, and
said, in a voice meant to sound as if it came from the family grave in
the churchyard of St. Clara's:
"You're not straight, Arvid; you're not straight."
Who, with the exception of Andersson, who was standing behind the door,
listening, would not have been touched by those words, spoken by a
brother to a brother, fraught with the deepest brotherly sorrow? Even
Arvid, accustomed from his childhood to believe all men perfect and
himself alone unworthy, wondered for a moment whether he was straight
or not? And as his education, by efficacious means, had provided him
with a highly sensitive conscience, he found that he really had not
been quite straight, or at least quite frank, when he asked his brother
the not-altogether candid question as to whether he wasn't a scoundrel.
"I've come to the conclusion," he said, "that you cheated me out of a
part of my inheritance; I've calculated that you charged too much for
your inferior board and your cast-off clothes; I know that I didn't
spend all my fortune during my terrible college days, and I believe
that you owe me a fairly big sum; I want it now, and I request you to
hand it over to me."
A smile illuminated the brother's fair face, and with an expression so
calm and a gesture so steady, that he might have been rehearsing them
for years, so as to be in readiness when his cue was given to him, he
put his hand in his trousers pocket, rattled his bunch of keys before
taking it out, threw it up and dexterously caught it again, and walked
solemnly to his safe. He opened it more quickly than he intended and,
perhaps, than the sacredness of the spot justified, took out a paper
lying ready to his hand and evidently also waiting for its cue, and
handed it to his brother.
"Did you write this? Answer me! Did you write it?"
"Yes!"
Arvid rose and turned towards the door.
"Don't go! Sit down! Sit down!"
If a dog had been present it would have sat down at once.
"What's written here? Read it! 'I, Arvid Falk, acknowledge and
testify--that--I--have received from my brother, Charles Nicholas
Falk--who was appointed my guardian--my inheritance in full--amounting
to--' and so on." He was ashamed to mention the sum.
"You have acknowledged and testified a fact which you did not believe.
Is that straight? No, answer my question! Is that straight? No!
Therefore you have borne false witness. Ergo--you're a blackguard! Yes,
that's what you are! Am I right?"
The part was too excellent and the triumph too great to be enjoyed
without an audience. The innocently accused must have witnesses. He
opened the door leading into the shop.
"Andersson!" he shouted, "answer this question! Listen to me! If I bear
false witness, am I a blackguard or not?"
"Of course, you are a blackguard, sir!" Andersson answered
unhesitatingly and with warmth.
"Do you hear? He says I'm a blackguard--if I put my signature to a
false receipt. What did I say? You're not straight, Arvid, you are not
straight. Good-natured people often are blackguards; you have always
been good-natured and yielding, but I've always been aware that in your
secret heart you harboured very different thoughts; you're a
blackguard! Your father always said so; I say 'said,' for he always
said what he thought, and he was a straight man, Arvid, and
that--you--are--not! And you may be sure that if he were still alive he
would say with grief and pain: 'You're not straight, Arvid,
you--are--not--straight!'"
He did a few more diagonal lines and it sounded as if he were
applauding the scene with his feet; he rattled his bunch of keys as if
he were giving the signal for the curtain to rise. His closing remarks
had been so rounded off that the smallest addition would have spoilt
the whole. In spite of the heavy charge which he had actually expected
for years--for he had always believed his brother to be acting a
part--he was very glad that it was over, happily over, well and
cleverly over, so that he felt almost gay and even a little grateful.
Moreover he had had a splendid chance of venting the wrath which had
been kindled upstairs, in his family, on some one; to vent it on
Andersson had lost its charm; and he knew better than to vent it on his
wife.
Arvid was silent; the education he had received had so intimidated him
that he always believed himself to be in the wrong; since his childhood
the great words "upright, honest, sincere, true," had daily and hourly
been drummed into his ears, so that they stood before him like a judge,
continuously saying: "Guilty...." For a moment he thought that he must
have been mistaken in his calculations, that his brother must be
innocent and he himself a scoundrel; but immediately after he realized
that his brother was a cheat, deceiving him by a simple lawyer's trick.
He felt prompted to run away, fearful of being drawn into a quarrel, to
run away without making his request number two, and confessing that he
was on the point of changing his profession.
There was a long pause. Charles Nicholas had plenty of time to
recapitulate his triumph in his memory. That little word "blackguard"
had done his tongue good. It had been as pleasant as if he had said
"Get out!" And the opening of the door, Andersson's reply, and the
production of the paper, everything had passed off splendidly; he had
not forgotten the bunch of keys on his night-table; he had turned the
key in the lock without any difficulty; his proof was binding as a
rope, the conclusion he had drawn had been the baited hook by which the
fish had been caught.
He had regained his good temper; he had forgiven, nay, he had
forgotten, and as he slammed the door of the safe, he shut away the
disagreeable story for ever.
But he did not want to part from his brother in this mood; he wanted to
talk to him on other subjects; throw a few shovelfuls of gossip on the
unpleasant affair, see him under commonplace circumstances, sitting at
his table, for instance--and why not eating and drinking? People always
looked happy and content when they were eating and drinking; he wanted
so see him happy and content. He wanted to see his face calm, listen to
his voice speaking without a tremor, and he resolved to ask him to
luncheon. But he felt puzzled how to lead up to it, find a suitable
bridge across the gulf. He searched his brain, but found nothing. He
searched his pockets and found--the match.
"Hang it all, you've never lit your cigar, old boy!" he exclaimed with
genuine, not feigned, warmth.
But the old boy had crushed his cigar during the conversation, so that
it would not draw.
"Look here! Take another!" and he pulled out his big leather case.
"Here! Take one of these! They are good ones!"
Arvid, who, unfortunately, could not bear to hurt anybody's feelings,
accepted it gratefully, like a hand offered in reconciliation.
"Now, old boy," continued Charles Nicholas, talking lightly and
pleasantly, an accomplishment at which he was an expert. "Let's go to
the nearest restaurant and have lunch. Come along!"
Arvid, unused to friendliness, was so touched by these advances that he
hastily pressed his brother's hand and hurried away through the shop
without taking any notice of Andersson, and out into the street.
The brother felt embarrassed; he could not understand it. To run away
when he had been asked to lunch! To run away when he was not in the
least angry with him! To run away! No dog would have run away if a
piece of meat had been thrown to him!
"He's a queer chap!" he muttered, stamping the floor. Then he went to
his desk, screwed up the seat of his chair as high as it would go and
climbed up. From this raised position he was in the habit of
contemplating men and circumstances as from a higher point of view, and
he found them small; yet not so small that he could not use them for
his purposes.
CHAPTER III
THE ARTISTS' COLONY
It was between eight and nine o'clock on the same beautiful May
morning. Arvid Falk, after the scene with his brother, was strolling
through the streets, dissatisfied with himself, his brother, and the
whole world. He would have preferred to see the sky overcast, to be in
bad company. He did not believe that he was a blackguard, but he was
disappointed with the part he had played; he was accustomed to be
severe on himself, and it had always been drummed into him that his
brother was a kind of stepfather to whom he owed great respect, not to
say reverence. But he was worried and depressed by other thoughts as
well. He had neither money nor prospect of work. The last contingency
was, perhaps, the worse of the two, for to him, with his exuberant
imagination, idleness was a dangerous enemy.
Brooding over these disagreeable facts, he had reached Little Garden
Street; he sauntered along, on the left pavement, passed the Dramatic
Theatre, and soon reached High Street North. He walked on aimlessly;
the pavement became uneven; wooden cottages took the place of the stone
houses; badly dressed men and women were throwing suspicious glances at
the well-dressed stranger who was visiting their quarter at such an
early hour; famished dogs growled threateningly at him. He hastened
past groups of gunners, labourers, brewers' men, laundresses, and
apprentices, and finally came to Great Hop-Garden Street. He entered
the Hop-Garden. The cows belonging to the Inspector-General of
Ordnance were grazing in the fields; the old, bare apple trees were
making the first efforts to put forth buds; but the lime trees were
already in leaf and squirrels were playing up and down the branches. He
passed the merry-go-round and came to the avenue leading to the
theatre; here he met some truant schoolboys engaged in a game of
buttons; a little further a painter's apprentice was lying in the grass
on his back staring at the clouds through the dome of foliage; he was
whistling carelessly, indifferent to the fact that master and men were
waiting for him, while flies and other insects drowned themselves in
his paint-pots.
Falk had walked to the top of the hill and had come to the duck-pond;
he stood still for a while, studying the metamorphoses of the frogs;
watching the leeches; catching a water-spider. Then he began to throw
stones. The exercise brought his blood into circulation; he felt
rejuvenated, a schoolboy playing truant, free, defiantly free! It was
freedom bought by great self-sacrifice. The thought of being able to
commune with nature freely and at will, made him glad; he understood
nature better than men who had only ill-treated and slandered him; his
unrest disappeared; he rose and continued his way further into the
country.
Walking through the Cross, he came into Hop-Garden Street North. Some
of the boards were missing in the fence facing him, and there was a
very plainly marked footpath on the other side. He crept through the
hole, disturbing an old woman who was gathering nettles, crossed the
large tobacco field where a colony of villas has now sprung up, and
found himself at the gate of "Lill-Jans."
There was no doubt of its being spring in the little settlement,
consisting of three cottages snugly nestling among elders and apple
trees, and sheltered from the north wind by the pine-wood on the other
side of the High Road. The visitor was regaled with a perfect little
idyll. A cock, perched on the shafts of a watercart, was basking in
the sun and catching flies, the bees hung in a cloud round the
bee-hives, the gardener was kneeling by the hot-beds, sorting radishes;
the warblers and brand-tails were singing in the gooseberry bushes,
while lightly clad children chased the fowls bent on examining the
germinative capacity of various newly sown seeds. A brilliant blue sky
spanned the scene and the dark forest framed the background.
Two men were sitting close to the hot-beds, in the shelter of the
fence. One of them, wearing a tall, black hat and a threadbare, black
suit, had a long, narrow, pale face, and looked like a clergyman. With
his stout but deformed body, drooping eyelids, and Mongolian moustache,
the other one belonged to the type of civilized peasant. He was very
badly dressed and might have been many things: a vagabond, an artisan,
or an artist; he looked seedy, but seedy in an original way.
The lean man, who obviously felt chilly, although he sat right in the
sun, was reading to his friend from a book; the latter looked as though
he had tried all the climates of the earth and was able to stand them
all equally well.
As Falk entered the garden gate from the high road, he could distinctly
hear the reader's words through the fence, and he thought it no breach
of confidence to stand still for a while and listen.
The lean man was reading in a dry, monotonous voice, a voice without
resonance, and his stout friend every now and then acknowledged his
appreciation by a snort which changed occasionally into a grunt and
became a splutter whenever the words of wisdom to which he was
listening surpassed ordinary human understanding.
"'The highest principles are, as already stated, three; one, absolutely
unconditioned, and two, relatively unconditioned ones. _Pro primo_: the
absolutely first, purely unconditioned principle, would express the
action underlying all consciousness and without which consciousness
cannot exist. This principle is the identity A--A. It endures and
cannot be disposed of by thought when all empirical definitions of
consciousness are prescinded. It is the original fact of consciousness
and must therefore, of necessity, be acknowledged. Moreover, it is not
conditioned like every other empirical fact, but as consequence and
substance of a voluntary act entirely unconditioned.'"
"Do you follow, Olle?" asked the reader, interrupting himself.
"It's amazing! It is not conditioned like every other empirical fact.
Oh! What a man! Go on! Go on!"
"'If it is maintained,'" continued the reader, "'that this proposition
without any further proof be true....'"
"Oh! I say! What a rascal! without any further proof be true," repeated
the grateful listener, bent on dissipating all suspicion that he had
not grasped what had been read, "without any _further_ reason, how
subtle, how subtle of him to say that instead of simply saying 'without
any reason.'"
"Am I to continue? Or do you intend to go on interrupting me?" asked
the offended reader.
"I won't interrupt again. Go on! Go on!"
"Well, now he draws the conclusion (really excellent): 'If one ascribes
to oneself the ability to state a proposition----'"
Olle snorted.
"'One does not propose thereby A (capital A), but merely that A--A, if
and in so far as A exists at all. It is not a question of the essence
of an assertion but only of its form. The proposition A--A is therefore
conditioned (hypothetically) as far as its essence is concerned, and
unconditioned only as far as its form goes.'
"Have you noticed the capital A?"
Falk had heard enough; this was the terribly profound philosophy of
Upsala, which had strayed to Stockholm to conquer and subdue the
coarse instincts of the capital. He looked at the fowls to see whether
they had not tumbled off their roosts; at the parsley whether it had
not stopped growing while made to listen to the profoundest wisdom ever
proclaimed by human voice at Lill-Jans; he was surprised to find that
the sky had not fallen after witnessing such a feat of mental strength.
At the same time his base human nature clamoured for attention: his
throat was parched, and he decided to ask for a glass of water at one
of the cottages.
Turning back he strolled towards the hut on the right-hand side of the
road, coming from town. The door leading into a large room--once a
bakery--from an entrance-hall the size of a travelling trunk, stood
open. The room contained a bed-sofa, a broken chair, an easel, and two
men. One of them, wearing only a shirt and a pair of trousers kept up
by a leather belt, was standing before the easel. He looked like a
journeyman, but he was an artist making a sketch for an altar-piece.
The other man was a youth with clear-cut features and, considering his
environment, well-made clothes. He had taken off his coat, turned back
his shirt and was serving as the artist's model. His handsome, noble
face showed traces of a night of dissipation, and every now and then he
dozed, each time reprimanded by the master who seemed to have taken him
under his protection. As Falk was entering the room he heard the burden
of one of these reprimands:
"That you should make such a hog of yourself and spend the night
drinking with that loafer Sellen, and now be standing here wasting your
time instead of being at the Commercial School! The right shoulder a
little higher, please; that's better! Is it true that you've spent all
the money for your rent and daren't go home? Have you nothing left? Not
one farthing?"
"I still have some, but it won't go far." The young man pulled a scrap
of paper out of his trousers pocket, and straightening it out, produced
two notes for a crown each.
"Give them to me, I'll take care of them for you," exclaimed the
master, seizing them with fatherly solicitude.
Falk, who had vainly tried to attract their attention, thought it best
to depart as quietly as he had come. Once more passing the manure heap
and the two philosophers, he turned to the left. He had not gone far
when he caught sight of a young man who had put up his easel at the
edge of a little bog planted with alder trees, close to the wood. He
had a graceful, slight, almost elegant figure, and a thin, dark face.
He seemed to scintillate life as he stood before his easel, working at
a fine picture. He had taken off his coat and hat and appeared to be in
excellent health and spirits; alternately talking to himself and
whistling or humming snatches of song.
When Falk was near enough to have him in profile he turned round.
"Sellen! Good morning, old chap!"
"Falk! Fancy meeting you out here in the wood! What the deuce does it,
mean? Oughtn't you to be at your office at this time of day?"
"No! But are you living out here?"
"Yes; I came here on the first of April with some pals. Found life in
town too expensive--and, moreover, landlords are so particular."
A sly smile played about one of the corners of his mouth and his brown
eyes flashed.
"I see," Falk began again; "then perhaps you know the two individuals
who were sitting by the hot-beds just now, reading?"
"The philosophers? Of course, I do! The tall one is an assistant at the
Public Sales Office at a salary of eighty crowns per annum, and the
short one, Olle Montanus, ought to be at home at his sculpture--but
since he and Ygberg have taken up philosophy, he has left off working
and is fast going down hill. He has discovered that there is something
sensual in art."
"What's he living on?"
"On nothing at all! Occasionally he sits to the practical Lundell and
then he gets a piece of black pudding. This lasts him for about a day.
In the winter Lundell lets him lie on his floor; 'he helps to warm the
room,' he says, and wood is very dear; it was very cold here in April."
"How can he be a model? He looks such a God-help-me sort of chap."
"He poses for one of the thieves in Lundell's "Descent from the Cross,"
the one whose bones are already broken; the poor devil's suffering from
hip disease; he does splendidly when he leans across the back of a
chair; sometimes the artist makes him turn his back to him; then he
represents the other thief."
"But why doesn't he work himself? Has he no talent?"
"Olle Montanus, my dear fellow, is a genius, but he won't work. He's a
philosopher and would have become a great man if he could have gone to
college. It's really extraordinary to listen to him and Ygberg talking
philosophy; it's true, Ygberg has read more, but in spite of that
Montanus, with his subtle brain, succeeds in cornering him every now
and again; then Ygberg goes away and reads some more, but he never
lends the book to Montanus."
"I see! And you like Ygberg's philosophy?" asked Falk.
"Oh! It's subtle, wonderfully subtle! You like Fichte, don't you? I
say! What a man!"
"Who were the two individuals in the cottage?" asked Falk, who did not
like Fichte.
"Oh. You saw them too? One of them was the practical Lundell, a painter
of figures, or rather, sacred subjects; the other one was my friend
Rehnhjelm."
He pronounced the last few words with the utmost indifference, so as
to heighten their effect as much as possible.
"Rehnhjelm?"
"Yes; a very nice fellow."
"He was acting as Lundell's model."
"Was he? That's like Lundell! He knows how to make use of people; he is
extraordinarily practical. But come along, let's worry him; it's the
only fun I have out here. Then, perhaps, you'll hear Montanus speaking,
and that's really worth while."
Less for the sake of hearing Montanus speaking than for the sake of
obtaining a glass of water, Falk followed Sellen, helping him to carry
easel and paintbox.
The scene in the cottage was slightly changed; the model was now
sitting on the broken chair, and Montanus and Ygberg on the bed-sofa.
Lundell was standing at his easel, smoking; his seedy friends watched
him and his old, snoring cherry-wood pipe; the very presence of a pipe
and tobacco raised their spirits.
Falk was introduced and immediately Lundell monopolized him, asking him
for his opinion of the picture he was painting. It was a Rubens, at
least as far as the subject went, though anything but a Rubens in
colour and drawing. Thereupon Lundell dilated on the hard times and
difficulties of an artist, severely criticized the Academy, and
censured the Government for neglecting native art. He was engaged in
sketching an altar-piece, although he was convinced that it would be
refused, for nobody could succeed without intrigues and connexions. And
he scrutinized Falk's clothes, wondering whether _he_ might be a useful
connexion.
Falk's appearance had produced a different effect on the two
philosophers. They scented a man of letters in him, and hated him
because he might rob them of the reputation they enjoyed in the small
circle. They exchanged significant glances, immediately understood by
Sellen, who found it impossible to resist the temptation of showing off
his friends in their glory, and, if possible, bring about an
encounter. He soon found an apple of discord, aimed, threw, and hit.
"What do you say to Lundell's picture, Ygberg?"
Ygberg, not expecting to be called upon to speak so soon, had to
consider his answer for a few seconds. Then he made his reply, raising
his voice, while Olle rubbed his back to make him hold himself
straight.
"A work of art may, in my opinion, be divided into two categories:
subject and form. With regard to the subject in this work of art there
is no denying that it is profound and universally human; the motive,
properly speaking, is in itself fertile, and contains all the
potentialities of artistic work. With regard to the form which of
itself shall _de facto_ manifest the idea, that is to say the absolute
identity, the being, the ego--I cannot help saying that I find it less
adequate."
Lundell was obviously flattered. Olle smiled his sunniest smile as if
he were contemplating the heavenly hosts; the model was asleep and
Sellen found that Ygberg had scored a complete success. All eyes were
turned on Falk who was compelled to take up the gauntlet, for no one
doubted that Ygberg's criticism was a challenge.
Falk was both amused and annoyed. He was searching the limbo of memory
for philosophical air-guns, when he caught sight of Olle Montanus,
whose convulsed face betrayed his desire to speak. Falk loaded his gun
at random with Aristotle and fired.
"What do you mean by adequate? I cannot recollect that Aristotle made
use of that word in his Metaphysics."
Absolute silence fell on the room; everybody felt that a fight between
the artist's colony and the University of Upsala was imminent. The
interval was longer than was desirable, for Ygberg was unacquainted
with Aristotle and would have died sooner than have admitted it. As he
was not quick at repartee, he failed to discover the breach which Falk
had left open; but Olle did, caught Aristotle with both hands and flung
him back at his opponent.
"Although I'm not a learned man, I venture to question whether you, Mr.
Falk, have upset your opponent's argument? In my opinion _adequate_ may
be used and accepted as a definition in a logical conclusion, in spite
of Aristotle not having mentioned the word in his Metaphysics. Am I
right, gentlemen? I don't know, I'm not a learned man and Mr. Falk has
made a study of these things."
He had spoken with half-closed eyelids; now he closed them entirely and
looked impudently shy.
There was a general murmur of "Olle is right."
Falk realized that this was a matter to be handled without mittens, if
the honour of Upsala was to be safeguarded; he made a pass with the
philosophical pack of cards and threw up an ace.
"Mr. Montanus has denied the antecedent or said simply: _nego majorem!_
Very well! I, on my part, declare that he has been guilty of a
_posterius prius_; when he found himself on the horns of a dilemma he
went astray and made a syllogism after _ferioque_ instead of _barbara_.
He has forgotten the golden rule: _Caesare camestres festino baroco
secundo_; and therefore his conclusion became weakened. Am I right
gentlemen?"
"Quite right, absolutely right," replied everybody, except the two
philosophers who had never held a book of logic in their hands.
Ygberg looked as if he had bitten on a nail, and Olle grinned as if a
handful of snuff had been thrown into his eyes; but his native
shrewdness had discovered the tactical method of his opponent. He
resolved not to stick to the point, but to talk of something else. He
brought out everything he had learned and everything he had heard,
beginning with the Criticism of Fichte's Philosophy to which Falk had
been listening a little while ago from behind the fence. The
discussion went on until the morning was nearly spent.
In the meantime Lundell went on painting, his foul pipe snoring loudly.
The model had fallen asleep on the broken chair, his head sinking
deeper and deeper until, about noon, it hung between his knees; a
mathematician could have calculated the time when it would reach the
centre of the earth.
Sellen was sitting at the open window enjoying himself; but poor Falk,
who had been under the impression that this terrible philosophy was a
thing of the past, was compelled to continue throwing fistfuls of
philosophic snuff into the eyes of his antagonists. The torture would
never have come to an end if the model's centre of gravity had not
gradually shifted to one of the most delicate parts of the chair; it
gave way and the Baron fell on the floor. Lundell seized the
opportunity to inveigh against the vice of drunkenness and its
miserable consequences for the victim as well as for others; by others
he meant, of course, himself.
Falk, anxious to come to the assistance of the embarrassed youth,
eagerly asked a question bound to be of general interest.
"Where are the gentlemen going to dine?"
The room grew silent, so silent that the buzzing of the flies was
plainly audible; Falk was quite unconscious of the fact that he had
stepped on five corns at one and the same moment. It was Lundell who
broke the silence. He and Rehnhjelm were going to dine at the
"Sauce-Pan," their usual restaurant, for they had credit there; Sellen
objected to the place because he did not like the cooking, and had not
yet decided on another establishment; he looked at the model with an
anxious, inquiring glance. Ygberg and Montanus were too "busy" and "not
going to cut up their working-day" by "dressing and going up to town."
They were going to get something out here, but they did not say what.
A general dressing began, principally consisting of a wash at the old
garden-pump. Sellen, who was a dandy, had hidden a parcel wrapped in a
newspaper underneath the bed-sofa, from which he produced collar, cuffs
and shirt-front, made of paper. He knelt for a long time before the
pump, gazing into the trough, while he put on a brownish-green tie, a
present from a lady, and arranged his hair in a particular style.
When he had rubbed his shoes with a bur leaf, brushed his hat with his
coat sleeve, put a grape-hyacinth in his buttonhole and seized his
cinnamon cane, he was ready to go. To his question whether Rehnhjelm
would be ready soon, Lundell replied that he would be hours yet, as he
required his assistance in drawing; Lundell always devoted the time
from twelve to two to drawing. Rehnhjelm submitted and obeyed, although
he found it hard to part with Sellen, of whom he was fond, and stay
with Lundell whom he disliked.
"We shall meet to-night at the Red Room," said Sellen, comforting him,
and all agreed, even the philosophers and the moral Lundell.
On their way to town Sellen initiated his friend Falk into some of the
secrets of the colonists. As for himself, he had broken with the
Academy, because his views on art differed from theirs; he knew that he
had talent and would eventually be successful, although success might
be long in coming. It was, of course, frightfully difficult to make a
name without the Royal Medal. There were also natural obstacles in his
way. He was a native of the barren coast of Halland and loved grandeur
and simplicity; but critics and public demanded detail and trifles;
therefore his pictures did not sell; he could have painted what
everybody else painted, but he scorned to do so.
Lundell, on the other hand, was a practical man--Sellen always
pronounced the word _practical_ with a certain contempt--he painted to
please the public. He never suffered from indisposition; it was true
he had left the Academy, but for secret, practical reasons; moreover,
in spite of his assertion, he had not broken with it entirely. He made
a good income out of his illustrations for magazines and, although he
had little talent, he was bound to make his fortune some day, not only
because of the number of his connexions, but also because of his
intrigues. It was Montanus who had put him up to those; he was the
originator of more than one plan which Lundell had successfully carried
out. Montanus was a genius, although he was terribly unpractical.
Rehnhjelm was a native of Norrland. His father had been a wealthy man;
he had owned a large estate which was now the property of his former
inspector. The old aristocrat was comparatively poor; he hoped that his
son would learn a lesson from the past, take an inspector's post and
eventually restore the family to its former position by the acquisition
of a new estate. Buoyed up with this hope, he had sent him to the
Commercial School to study agricultural book-keeping, an accomplishment
which the youth detested. He was a good fellow but a little weak, and
allowing himself to be influenced by Lundell, who did not scorn to take
the fee for his preaching and patronage in natura.
In the meantime Lundell and the Baron had started work; the Baron was
drawing, while the master lay on the sofa, supervising the work, in
other words, smoking.
"If you'll put your back into your work, you shall come to dinner with
me at the 'Brass-Button,'" promised Lundell, feeling rich with the two
crowns which he had saved from destruction.
Ygberg and Montanus had sauntered up the wooded eminence, intending to
sleep away the dinner hour; Olle beamed after his victories, but Ygberg
was depressed; his pupil had surpassed him. Moreover, his feet were
cold and he was unusually hungry, for the eager discussion of dinner
had awakened in him slumbering feelings successfully suppressed for
the last twelve months. They threw themselves under a pine tree;
Ygberg hid the precious, carefully wrapped up book, which he always
refused to lend to Olle, under his head, and stretched himself
full-length on the ground; he looked deadly pale, cold and calm like a
corpse which has abandoned all hope of resurrection. He watched some
little birds above his head picking at the pine seed and letting the
husks fall down on him; he watched a cow, the picture of robust health,
grazing among the alders; he saw the smoke rising from the gardener's
kitchen chimney.
"Are you hungry, Olle?" he asked in a feeble voice.
"No!" replied Olle, casting covetous looks at the wonderful book.
"Oh! to be a cow!" sighed Ygberg, crossing his hands on his chest and
giving himself up to all-merciful sleep.
When his low breathing had become regular, the waking friend gently
pulled the book from its hiding-place, without disturbing the sleeper;
then he turned over and lying on his stomach he began to devour the
precious contents, forgetting all about the "Sauce-Pan" and the
"Brass-Button."
CHAPTER IV
MASTER AND DOGS
Two or three days had passed. Mrs. Charles Nicholas Falk, a lady of
twenty-two years of age, had just finished her breakfast in bed, the
colossal mahogany bed in the large bedroom. It was only ten o'clock.
Her husband had been away since seven, taking up flax on the shore. But
the young wife had not stayed in bed--a thing she knew to be contrary
to the rules of the house--because she counted on his absence. She had
only been married for two years, but during that period she had found
abundant time to introduce sweeping reforms in the old, conservative,
middle-class household, where everything was old, even the servants. He
had invested her with the necessary power on the day on which he had
confessed his love to her, and she had graciously consented to become
his wife, that is to say, permitted him to deliver her from the hated
bondage of her parental roof, where she had been compelled to get up
every morning at six o'clock and work all day long. She had made good
use of the period of her engagement, for it was then that she had
collected a number of guarantees, promising her a free and independent
life, unmolested by any interference on the part of her husband. Of
course these guarantees consisted merely of verbal assurances made by a
love-sick man, but she, who had never allowed her emotion to get the
better of her, had carefully noted them down on the tablets of her
memory. After two years of matrimony, unredeemed by the promise of a
child, the husband showed a decided inclination to set aside all these
guarantees, and question her right to sleep as long as she liked, for
instance, to have breakfast in bed, etcetera, etcetera; he had even
been so indelicate as to remind her that he had pulled her out of the
mire; had delivered her from a hell, thereby sacrificing himself. The
marriage had been a misalliance, her father being one of the crew of
the flagship.
As she lay there she was concocting replies to these and similar
reproaches; and as her common sense during the long period of their
mutual acquaintance had never been clouded by any intoxication of the
senses, she had it well in hand and knew how to use it. The sounds of
her husband's return filled her with unalloyed pleasure. Presently the
dining-room door was slammed; a tremendous bellowing became audible;
she pushed her head underneath the bed-clothes to smother her laughter.
Heavy footsteps crossed the adjacent room and the angry husband
appeared on the threshold, hat on head. His wife, who was turning her
back to him, called out in her most dulcet tones:
"Is that you, little lubber? Come in, come in!"
The little lubber--this was a pet name, and husband and wife frequently
used others, even more original ones--showed no inclination to accept
her invitation, but remained standing in the doorway and shouted:
"Why isn't the table laid for lunch?"
"Ask the girls; it isn't my business to lay the table! But it's
customary to take off one's hat on coming into a room, sir!"
"What have you done with my cap?"
"Burnt it! It was so greasy, you ought to have been ashamed to wear
it."
"You burnt it? We'll talk about that later on! Why are you lying in bed
until all hours of the morning, instead of supervising the girls?"
"Because I like it."
"Do you think I married a wife to have her refusing to look after her
house? What?"
"You did! But why do you think I married you? I've told you a thousand
times--so that I shouldn't have to work--and you promised me I
shouldn't. Didn't you? Can you swear, on your word of honour, that you
did _not_ promise? That's the kind of man you are! You are just like
all the rest!"
"It was long ago!"
"Long ago? When was long ago? Is a promise not binding for all times?
Or must it be made in any particular season?"
The husband knew this unanswerable logic only too well, and his wife's
good temper had the same effect as her tears--he gave in.
"I'm going to have visitors to-night," he stated.
"Oh, indeed! Gentlemen?"
"Of course! I detest women."
"Well, I suppose you've ordered what you want?"
"No, I want you to do that."
"I? I've no money for entertaining. I shall certainly not spend my
housekeeping money on your visitors."
"No, you prefer spending it on dress and other useless things."
"Do you call the things I make for you useless? Is a smoking-cap
useless? Are slippers useless? Tell me! Tell me candidly!"
She was an adept in formulating her questions in such a way that the
reply was bound to be crushing for the person who had to answer them.
She was merely copying her husband's method. If he wanted to avoid
being crushed, he was compelled to keep changing the subject of
conversation.
"But I really have a very good reason for entertaining a few guests
to-night," he said with a show of emotion; "my old friend, Fritz Levin,
of the Post Office, has been promoted after nineteen years' service--I
read it in the Postal Gazette last night. But as you disapprove, and as
I always give way to you, I shall let the matter drop, and shall merely
ask Levin and schoolmaster Nystroem to a little supper in the
counting-house."
"So that loafer Levin has been promoted? I never! Perhaps now he'll pay
you back all the money he owes you?"
"I hope so!"
"I can't understand how on earth you can have anything to do with that
man! And the schoolmaster! Beggars, both of them, who hardly own the
clothes they wear."
"I say, old girl, I never interfere in your affairs; leave my business
alone."
"If you have guests downstairs, I don't see why I shouldn't have
friends up here!"
"Well, why don't you?"
"All right, little lubber, give me some money then."
The little lubber, in every respect pleased with the turn matters had
taken, obeyed with pleasure.
"How much? I've very little cash to-day."
"Oh! Fifty'll do."
"Are you mad?"
"Mad? Give me what I ask for. Why should I starve when you feast?"
Peace was established and the parties separated with mutual
satisfaction. There was no need for him to lunch badly at home; he was
compelled to go out; no necessity to eat a poor dinner and be made
uncomfortable by the presence of ladies; he was embarrassed in the
company of women, for he had been a bachelor too long; no reason to be
troubled by his conscience, for his wife would not be alone at home; as
it happened she wanted to invite her own friends and be rid of him--it
was worth fifty crowns.
As soon as her husband had gone, Mrs. Falk rang the bell; she had
stayed in bed all the morning to punish the housemaid, for the girl had
remarked that in the old days everybody used to be up at seven. She
asked for paper and ink and scribbled a note to Mrs. Homan, the
controller's wife, who lived in the house opposite.
DEAR EVELYN--the letter ran:
Come in this evening and have a cup of tea with me; we can then
discuss the statutes of the "Association for the Rights of Women."
Possibly a bazaar or amateur theatricals would help us on. I am
longing to set the association going; it is an urgent need, as you
so often said; I feel it very deeply when I think about it. Do you
think that her Ladyship would honour my house at the same time?
Perhaps I ought to call on her first. Come and fetch me at twelve
and we'll have a cup of chocolate at a confectioner's. My husband
is away.
Yours affectionately,
EUGENIA.
P.S. My husband is away.
When she had despatched the letter, she got up and dressed, so as to be
ready at twelve.
* * * * *
It was evening.
The eastern end of Long Street was already plunged in twilight, when
the clock of the German church struck seven; only a faint ray of light
from Pig Street fell into Falk's flax-shop, as Andersson made ready to
close it for the night. The shutters in the counting-house had already
been fastened and the gas was lighted. The place had been swept and
straightened; two hampers with protruding necks of bottles, sealed red
and yellow, some covered with tinfoil and others wrapped in pink tissue
paper, were standing close to the door. The centre of the room was
taken up by a table covered with a white cloth; on it stood an Indian
bowl and a heavy silver candelabrum.
Nicholas Falk paced up and down. He was wearing a black frock-coat, and
had a respectable as well as a festive air. He had a right to look
forward to a pleasant evening: he had arranged it; he had paid for it;
he was in his own house and at his ease, for there were no ladies
present, and his invited guests were of a calibre which justified him
in expecting from them not only attention and civility, but a little
more.
They were only two, but he did not like many people; they were his
friends, reliable, devoted as dogs; submissive, agreeable, always
flattering and never contradicting him.
Being a man of means, he could have moved in better circles; he might
have associated with his father's friends, and he did so, twice a year;
but he was of too despotic a nature to get on with them.
It was three minutes past seven and still the guests had not arrived.
Falk began to show signs of impatience. When he invited his henchmen,
he expected them to be punctual to the minute. The thought of the
unusually sumptuous arrangement, however, and the paralysing impression
it was bound to make, helped him to control his temper a little longer;
at the lapse of a few more moments Fritz Levin, the post-office
official put in an appearance.
"Good-evening, brother--oh! I say!" He paused in the action of
divesting himself of his overcoat, and feigned surprise at the
magnificent preparations; he almost seemed in danger of falling on his
back with sheer amazement. "The seven-armed candle-stick, and the
tabernacle! Good Lord!" he ejaculated, catching sight of the hampers.
The individual who delivered these well-rehearsed witticisms while
taking off his overcoat, was a middle-aged man of the type of the
government official of twenty years ago; his whiskers joined his
moustache, his hair was parted at the side and arranged in a _coup de
vent_. He was extremely pale and as thin as a shroud. In spite of being
well dressed, he was shivering with cold and seemed to have secret
traffic with poverty.
Falk's manner in welcoming him was both rude and patronizing; it was
partly intended to express his scorn of flattery, more particularly
from an individual like the newcomer, and partly to intimate that the
newcomer enjoyed the privilege of his friendship.
By way of congratulation he began to draw a parallel between Levin's
promotion and his own father's receiving a commission in the militia.
"Well, it's a grand thing to have the royal mandate in one's pocket,
isn't it? My father, too, received a royal mandate...."
"Pardon me, dear brother, but I've only been appointed."
"Appointed or royal mandate, it comes to the same thing. Don't teach
me! My father, too, had a royal mandate...."
"I assure you...."
"Assure me--what d'you mean by that? D'you mean to imply that I'm
standing here telling lies? Tell me, do you mean to say that I'm
lying?"
"Of course I don't! There's no need to lose your temper like that!"
"Very well! You're admitting that I'm not telling lies, consequently
you have a royal mandate. Why do you talk such nonsense? My father...."
The pale man, in whose wake a drove of furies seemed to have entered
the counting-house--for he trembled in every limb--now rushed at his
patron, firmly resolved to get over with his business before the feast
began, so that nothing should afterwards disturb the general enjoyment.
"Help me," he groaned, with the despair of a drowning man, taking a
bill out of his pocket.
Falk sat down on the sofa, shouted for Andersson, ordered him to open
the bottles and began to mix the bowl.
"Help you? Haven't I helped you before?" he replied. "Haven't you
borrowed from me again and again without paying me back? Answer me!
What have you got to say?"
"I know, brother, that you have always been kindness itself to me."
"And now you've been promoted, haven't you? Everything was to be all
right now; all debts were to be paid and a new life was to begin. I've
listened to this kind of talk for eighteen years. What salary do you
draw now?"
"Twelve hundred crowns instead of eight hundred as before. But now,
think of this: the cost of the mandate was one hundred and twenty-five;
the pension fund deducts fifty; that makes one hundred and
seventy-five. Where I am to take it from? But the worst of it all is
this: my creditors have seized half my salary; consequently I have now
only six hundred crowns to live on instead of eight hundred--and I've
waited nineteen years for that. Promotion is a splendid thing!"
"Why did you get into debt? One ought never to get into debt.
Never--get--into debt."
"With a salary of eight hundred crowns all these years! How was it
possible to keep out of it?"
"In that case you had no business to be in the employ of the
Government. But this is a matter which doesn't concern me;
doesn't--concern--me."
"Won't you sign once more? For the last time?"
"You know my principles; I never sign bills. Please let the matter
drop."
Levin, who was evidently used to these refusals, calmed down. At the
same moment schoolmaster Nystroem entered, and, to the relief of both
parties, interrupted the conversation. He was a dried-up individual of
mysterious appearance and age. His occupation, too, was mysterious; he
was supposed to be a master at a school in one of the southern
suburbs--nobody ever asked which school and he did not care to talk
about it. His mission, so far as Falk was concerned, was first to be
addressed as schoolmaster when there were other people present;
secondly, to be polite and submissive; thirdly, to borrow a little
every now and then; never exceeding a fiver; it was one of Falk's
fundamental needs that people should borrow money from him
occasionally, only a little, of course; and, fourthly, to write verses
on festive occasions; and the latter was not the least of the component
parts of his mission.
Charles Nicholas Falk sat enthroned on his leather sofa, very conscious
of the fact that it was _his_ leather sofa, surrounded by his staff; or
his dogs, as one might have said. Levin found everything splendid; the
bowl, the glasses, the ladle, the cigars--the whole box had been taken
from the mantelpiece--the matches, the ash-trays, the bottles, the
corks, the wire--everything. The schoolmaster looked content; he was
not called upon to talk, the other two did that; he was merely required
to be present as a witness in case of need.
Falk was the first to raise his glass and drink--nobody knew to
whom--but the schoolmaster, believing it to be to the hero of the day,
produced his verses and began to read "To Fritz Levin on the Day of his
Promotion."
Falk was attacked by a violent cough which disturbed the reading and
spoiled the effect of the wittiest points; but Nystroem, who was a
shrewd man and had foreseen this, had introduced into his poem the
finely felt and finely expressed reflection: "What would have become of
Fritz Levin if Charles Nicholas hadn't befriended him?" This subtle
hint at the numerous loans made by Falk to his friend, soothed the
cough; it subsided and ensured a better reception to the last verse
which was quite impudently dedicated to Levin, a tactlessness which
again threatened to disturb the harmony. Falk emptied his glass as if
he were draining a cup filled to the brim with ingratitude.
"You're not up to the mark, Nystroem," he said.
"No, he was far wittier on your thirty-eighth birthday," agreed Levin,
guessing what Falk was driving at.
Falk's glance penetrated into the most hidden recesses of Levin's soul,
trying to discover whether any lie or fraud lay hidden there--and as
his eyes were blinded by pride, he saw nothing.
"Quite true," he acquiesced: "I never heard anything more witty in all
my life; it was good enough to be printed; you really ought to get your
things printed. I say, Nystroem, surely you know it by heart, don't
you?"
Nystroem had a shocking memory, or, to tell the truth, he had not yet
had enough wine to commit the suggested outrage against decency and
good form; he asked for time. But Falk, irritated by his quiet
resistance, had gone too far to turn back, and insisted on his request.
He was almost sure that he had a copy of the verses with him; he
searched his pocket-book and behold! There they lay. Modesty did not
forbid him to read them aloud himself; it would not have been for the
first time; but it sounded better for another to read them. The poor
dog bit his chain, but it held. He was a sensitive man, this
schoolmaster, but he had to be brutal if he did not want to relinquish
the precious gift of life, and he had been very brutal. The most
private affairs were fully and openly discussed, everything in
connexion with the birth of the hero, his reception into the community,
his education and up-bringing were made fun of; the verses would have
disgusted even Falk himself if they had treated of any other person,
but the fact of their celebrating him and his doings made them
excellent. When the recitation was over, his health was drunk
uproariously, in many glasses, for each member of the little party felt
that he was too sober to keep his real feelings under control.
The table was now cleared and an excellent supper consisting of
oysters, birds, and other good things, was served. Falk went sniffing
from dish to dish, sent one or two of them back, took care that the
chill was taken off the stout, and that the wines were the right
temperature. Now his dogs were called upon to do their work and offer
him a pleasant spectacle. When everybody was ready, he pulled out his
gold watch and held it in his hand while he jestingly asked a question
which his convives had heard many times--so very many times:
"What is the time by the silver watches of the gentlemen?"
The anticipated reply came as in duty bound, accompanied by gay
laughter: the watches were at the watch-maker's. This put Falk into the
best of tempers, which found expression in the not at all unexpected
joke:
"The animals will be fed at eight."
He sat down, poured out three liqueurs, took one and invited his
friends to follow his example.
"I must make a beginning myself, as you both seem to be holding back.
Don't let's stand on ceremony! Tuck in boys!"
The feeding began. Charles Nicholas who was not particularly hungry,
had plenty of time to enjoy the appetite of his guests, and he
continually urged them to eat. An unspeakably benevolent smile radiated
from his bright, sunny countenance as he watched their zeal, and it was
difficult to say what he enjoyed more, the fact of their having a good
meal, or the fact of their being so hungry. He sat there like a
coachman on his box, clicking his tongue and cracking his whip at them.
"Eat, Nystroem! You don't know when you'll get a meal next. Help
yourself, Levin; you look as if you could do with a little flesh on
your bones. Are you grinning at the oysters? Aren't they good enough
for a fellow like you? What do you say? Take another! Don't be shy!
What do you say? You've had enough? Nonsense! Have a drink now! Take
some stout, boys! Now a little more salmon! You _shall_ take another
piece, by the Lord Harry, you shall! Go on eating! Why the devil don't
you? It costs you nothing!"
When the birds had been carved, Charles Nicholas poured out the claret
with a certain solemnity. The guests paused, anticipating a speech.
The host raised his glass, smelt the bouquet of the wine and said with
profound gravity:
"Your health, you hogs!"
Nystroem responded by raising his glass and drinking; but Levin left his
untouched, looking as if he were secretly sharpening a knife.
When supper was over Levin, strengthened by food and drink, his senses
befogged by the fumes of the wine, began to nurse a feeling of
independence; a strong yearning for freedom stirred in his heart. His
voice grew more resonant; he pronounced his words with increasing
assurance, and his movements betrayed greater ease.
"Give me a cigar!" he said in a commanding tone; "no, not a weed like
these, a good one."
Charles Nicholas, regarding his words as a good joke, obeyed.
"Your brother isn't here to-night," remarked Levin casually. There was
something ominous and threatening in his voice; Falk felt it and became
uneasy.
"No!" he said shortly, but his voice was unsteady.
Levin waited for a few moments before striking a second blow. One of
his most lucrative occupations was his interference in other people's
business; he carried gossip from family to family; sowed a grain of
discord here and another there, merely to play the grateful part of the
mediator afterwards. In this way he had obtained a great deal of
influence, was feared by his acquaintances, and managed them as if they
were marionettes.
Falk felt this disagreeable influence and attempted to shake it off;
but in vain. Levin knew how to whet his curiosity; and by hinting at
more than he knew, he succeeded in bluffing people into betraying their
secrets.
At the present moment Levin held the whip and he promised himself to
make his oppressor feel it. He was still merely playing with it, but
Falk was waiting for the blow. He tried to change the subject of
conversation. He urged his friends to drink and they drank. Levin grew
whiter and colder as his intoxication increased, and went on playing
with his victim.
"Your wife has visitors this evening," he suddenly remarked.
"How do you know?" asked Falk, taken aback.
"I know everything," answered Levin, showing his teeth. It was almost
true; his widely extending business connexions compelled him to visit
as many public places as possible, and there he heard much; not only
the things which were spoken of in his society, but also those which
were discussed by others.
Falk was beginning to feel afraid without knowing why, and he thought
it best to divert the threatening danger. He became civil, humble even,
but Levin's boldness still increased. There was no alternative, he must
make a speech, remind his companions of the cause of the gathering,
acknowledge the hero of the day. There was no other escape. He was a
poor speaker, but the thing had to be done. He tapped against the bowl,
filled the glasses, and recollecting an old speech, made by his father
when Falk became his own master, he rose and began, very slowly:
"Gentlemen! I have been my own master these eight years; I was only
thirty years old...."
The change from a sitting position to a standing one caused a rush of
blood to his head; he became confused; Levin's mocking glances added to
his embarrassment. His confusion grew; the figure thirty seemed
something so colossal that it completely disconcerted him.
"Did I say thirty? I didn't--mean it. I was in my father's employ--for
many years. It would take too long to recount everything--I suffered
during those years; it's the common lot. Perhaps you think me
selfish...."
"Hear! hear!" groaned Nystroem who was resting his heavy head on the
table.
Levin puffed the smoke of his cigar in the direction of the speaker, as
if he were spitting in his face.
Falk, really intoxicated now, continued his speech; his eyes seemed to
seek a distant goal without being able to find it.
"Everybody is selfish, we all know that. Ye-es! My father, who made a
speech when I became my own master, as I was just saying----"
He pulled out his gold watch and took it off the chain. The two
listeners opened their eyes wide. Was he going to make a present of it
to Levin?
"Handed me on that occasion this gold watch which he, in his turn, had
received from his father in the year...."
Again those dreadful figures--he must refer back.
"This gold watch, gentlemen, was presented to me, and I cannot think
without emotion of the moment--when I received it. Perhaps you think
I'm selfish gentlemen? I'm not. I know it's not good form to speak of
oneself, but on such an occasion as this it seems very natural to
glance at--the past. I only want to mention one little incident."
He had forgotten Levin and the significance of the day and was under
the impression that he was celebrating the close of his bachelor-life.
All of a sudden he remembered the scene between himself and his
brother, and his triumph. He felt a pressing need to talk of this
triumph, but he could not remember the details. He merely remembered
having proved that his brother was a blackguard; he had forgotten the
chain of evidence with the exception of only two facts: his brother and
a blackguard: he tried to link them together, but they always fell
apart. His brain worked incessantly and picture followed on picture. He
must tell them of a generous action he had done; he recollected that he
had given his wife some money in the morning, and had allowed her to
sleep as long as she liked and have breakfast in bed; but that wasn't
a suitable subject. He was in an unpleasant position, but fear of a
silence and the two pairs of sharp eyes which followed his every
movement, helped him to pull himself together. He realized that he was
still standing, watch in hand. The watch? How had it got into his hand?
Why were his friends sitting down, almost blotted out by the smoke,
while he was on his legs? Oh! of course! He had been telling them about
the watch, and they were waiting for the continuation of the story.
"This watch, gentlemen, is nothing special at all. It's only French
gold."
The two whilom owners of silver watches opened their eyes wide. This
information was new to them.
"And I believe it has only seven rubies--it's not a good watch at
all--on the contrary--I should rather call it a cheap one...."
Some secret cause of which his brain was hardly conscious, made him
angry; he must vent his wrath on something; tapping the table with his
watch, he shouted:
"It's a damned bad watch, I say! Listen to me when I'm speaking! Don't
you believe what I say, Fritz? Answer me! Why do you look so vicious?
You don't believe me. I can read it in your eyes. Fritz, you don't
believe what I'm saying. Believe me, I know human nature. And I might
stand security for you once more! Either you are a liar, or I am! Shall
I prove to you that you are a scoundrel? Shall I? Listen, Nystroem,
if--I--forge a bill--am I a scoundrel?"
"Of course you are a scoundrel, the devil take you!" answered Nystroem,
without a moment's hesitation.
"Yes--Yes!"
His efforts to remember whether Levin had forged a bill, or was in any
way connected with a bill, were in vain. Therefore he was obliged to
let the matter drop. Levin was tired; he was also afraid that his
victim might lose consciousness, and that he and Nystroem would be
robbed of the pleasure of enjoying his intended discomfiture. He
therefore interrupted Falk with a jest in his host's own style.
"Your health, old rascal!"
And down came the whip. He produced a newspaper.
"Have you seen the _People's Flag_?" he asked Falk in cold murderous
accents.
Falk stared at the scandalous paper but said nothing. The inevitable
was bound to happen.
"It contains a splendid article on the Board of Payment of Employes'
Salaries."
Falk's cheeks grew white.
"Rumour has it that your brother wrote it."
"It's a lie! My brother's no scandal-monger! He isn't! D'you hear?"
"But unfortunately he had to suffer for it. I'm told he's been sacked."
"It's a lie!"
"I'm afraid it's true. Moreover, I saw him dining to-day at the
'Brass-Button' with a rascally looking chap. I'm sorry for the lad."
It was the worst blow that could have befallen Charles Nicholas. He was
disgraced. His name, his father's name, was dishonoured; all that the
old burgesses had achieved had been in vain. If he had been told that
his wife had died, he could have borne up under it; a financial loss,
too, might have been repaired. If he had been told that his friend
Levin, or Nystroem, had been arrested for forgery, he would have
disowned them, for he had never shown himself in public in their
company. But he could not deny his relationship to his brother. And his
brother had disgraced him. There was no getting away from the fact.
Levin had found a certain pleasure in retailing his information. Falk,
although he had never given his brother the smallest encouragement, was
in the habit of boasting of him and his achievements to his friends.
"My brother, the assessor, is a man of brains, and he'll go far, mark
my words!" These continual indirect reproaches had long been a source
of irritation to Levin, more particularly as Charles Nicholas drew a
definite, unsurpassable, although indefinable, line between assessors
and secretaries.
Levin, without moving a finger in the matter, had had his revenge at so
little cost to himself that he could afford to be generous, and play
the part of the comforter.
"There's no reason why you should take it so much to heart. Even a
journalist can be a decent specimen of humanity, and you exaggerate the
scandal. There can be no scandal where no definite individuals have
been attacked. Moreover, the whole thing's very witty, and everybody's
reading it."
This last pill of comfort made Falk furious.
"He's robbed me of my good name! My name! How can I show myself
to-morrow at the Exchange? What will people say?"
By people he meant his wife. She would enjoy the situation because it
would make the misalliance less marked. Henceforth they would be on the
same social level. The thought was intolerable. A bitter hatred for all
mankind took possession of his soul. If only he had been the bastard's
father! Then he could have made use of his parental privilege, washed
his hands of him, cursed him, and so have put an end to the matter; but
there was no such thing as a brotherly privilege. Was it possible that
he himself, was partly to blame for the disgrace? Had he not forced his
brother into his profession? Maybe the scene of the morning or his
brother's financial difficulties--caused by him--were to blame? No! he
had never committed a base action; he was blameless; he was respected
and looked up to; he was no scandal-monger; he had never been sacked by
anybody. Did he not carry a paper in his pocket-book, testifying that
he was the kindest friend with the kindest heart? Had not the
schoolmaster read it aloud a little while ago? Yes, certainly--and he
sat down to drink, drink immoderately--not to stupefy his conscience,
there was no necessity for that, he had done no wrong, but merely to
drown his anger. But it was no use; it boiled over--and scalded those
who sat nearest to him.
"Drink, you rascals! That brute there's asleep! And you call yourselves
friends! Waken him up, Levin!"
"Whom are you shouting at?" asked the offended Levin peevishly.
"At you, of course!"
Two glances were exchanged across the table which promised no good.
Falk, whose temper improved directly he saw another man in a rage,
poured a ladleful of the contents of the bowl on the schoolmaster's
head, so that it trickled down his neck behind his collar.
"Don't dare to do that again!" threatened Levin.
"Who's to prevent me?"
"I! Yes, I! I shan't let you ruin his clothes. It's a beastly shame!"
"His clothes," laughed Falk. "Isn't it my coat? Didn't I give it to
him?"
"You're going too far!" said Levin, rising to go.
"So you're going now! You've had enough to eat, you can't drink any
more, you don't want me any longer to-night. Didn't you want to borrow
a fiver? What? Am I to be deprived of the honour of lending you some
money? Didn't you want me to sign something? Sign, eh?"
At the word sign, Levin pricked up his ears. Supposing he tried to get
the better of him in his excited condition? The thought softened him.
"Don't be unjust, brother," he re-commenced. "I'm not ungrateful; I
fully appreciate your kindness; but I'm poor, poorer than you've ever
been, or ever can be; I've suffered humiliations which you can't even
conceive; but I've always looked upon you as a friend. I mean a friend
in the highest sense of the word. You've had too much to drink to-night
and so you're cross; this makes you unjust, but I assure you,
gentlemen, in the whole world there beats no kinder heart than that of
Charles Nicholas. And I don't say this for the first time. I thank you
for your courtesy to-night, that is to say, if the excellent supper we
have eaten, the magnificent wines we have drunk, have been eaten and
drunk in my honour. I thank you, brother, and drink your health. Here's
to you, brother Charles Nicholas! Thank you, thank you a thousand
times! You've not done it in vain! Mark my words!"
Strange to say, these words, spoken in a tremulous voice--tremulous
with emotion--produced good results. Falk felt good. Hadn't he again
been assured that he had a kind heart? He firmly believed it.
The intoxication had reached the sentimental stage; they moved nearer
together; they talked of their good qualities, of the wickedness of the
world, the warmth of their feelings, the strength of their good
intentions; they grasped each other's hands. Falk spoke of his wife; of
his kindness to her; he regretted the lack of spirituality in his
calling; he mentioned how painfully aware he was of his want of
culture; he said that his life was a failure; and after the consumption
of his tenth liqueur, he confided to Levin that it had been his
ambition to go into the church, become a missionary, even. They grew
more and more spiritual. Levin spoke of his dead mother, her death and
funeral, of an unhappy love-affair, and finally of his religious
convictions, as a rule jealously guarded as a secret. And soon they
were launched on an eager discussion of religion.
It struck one--it struck two--and they were still talking while Nystroem
slept soundly, his arms on the table, and his head resting on his arms.
A dense cloud of tobacco smoke filled the counting-house and robbed
the gas flames of their brilliancy. The seven candles of the
seven-armed candelabrum had burnt down to the sockets and the table
presented a dismal sight. One or two glasses had lost their stems, the
stained tablecloth was covered with cigar ash, the floor was strewn
with matches. The daylight was breaking through the chinks of the
shutters; its shafts pierced the cloud of smoke and drew cabbalistic
figures on the tablecloth between the two champions of their faith,
busily engaged in re-editing the Augsburg Confession. They were now
talking with hissing voices; their brains were numbed; their words
sounded dry, the tension was relaxing in spite of their diligent
recourse to the bottle. They tried to whip up their souls into an
ecstasy, but their efforts grew weaker and weaker; the spirit had died
out of their conversation; they only exchanged meaningless words; the
stupefied brains which had been whirling round like teetotums,
slackened in their speed and finally stopped; one thought alone filled
their minds--they must go to bed, if they did not want to loathe the
sight of each other; they must be alone.
Nystroem was shaken into consciousness; Levin embraced Charles Nicholas
and took the opportunity to pocket three of his cigars. The heights
which they had scaled were too sublime to allow them to talk of the
bill just yet. They parted--the host let his guests out--he was alone!
He opened the shutters--daylight poured into the room; he opened the
window; the cool sea-breeze swept through the narrow street, one side
of which was already illuminated by the rising sun. It struck four, he
listened to that wonderful striking only heard by the poor wretch who
yearns for the day on a bed of sickness or sorrow. Even Long Street
East, that street of vice, of filth and brawls, lay in the early
morning sun, still, desolate and pure. Falk felt deeply unhappy. He was
disgraced--he was lonely! He closed window and shutters, and as he
turned round and beheld the state of the room, he at once began
setting it straight. He picked up the cigar ends and threw them into
the grate; he cleared the table, swept the room, dusted it and put
everything in its place. He washed his face and hands, and brushed his
hair; a policeman might have thought him a murderer, intent on effacing
all traces of his crime. But all the while he thought, clearly, firmly
and logically. When he had straightened the room and himself, he formed
a resolution, long brooded over, but now to be carried into effect. He
would wipe away the disgrace which had fallen on his family; he would
rise in the world and become a well-known and influential man; he would
begin a new life; he would keep his reputation unstained and he would
make his name respected. He felt that only a great ambition could help
him to keep his head erect after the blow he had received to-night.
Ambition had been latent in his heart; it had been awakened and
henceforth it should rule his life.
Quite sober now, he lighted a cigar, drank a brandy, and went upstairs,
quietly, gently, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife.
CHAPTER V
AT THE PUBLISHER'S
Arvid Falk decided to try Smith first, the almighty Smith--a name
adopted by the publisher in his youth during a short trip to the great
continent, from exaggerated admiration of everything American--the
redoubtable Smith with his thousand arms who could _make_ a writer in
twelve months, however bad the original material. His method was well
known, though none but he dared to make use of it, for it required an
unparalleled amount of impudence. The writer whom he took up could be
sure of making a name; hence Smith was overrun with nameless writers.
The following story is told as an instance of his irresistible power
and capacity for starting an author on the road to fame. A young,
inexperienced writer submitted his first novel, a bad one, to Smith.
For some reason the latter happened to like the first chapter--he never
read more--and decided to bless the world with a new author. The book
was published bearing on the back of the cover the words: "Blood and
Sword. A novel by Gustav Sjoeholm. This work of the young and promising
author whose highly respected name has for a long time been familiar to
the widest circles, etc. etc. It is a book which we can strongly
recommend to the novel-reading public." The book was published on April
3. On April 4, a review appeared in the widely read metropolitan paper
the _Grey Bonnet_, in which Smith held fifty shares. It concluded by
saying: "Gustav Sjoeholm's name is already well known; the spreading of
his fame does not lie with us; and we recommend this book not only to
the novel-reading, but also to the novel-writing public." On April 5 an
advertisement appeared in every paper of the capital with the following
quotation: "Gustav Sjoeholm's name is already well known; the spreading
of his fame does not lie with us. (_Grey Bonnet_)." On the same evening
a notice appeared in the _Incorruptible_, a paper read by nobody. It
represented the book as a model of bad literature, and the reviewer
swore that Gustav Sjoeblom (reviewer's intentional slip), had no name at
all. But as nobody read the _Incorruptible_, the opposition remained
unheard. The other papers, unwilling to disagree with the venerable
leading _Grey Bonnet_, and afraid of offending Smith, were mild in
their criticisms, but no more. They held the view that with hard work
Gustav Sjoeholm might make a name for himself in the future. A few days
of silence followed, but in every paper--in the _Incorruptible_ in bold
type--appeared the advertisement, shouting: "Gustav Sjoeholm's name is
already well known." Then a correspondence was started in the
_X-koepings Miscellaneous_, reproaching the metropolitan papers with
being hard on young authors. "Gustav Sjoeholm is simply a genius,"
affirmed the hot-headed correspondent, "in spite of all that dogmatic
blockheads might say to the contrary." On the next day the
advertisement again appeared in all the papers, bawling: "Gustav
Sjoeholm's name is already well known, etc. (_Grey Bonnet_)." "Gustav
Sjoeholm is a genius, etc. (_X-koepings Miscellaneous_)." The cover of
the next number of the magazine _Our Land_, one of Smith's
publications, bore the notice: "We are pleased to be in a position to
inform our numerous subscribers that the brilliant young author Gustav
Sjoeholm has promised us an original novel for our next number, etc."
And then again the advertisement in the papers. Finally, when at
Christmas the almanac _Our People_ appeared, the authors mentioned on
the title page were: Orvar Odd, Talis Qualis, Gustav Sjoeholm, and
others. It was a fact. In the eighth month Gustav Sjoeholm was made. And
the public was powerless. It had to swallow him. It was impossible to
go into a bookseller's and look at a book without reading his name;
impossible to take up a newspaper without coming across it. In all
circumstances and conditions of life that name obtruded itself, printed
on a slip of paper; it was put into the housewives' market baskets on
Saturdays; the servants carried it home from the tradespeople; the
crossing-sweeper swept it off the street, and the man of leisure went
about with it in the pockets of his dressing-gown.
Being well aware of Smith's great power, the young man climbed the dark
stairs of the publisher's house close to the Great Church, not without
misgivings. He had to wait for a long time in an outer office, a prey
to the most unpleasant meditations, until suddenly the door was burst
open and a young man rushed out of an inner office, despair on his face
and a roll of paper under his arm. Shaking in every limb, Falk entered
the sanctum, where the despot received his visitors, seated on a low
sofa, calm and serene as a god; he kindly nodded his grey head, covered
by a blue cap, and went on smoking, peacefully, as if he had never
shattered a man's hopes or turned an unhappy wretch from his door.
"Good morning, sir, good morning!"
His divinely flashing eyes glanced at the newcomer's clothes and
approved; nevertheless he did not ask him to sit down.
"My name is--Falk."
"Unknown to me! What is your father?"
"My father is dead."
"Is he? Good! What can I do for you, sir?"
Falk produced a manuscript from his breast pocket and handed it to
Smith; the latter sat on it without looking at it.
"You want me to publish it? Verse? I might have guessed it! Do you
know the cost of printing a single page, sir? No, you don't."
And he playfully poked the ignoramus with the stem of his pipe.
"Have you made a name, sir? No! Have you distinguished yourself in any
way? No!"
"The Academy has praised these verses."
"Which Academy? The Academy of Sciences? The one which publishes all
that stuff about flints?"
"About flints?"
"Yes, you know the Academy of Sciences! Close to the Museum, near the
river. Well, then!"
"Oh, no, Mr. Smith! The Swedish Academy, in the Exchange...."
"I see! The one with the tallow candles! Never mind; no man on earth
can tell what purpose it serves! No, my dear sir, the essential thing
is to have a name, a name like Tegner, like Ohrenschlaegel, like--Yes!
Our country has many great poets, but I can't remember them just at the
moment; but a name is necessary. Mr. Falk? H'm! Who knows Mr. Falk? I
don't, and I know many great poets. As I recently said to my friend
Ibsen: 'Now just you listen to me, Ibsen'--I call him Ibsen, quite
plainly--'just you listen to me, write something for my magazine. I'll
pay you whatever you ask!' He wrote--I paid--but I got my money back."
The annihilated young man longed to sink through the chinks in the
floor when he realized that he was standing before a person who called
Ibsen quite plainly "Ibsen." He longed to recover his manuscript, and
go his way, as the other young man had done, away, far away, until he
came to running water. Smith guessed it.
"Well, I've no doubt you can write Swedish, sir. And you know our
literature better than I do. Good! I have an idea. I am told of great,
beautiful, spiritual writers who lived in the past, let's say in the
reign of Gustav Eriksson and his daughter Christina. Isn't that so?"
"Gustavus Adolfus."
"Gustavus Adolfus, so be it! I remember there was one with a great, a
very great name; he wrote a fine work in verse, on God's Creation, I
believe! His Christian name was Hokan!"
"You mean Haquin Spegel, Mr. Smith! 'God's Works and Rest.'"
"Ah, yes! Well, I've been thinking of publishing it. Our nation is
yearning for religion these days; I've noticed that; and one must give
the people something. I have given them a good deal of Hermann Francke
and Arndt, but the great Foundation can sell more cheaply than I can,
and now I want to bring out something good at a fair price. Will you
take the matter in hand?"
"I don't know where I come in, as it is but a question of a reprint,"
answered Falk, not daring to refuse straight out.
"Dear me, what ignorance! You would do the editing and proof-reading,
of course. Are we agreed? You publish it, sir! What? Shall we draw up a
little agreement? The work must appear in numbers. What? A little
agreement. Just hand me pen and ink. Well?"
Falk obeyed; he was unable to offer resistance. Smith wrote and Falk
signed.
"Well, so much for that! Now, there's another thing! Give me that
little book on the stand! The third shelf! There! Now look here! A
brochure--title: "The Guardian Angel." Look at the vignette! An angel
with an anchor and a ship--it's a schooner without any yards, I
believe! The splendid influence of marine insurance on social life in
general is well known. Everybody has at one time or other sent
something more or less valuable across the sea in a ship. What? Well!
Everybody doesn't realize this. No! Consequently it is our duty to
enlighten those who are ignorant; isn't that so? Well! We know, you and
I; therefore it is for us to enlighten those who don't. This book
maintains that everybody who sends things across the water should
insure them. But this book is badly written. Well! We'll write a better
one. What? You'll write me a novel of ten pages for my magazine _Our
Land_, and I expect you to have sufficient gumption to introduce the
name _Triton_--which is the name of a new limited liability company,
founded by my nephew, and we are told to help our neighbours--twice,
neither more nor less; but it must be done cleverly and so that it is
not at all obvious. Do you follow me?"
Falk found the offer repulsive, although it contained nothing
dishonest; however, it gave him a start with the influential man,
straight away, without any effort on his part. He thanked Smith and
accepted.
"You know the size? Sixteen inches to the page, altogether a hundred
and sixty inches of eight lines each. Shall we write a little
agreement?"
Smith drew up an agreement and Falk signed.
"Well, now! You know the history of Sweden? Go to the stand again--you
will find a cliche there, a wood block. To the right! That's it! Can
you tell me who the lady is meant for? She is supposed to be a queen."
Falk, who saw nothing at first but a piece of black wood, finally made
out some human features and declared that to the best of his belief it
represented Ulrica Eleonora.
"Didn't I say so? Hihihi! The block has been used for Elizabeth, Queen
of England, in an American popular edition. I've bought it cheaply,
with a lot of others. I'm going to use it for Ulrica Eleonora in my
_People's Library_. Our people are splendid; they are so ready to buy
my books. Will you write the letterpress?"
Although Falk did not like the order, his super-sensitive conscience
could find no wrong in the proposal.
"Well then! We'd better make out a little agreement. Sixteen pages
octavo, at three inches, at twenty-four lines each. There!"
Falk, realizing that the audience was over, made a movement to recover
his manuscript on which Smith had all along been sitting. But the
latter would not give it up; he declared that he would read it,
although it might take him some time.
"You're a sensible man, sir, who knows the value of time," he said. "I
had a young fellow here just before you came in; he also brought me
verses, a great poem, for which I have no use. I made him the same
offers I just made to you, sir; do you know what he said? He told me to
do something unmentionable. He did, indeed, and rushed out of the
office. He'll not live long, that young man! Good day, good day! Don't
forget to order a copy of Hoken Spegel! Well, good day, good day."
Smith pointed to the door with the stem of his pipe and Falk left him.
He did not walk away with light footsteps. The wood-block in his pocket
was heavy and weighed him down, kept him back. He thought of the pale
young man with the roll of manuscript who had dared to say a bold thing
to Smith, and pride stirred in his heart. But memories of old paternal
warnings and advice whispered the old lie to him that all work was
equally honourable, and reproved him for his pride. He laid hold of his
common sense and went home to write a hundred and ninety-two inches
about Ulrica Eleonora.
As he had risen early he was at his writing-table at nine o'clock. He
filled a large pipe, took two sheets of paper, wiped his steel nibs and
tried to recall all he knew about Ulrica Eleonora. He looked her up in
Ekelund and Fryxell. There was a great deal under the heading Ulrica
Eleonora, but very little about her personally. At half-past nine he had
exhausted the subject. He had written down her birthplace, and the place
where she died, when she came to the throne, when she abdicated, the
names of her parents and the name of her husband. It was a commonplace
excerpt from a church register--and filled three pages, leaving thirteen
to be covered. He smoked two or three pipes and dragged the inkstand
with his pen, as if he were fishing for the Midgard serpent, but he
brought up nothing. He was bound to say something about her personally,
sketch her character; he felt as if he were sitting in judgment on her.
Should he praise or revile her? As it was a matter of complete
indifference to him, his mind was still not made up when it struck
eleven. He reviled her--and came to the end of the fourth page, leaving
twelve to be accounted for. He was at his wits' end. He wanted to say
something about her rule, but as she had not ruled, there was nothing to
be said. He wrote about her Council--one page--leaving eleven; he
whitewashed Goertz--another--leaving ten. He had not yet filled half the
required space. He hated the woman! More pipes! Fresh steel nibs! He
went back to remoter days, passing them in review, and being now in a
thoroughly bad temper, he overthrew his old idol, Charles XII, and
hurled him in the dust; it was done in a few words, and only added one
more page to his pile. There still remained nine. He anticipated events
and criticised Frederick I. Half a page! He glanced at the paper with
unhappy eyes; he glimpsed half-way house, but could not reach it. He had
written seven and a half small pages; Ekelund had only managed one and a
half.
He flung the wood-block on the floor, kicked it underneath his
writing-table, crawled after it, dusted it and put it in its former
place. It was torture! His soul was as dry as the block. He tried to
work himself up to views which he did not hold; he tried to awaken some
sort of emotion in his heart for the dead queen, but her plain, dull
features, cut into the wood, made no more impression on him than he on
the block. He realized his incapacity and felt despondent, degraded.
And this was the career of his choice, the one he had preferred to all
others. With a strong appeal to his reason, he turned to the guardian
angel.
The brochure was originally written for a German society, the "Nereus,"
and the argument was as follows: Mr. and Mrs. Castle had emigrated to
America, where they acquired a large estate. To make the story
possible, they had sold their land, and, very unpractically, invested
the total amount realized in costly furniture and objects of art. As
the story required that everything should be completely lost and
nothing whatever saved from the shipwreck, they sent off the whole lot
in advance by the _Washington_, a first-class steamer, copper bottomed,
with watertight bulkheads, and insured with the great German Marine
Insurance Company for L60,000. Mr. and Mrs. Castle and the children
followed on the _Bolivar_, the finest boat of the White Star Line,
insured with the great Marine Insurance Company "Nereus" (Capital
$10,000,000), and safely arrived at Liverpool. They left Liverpool and
all went well until they came to Skagen Point. During the whole voyage
the weather had, of course, been magnificent; the sky was clear and
radiant, but at the dangerous Skagen Point a storm overtook them; the
steamer was wrecked; the parents, whose lives were insured, were
drowned, thereby guaranteeing to the children, who were saved, L1500.
The latter, rejoicing at their parents' foresight, arrived at Hamburg
in good spirits, eager to take possession of the insurance money and
the property which they had inherited from their parents. Imagine their
consternation when they were told that the _Washington_ had been
wrecked a fortnight before their arrival on Dogger Bank; their whole
fortune, which had been left uninsured, was lost. All that remained was
the life insurance money. They hurried to the Company's agents. A fresh
disaster! They were told that their parents had not paid the last
premium which--oh, fateful blow!--had been due on the day preceding
their death. The distressed children bitterly mourned their parents,
who had worked so hard for them. They embraced each other with tears
and made a solemn vow that henceforth all their possessions should be
insured, and that they would never neglect paying their life insurance
premiums.
This story was to be localized, adapted to a Swedish environment and
made into a readable novelette; and with this he was to make his debut
in the literary world. The devil of pride whispered to him not to be a
blackguard and to leave the business alone, but this voice was silenced
by another, which came from the region of his empty stomach, and was
accompanied by a gnawing, stinging sensation. He drank a glass of water
and smoked another pipe. But his discomfort increased. His thoughts
became more gloomy; he found his room uncomfortable, the morning dull
and monotonous; he was tired and despondent; everything seemed
repulsive; his ideas were spiritless and revolved round nothing but
unpleasant subjects; and still his discomfort grew. He wondered whether
he was hungry? It was one o'clock. He never dined before three. He
anxiously examined his purse. Threepence halfpenny! For the first time
in his life he would have to go without dinner! This was a trouble
hitherto unknown to him. But with threepence halfpenny there was no
necessity to starve. He could send for bread and beer. No! That would
not do; it was _infra dig._ Go to a dairy? No! Borrow? Impossible! He
knew nobody who would lend. No sooner had he realized this than hunger
began to rage in him like a wild beast let loose, biting him, tearing
him and chasing him round the room. He smoked pipe after pipe to
stupefy the monster; in vain.
A rolling of drums from the barracks yard told him that the guardsmen
were lining up with their copper vessels to receive their dinner; every
chimney was smoking; the dinner bell went in the dockyard; a hissing
sound came from his neighbour's, the policemen's kitchen; the smell of
roast meat penetrated through the chinks of the door; he heard the
rattling of knives and plates in the adjacent room, and the children
saying grace. The paviours in the street below were taking their
after-dinner nap with their heads on their empty food baskets. The
whole town was dining; everybody, except he. He raged against God. But
all at once a clear thought shot through his brain. He seized Ulrica
Eleonora and the guardian angel, wrapped them in paper, wrote Smith's
name and address on the parcel, and handed the messenger his threepence
halfpenny. And with a sigh of relief he threw himself on his sofa and
starved, with a heart bursting with pride.
CHAPTER VI
THE RED ROOM
The same afternoon sun which had witnessed Arvid Falk's defeat in his
first battle with hunger shone serenely into the cottage of the
artists' colony, where Sellen, in shirt sleeves, was standing before
his easel working at his picture which had to be in the Exhibition on
the following morning before ten, finished, framed, and varnished. Olle
Montanus sat on the bed-sofa reading the wonderful book lent to him by
Ygberg for a day in exchange for his muffler; betweenwhiles he cast a
look of admiration at Sellen's picture. He had great faith in Sellen's
talent. Lundell was calmly working at his "Descent from the Cross"; he
had already sent three pictures to the Exhibition and, like many
others, he was awaiting their sale with a certain amount of excitement.
"It's fine, Sellen," said Olle, "you paint divinely."
"May I look at your spinach?" asked Lundell, who never admired
anything, on principle.
The subject was simple and grand. The picture represented a stretch of
drifting sand on the coast of Halland with the sea in the background;
it was full of the feeling of autumn; sunbeams were breaking through
riven clouds; the foreground was partly drift sand and newly washed-up
seaweed, dripping wet and lit by the sun; in the middle distance lay
the sea, with huge crested waves--the greater part in deep shadow; but
in the background, on the horizon, the sun was shining, opening up a
perspective into infinity; the only figures were a flock of birds.
No unperverted mind who had the courage to face the mysterious wealth
of solitude, had seen promising harvests choked by the drifting sand,
could fail to understand the picture. It was painted with inspiration
and talent; the colouring was the result of the prevailing mood, the
mood was not engendered by the colouring.
"You _must_ have something in the foreground," persisted Lundell. "Take
my advice."
"Rubbish!" replied Sellen.
"Do what I tell you, and don't be a fool, otherwise you won't sell.
Paint in a figure; a girl by preference; I'll help you if you don't
know how to do it. Look here...."
"None of your tricks! What's the good of petticoats in a high wind?
You're mad on petticoats!"
"Very well, do as you like," replied Lundell, a little hurt by the
reference to one of his weakest points. "But instead of those grey
gulls you should have painted storks. Nobody can tell what sort of
birds these are. Picture the red storks' legs against the dark cloud!
What a contrast!"
"You don't understand!"
Sellen was not clever in stating his motives, but he was sure of his
points and his sound instincts led him safely past all errors.
"You won't sell," Lundell began again; his friend's financial position
worried him.
"Well, I shall live somehow in spite of it. Have I ever sold anything?
Am I the worse for it? Do you think I don't know that I should sell if
I painted like everybody else? Do you think I can't paint as badly as
everybody else? I just don't want to!"
"But you ought to think of paying your debts! You owe Mr. Lund of the
'Sauce-Pan' several hundred crowns."
"Well, that won't ruin him. Moreover I gave him a picture worth twice
that amount."
"You are the most selfish man I ever met! The picture wasn't worth
twenty crowns."
"I value it at five hundred, as prices go! But unfortunately
inclinations and tastes differ here below. I find your 'Crucifixion' an
execrable performance, you find it beautiful. Nobody can blame you for
it. Tastes differ!"
"But you spoilt our credit at the 'Sauce-Pan.' Mr. Lund refused to give
me credit yesterday, and I don't know how I'm to get a dinner to-day."
"What does it matter? Do without it! I haven't had a dinner these last
two years."
"You plundered Mr. Falk the other day, when he fell into your
clutches."
"That's true! He's a nice chap; moreover, he has talent. There's much
originality in his verses; I have read some of them these last few
evenings. But I'm afraid he's not hard enough to get on in this world.
He's too sensitive, the rascal!"
"If he sees much of you, he'll get over that. It's outrageous how you
spoilt that young Rehnhjelm in so short a time. I hear you are
encouraging him to go on the stage."
"Did he tell you that? The little devil! He'll get on if he remains
alive; but that's not so simple when one has so little to eat! God's
death! I've no more paint! Can you spare any white? Merciful Lord! All
the tubes are empty! You must give me some, Lundell!"
"I've no more than I want for myself--and even if I had, I should take
jolly good care not to give you any."
"Stop talking nonsense! You know there's no time to lose!"
"Seriously, I haven't got your colours. If you weren't so wasteful your
tubes would go further."
"I know that! Give me some money, then!"
"Money, indeed! That's no go!"
"Get up, Olle! You must go and pawn something."
At the word pawn Olle's face brightened; he saw a prospect of food.
Sellen was searching the room.
"What's this? A pair of boots! We'll get twopence halfpenny on them;
they'd better be sold."
"They're Rehnhjelm's! You can't take them," objected Lundell, who had
meant to put them on in the afternoon when he was going up to town.
"Surely you aren't going to take liberties with other people's
property!"
"Why not? He'll be getting money for them. What's in this parcel? A
velvet waistcoat! A beauty! I shall keep it for myself and then Olle
can pawn mine. Collars and cuffs? Oh! paper! A pair of socks! Here,
Olle, twopence halfpenny! Wrap them in the waistcoat! You can sell the
empty bottles--I think the best thing would be to sell everything."
"Do you mean to say you are going to sell other people's belongings?
Have you no sense of right and wrong?" interrupted Lundell again,
hoping to gain possession of the parcel which had long tempted him, by
means of persuasion.
"He'll get paid for it later on! But it isn't enough yet. We must take
the sheets off the bed. Why not? We don't want any sheets! Here, Olle,
cram them in!"
Olle very skilfully made a bag of one of the sheets and stuffed
everything into it, while Lundell went on eagerly protesting.
When the parcel was made, Olle took it under his arm, buttoned his
ragged coat so as to hide the absence of a waistcoat, and set out on
his way to the town.
"He looks like a thief," said Sellen, watching him from the window with
a sly smile. "I hope the police won't interfere with him! Hurry up,
Olle!" he shouted after the retreating figure. "Buy six French rolls
and two half-pints of beer if there's anything over after you've bought
the paint."
Olle turned round and waved his hat with as much assurance as if he had
the feast already safely in his pockets.
Lundell and Sellen were alone. Sellen was admiring his new velvet
waistcoat for which Lundell had nursed a secret passion for a long
time. He scraped his palette and cast envious glances at the lost
glory. But it was something else he was trying to speak of; something
else, which was very difficult to mention.
"I wish you'd look at my picture," he said at last. "What do you think
of it, seriously?"
"Don't draw and slave at it so much! Paint! Where does the light come
from? From the clothes, from the flesh! It's crazy! What do these
people breathe? Colour! Turpentine! I see no air!"
"Well," said Lundell, "tastes differ, as you said just now. What do you
think of the composition?"
"Too many people!"
"You're awful! I want more, not fewer."
"Let me see! There's one great mistake in it."
Sellen shot a long glance at the picture, a glance peculiar to the
inhabitants of sea-coasts and plains.
"Yes, you're right," agreed Lundell. "You can see it then?"
"There are only men in your picture. It's somewhat monotonous."
"That's it! But fancy, that you should see that!"
"You want a woman then?"
Lundell looked at him, wondering whether he was joking, but was unable
to settle the point, for Sellen was whistling.
"Yes, I want a female figure," he replied at last.
There was silence, and gradually the silence became uncomfortable: two
very old acquaintances in a _tete-a-tete_ conversation.
"I wish I knew where to get a model from! I don't want the Academy
models, the whole world knows them, and, besides, the subject is a
religious one."
"You want something better? I understand! If it were not for the nude,
I might perhaps...."
"It isn't for the nude! Are you mad? Among all those men ... besides,
it's a religious subject."
"Yes, yes, we know all that. She must be dressed in something Oriental,
and bend down as if she were picking up something, show her shoulders,
her neck, and the first vertebra, I understand. Religious like the
Magdalene! Bird's-eye view!"
"You scoff and jeer at everything!"
"Let's keep to the point! You shall have your model, for it's
impossible to paint without one. You, yourself, don't know one. Very
well! Your religious principles don't allow you to look for one;
therefore Rehnhjelm and I, the two black sheep, will find you one."
"But it must be a respectable girl, don't forget that."
"Of course! We will see what we can do, the day after to-morrow, when
we shall be in funds."
And they went on painting, quietly, diligently, until four--until five.
Every now and then their anxious glances swept the road. Sellen was the
first to break the uneasy silence.
"Olle is a long time! Something must have happened to him," he said.
"Yes, something must be up. But why do you always send the poor devil?
Why can't you run your own errands?"
"He's nothing else to do, and he likes going."
"How d'you know? And besides, let me tell you, nobody can say how
Olle's going to turn out. He has great schemes, and he may be on his
feet any day; then it will be a good thing to have him for a friend."
"You don't say so! What great work is he going to accomplish? I can
quite believe that Olle will become a great man, although not a great
sculptor. But where the devil is he? Do you think he's spending the
money?"
"Possibly, possibly! He's had nothing for a long time and perhaps the
temptation was too strong," answered Lundell, tightening his belt by
two holes, and wondering what he would do in Olle's place.
"Well, he's only human, and charity begins at home," said Sellen, who
knew perfectly well what he would have done under the circumstances.
"But I can't wait any longer. I must have paint, even if I have to
steal it. I'll go and see Falk."
"Are you going to squeeze more out of that poor chap? You robbed him
yesterday for your frame. And it wasn't a small sum you borrowed."
"My dear fellow! I am compelled to cast all feelings of shame to the
winds; there's no help for it. One has to put up with a good deal.
However, Falk is a great-hearted fellow who understands that a man may
suddenly find himself in Queer Street. Anyhow, I'm going. If Olle
returns in the meantime, tell him he's a blockhead. So long! Come to
the Red Room and we'll see whether our master will be graciously
pleased to give us something to eat before the sun sets. Lock the door,
when you leave, and push the key underneath the mat. By-by!"
He went, and before long he stood before Falk's door in Count Magni
Street. He knocked, but received no reply. He opened the door and went
in. Falk, who had probably had uneasy dreams, awakened from his sleep,
jumped up and stared at Sellen without recognizing him.
"Good evening, old chap," said Sellen.
"Oh! It's you. I must have had a strange dream. Good evening! Sit down
and smoke a pipe! Is it evening already?"
Sellen thought he knew the symptoms, but he pretended to notice
nothing.
"You didn't go to the 'Brass Button' to-day?" he remarked.
"No," replied Falk, confused; "I wasn't there, I was at Iduna."
He really did not know whether he had dreamt it or whether he had
actually been there; but he was glad that he had said it, for he was
ashamed of his position.
"Perfectly right, old chap," commented Sellen; "the cooking at the
'Brass Button' is beneath criticism."
"It is, indeed," agreed Falk; "the soup's damned bad."
"And the old head-waiter is always on the spot, counting the rolls and
butter, the rascal!"
The words "rolls and butter" awakened Falk to consciousness; he did not
feel hungry, only a little shaky and faint. But he did not like the
subject of conversation and changed it.
"Well, will your picture be ready for to-morrow?" he asked.
"No, unfortunately, it won't."
"What's the matter now?"
"I can't possibly finish it."
"You can't? Why aren't you at home working?"
"The old, old story, my dear fellow! I have no paint! No paint!"
"But there's a remedy for that! Or haven't you any money?"
"If I had I should be all right."
"And I haven't any either! What's to be done?"
Sellen dropped his eyes until his glance reached the height of Falk's
waistcoat pocket, into which a heavy gold chain was creeping; not that
Sellen believed it to be gold, good, stamped gold. He could not have
understood the recklessness of carrying so much money outside one's
waistcoat. But his thoughts were following a definite course, and he
continued:
"If at least I had something to pawn! But we carelessly pledged our
winter overcoats on the first sunny day in April."
Falk blushed. He had never done such a thing.
"Do you pawn your winter overcoats?" he asked. "Do you get anything on
them?"
"One gets something on everything--on everything," said Sellen, laying
stress on _everything_; "the only thing needful is to have something."
To Falk the room seemed to be turning round. He had to sit down. Then
he pulled out his gold watch.
"How much, do you think, should I get on this watch and chain?"
Sellen seized the future pledges and looked at them with the eye of a
connoisseur.
"Is it gold?" he asked faintly.
"It is gold."
"Stamped?"
"Stamped."
"The chain, too?"
"The chain, too."
"A hundred crowns," declared Sellen, shaking his hand so that the gold
chain rattled. "But it's a pity! You shouldn't pawn your things for my
sake."
"Then for my own," said Falk, anxious to avoid the semblance of an
unselfishness which he did not feel. "I want money, too. If you'll turn
them into cash, you'll do me a service."
"All right then," said Sellen, resolved not to embarrass his friend by
asking indelicate questions. "I'll pawn them! Pull yourself together,
old chap! Life is hard at times, I don't deny it; but we go through
with it."
He patted Falk's shoulder with a cordiality which did not often pierce
the scorn with which he had enveloped himself.
They went out together.
By the time they had concluded the business it was seven o'clock. They
bought the paint and repaired to the Red Room.
* * * * *
Berns' "Salon" had just begun to play its civilizing part in the life
of Stockholm by putting an end to the unhealthy _cafe-chantants_ life
which had flourished--or raged--in the sixties, and from the capital
had spread over the whole country. Here, every evening after seven,
crowds of young people met who lived in that abnormal transition stage
which begins on leaving the parental roof and ends with the foundation
of a new home and family; here were numbers of young men who had
escaped from the solitude of their room or attic to find light and
warmth and a fellow-creature to talk to. The proprietor had made more
than one attempt to amuse his patrons by pantomimic, gymnastic, ballet,
and other performances; but he had been plainly shown that his guests
were not in search of amusement, but in quest of peace; what was wanted
was a consulting-room, where one was likely every moment to chance on a
friend. The band was tolerated because it did not stop conversation,
but rather stimulated it, and gradually it became as much a component
of the Stockholm evening diet, as punch and tobacco.
In this way Berns' Salon became the bachelors' club of all Stockholm.
Every circle had its special corner; the colonists of Lill-Jans had
usurped the inner chess room, usually called the Red Room on account of
its red furniture and for the sake of brevity. It was a safe
meeting-ground even if during the whole day the members had been
scattered like chaff. When times were hard and funds had to be raised
at any cost, regular raids were made from this spot round the room. A
chain was formed: two members skirmished in the galleries, and two
others attacked the room lengthways. One might have said they dredged
the room with a ground-net, and they rarely dredged in vain, for there
was a constant flow of new arrivals during the evening.
To-night, however, these efforts were not required; Sellen, calmly and
proudly, sat down on the red sofa in the background. After having acted
a little farce on the subject of what they were going to drink, they
came to the conclusion that they must have something to eat first. They
were starting the "sexa," and Falk was beginning to feel a return of
his strength, when a long shadow fell across their table. Before them
stood Ygberg, as pale and emaciated as ever. Sellen, who was in funds
to-night, and under those circumstances invariably courteous and
kind-hearted, pressed him to have dinner with them, and Falk seconded
the invitation. Ygberg hesitated while examining the contents of the
dishes and calculating whether his hunger would be satisfied or only
half-satisfied.
"You wield a stinging pen, Mr. Falk," he said, in order to deflect the
attention from the raids which his fork was making on the tray.
"How? What do you mean?" asked Falk flushing; he did not know that
anybody had made the acquaintance of his pen.
"The article has created a sensation."
"What article? I don't understand."
"The correspondence in the _People's Flag_ on the Board of Payment of
Employes' Salaries."
"I didn't write it."
"But the Board is convinced that you did. I just met a member who's a
friend of mine; he mentioned you as the author; I understood that the
resentment was fierce."
"Indeed?"
Falk felt that he was half to blame for it; he realized now what the
notes were which Struve had been making on that evening on Moses
Height. But Struve had merely reported what he, Falk, had said. He was
responsible for his statements and must stand by them even at the risk
of being considered a scandal-monger. Retreat was impossible; he
realized that he must go on.
"Very well," he said, "I am the instigator of the article. But let us
talk of something else! What do you think of Ulrica Eleonora? Isn't she
an interesting character? Or what is your opinion of the Maritime
Insurance Company Triton? Or Haquin Spegel?"
"Ulrica Eleonora is the most interesting character in the whole history
of Sweden," answered Ygberg gravely; "I've just had an order to write
an essay on her."
"From Smith?" asked Falk.
"Yes; but how do you know?"
"I've returned the block this afternoon."
"It's wrong to refuse work. You'll repent it! Believe me."
A hectic flush crimsoned Falk's cheeks; he spoke feverishly. Sellen sat
quietly on the sofa, smoking. He paid more attention to the band than
to the conversation, which did not interest him because he did not
understand it. From his sofa corner he could see through the two open
doors leading to the south gallery, and catch a glimpse of the north
gallery. In spite of the dense cloud of smoke which hung above the pit
between the two galleries, he could distinguish the faces on the other
side. Suddenly his attention was caught by something in the distance.
He clutched Falk's arm.
"The sly-boots! Look behind the left curtain!"
"Lundell!"
"Just so! He's looking for a Magdalene! See! He's talking to her now!
What a beautiful girl!"
Falk blushed, a fact which did not escape Sellen.
"Does he come here for his models?" he asked surprised.
"Well, where else should he go to? He can't find them in the dark."
A moment afterwards Lundell joined them; Sellen greeted him with a
patronizing nod, the significance of which did not seem to be lost on
the newcomer. He bowed to Falk with more than his usual politeness, and
expressed his astonishment at Ygberg's presence in disparaging words.
Ygberg, carefully observing him, seized the opportunity to ask him what
he would like to eat. Lundell opened his eyes; he seemed to have
fallen among magnates. He felt happy; a gentle, philanthropic mood took
possession of him, and after ordering a hot supper, he felt constrained
to give expression to his emotion. It was obvious that he wanted to say
something to Falk, but it was difficult to find an opening. The band
was playing "Hear us, Sweden!" and a moment afterwards "A Stronghold is
our God."
Falk called for more drink.
"I wonder whether you admire this fine old hymn as much as I do, Mr.
Falk?" began Lundell.
Falk, who was not conscious of admiring any one hymn more than another,
asked him to have some punch. Lundell had misgivings; he did not know
whether he could venture. He thought he had better have some more
supper first; he was not strong enough to drink. He tried to prove it,
after his third liqueur, by a short but violent attack of coughing.
"The _Torch of Reconciliation_ is a splendid name," he said presently;
"it proves at the same time the deep, religious need of atonement, and
the light which came into the world when the miracle happened which has
always given offence to the proud in spirit."
He swallowed a meat ball while carefully studying the effect of his
remark--and felt anything but flattered when he saw three blank faces
staring at him, expressing nothing but consternation.
"Spegel is a great name, and his words are not like the words of the
Pharisees. We all know that he wrote the magnificent psalm, 'The
wailing cries are silent,' a psalm which has never been equalled. Your
health, Mr. Falk! I am glad to hear that you are identifying yourself
with the work of such a man."
Lundell discovered that his glass was empty.
"I think I must have another half-pint!"
Two thoughts were humming in Falk's brain: "The fellow is drinking neat
brandy" and "How did he get to know about Spegel?" A suspicion
illuminated his mind like a flash of lightning, but he pretended to
know nothing, and merely said: "Your health, Mr. Lundell!"
The unpleasant explanation which seemed bound to follow was avoided by
the sudden entrance of Olle. It was Olle, but more rugged than before,
dirtier than before and, to judge from his appearance, lamer than
before. His hips stood out beneath his coat like bowsprits; a single
button kept his coat together close above his first rib. But he was in
good spirits and laughed on seeing so much food and drink on the table.
To Sellen's horror he began to report on the success of his mission,
all the time divesting himself of his acquisitions. He had really been
arrested by the police.
"Here are the tickets!"
He handed Sellen two green pawn-tickets across the table, which Sellen
instantly converted into a paper pellet.
He had been taken to the police station. He pointed to his coat, the
collar of which was missing. There he was asked for his name. His name
was, of course, assumed! There existed no such name as Montanus! His
native place? Vaestmanland! Again a false statement! The inspector was a
native of that province and knew his countrymen. His age? Twenty-eight
years! That was a lie; he must be at least forty. His domicile?
Lill-Jans! Another lie; nobody but a gardener lived there. His
profession? Artist! That also was a lie: for he looked like a dock
labourer.
"Here's your paint, four tubes! Better look at them carefully!"
His parcel had been opened and, in the process, one of the sheets had
been torn.
"Therefore I only got one and twopence halfpenny for both. You'll see
that I'm right if you'll look at the ticket."
The next question was where he had stolen the things? Olle had replied
that he had not stolen them; then the inspector drew his attention to
the fact that he had not been asked _whether_ he had stolen them, but
_where_ he had stolen them? Where? where? where?
"Here's your change, twopence halfpenny; I've kept nothing back."
Then the evidence was taken down and the stolen goods--which had been
sealed with three seals--were described. In vain had Olle protested, in
vain had he appealed to their sense of justice and humanity; the only
result of his protestations was a suggestion made by the constable to
place on record that the prisoner--he was already regarded in the light
of a prisoner--was heavily intoxicated; the suggestion was acted upon,
but the word heavily was omitted. After the inspector had repeatedly
urged the constable to try and remember whether the prisoner had
offered resistance at his arrest, and the constable had declared that
he could not take his oath on it--it would have been a very serious
matter for the prisoner looked a desperate character--but it had
_appeared_ to him that he had tried to resist by taking refuge in a
doorway the latter statement was placed on record.
Then a report was drawn up, and Olle was ordered to sign it. It ran as
follows:
A male individual of sinister and forbidding appearance was found
slinking along the row of houses in Northland Street, carrying a
suspicious-looking parcel in his hand. On his arrest he was dressed in
a green frock-coat--he wore no waistcoat--blue serge trousers, a shirt
with the initials P.L. (which clearly proves that either the shirt was
stolen or that he had given a wrong name), woollen stockings with grey
edges, and a felt hat with a cock's feather. Prisoner gave the assumed
name of Olle Montanus, falsely deposed that his people were peasants in
Vaestmanland and that he was an artist, domiciled at Lill-Jans,
obviously an invention. On being arrested he tried to offer resistance
by taking refuge in a doorway. Then followed a minute description of
the contents of the parcel.
As Olle refused to admit the correctness of this report, a telegram was
sent to the prison, and a conveyance appeared to fetch Olle, the
bundle, and a constable.
As they were turning into Mint Street, Olle caught sight of Per Illson,
a member of Parliament and a countryman of his. He called to him, and
Per Illson proved that the report was wrong. Olle was released and his
bundle was restored to him. And now he had come to join them and----
"Here are your French rolls! There are only five of them, for I've
eaten one. And here's the beer!"
He produced five French rolls from his coat pockets, laid them on the
table, and placed two bottles of beer, which he pulled out of his
trousers pockets, by the side of them, after which his figure resumed
its usual disproportions.
"Falk, old chap, you must excuse Olle; he's not used to smart society.
Put the French rolls back into your pockets, Olle! What will you be up
to next?" said Sellen disapprovingly.
Olle obeyed.
Lundell refused to have the tray taken away, although he had cleared
the dishes so thoroughly that it would have been impossible to say what
they had contained; every now and then he seized the brandy bottle,
absent-mindedly, and poured himself out half a glass. Occasionally he
stood up or turned round in his chair to "see what the band was
playing." On those occasions Sellen kept a close eye on him.
At last Rehnhjelm arrived. He had obviously been drinking; he sat down
silently, his eyes seeking an object on which they could rest while he
listened to Lundell's exhortations. Finally his weary eyes fell on
Sellen and remained riveted on the velvet waistcoat, which gave him
plenty of food for thought for the remainder of the evening. His face
brightened momentarily as if he had met an old friend; but the light
on it went out as Sellen buttoned up his coat "because there was a
draught."
Ygberg took care that Olle had some supper, and never tired of urging
him to help himself and to fill his glass.
As the evening advanced music and conversation grew more and more
lively.
This state of semi-stupor had a great charm for Falk; it was warm,
light, and noisy here; he was in the company of men whose lives he had
prolonged for a few more hours and who were therefore gay and lively,
as flies revived by the rays of the sun. He felt that he was one of
them, for he knew that in their inner consciousness they were unhappy;
they were unassuming; they understood him, and they talked like human
beings and not like books; even their coarseness was not unattractive;
there was so much naturalness in it, so much innocence; even Lundell's
hypocrisy did not repulse him; it was so naive and sat on him so
loosely, that it could have been cast off at any moment.
And the evening passed away and the day was over which had pushed Falk
irrevocably on to the thorny path of the writer.
CHAPTER VII
THE IMITATION OF CHRIST
On the following morning Falk was awakened by a maid servant who
brought him a letter. He opened it and read:
Timothy x. 27, 28, 29.
First Corinth. vi. 3, 4, 5.
DEAR BROTHER,
The grace and peace of our Lord J. C., the love of the father and
the fellowship of the H. G., etc., Amen.
I read last night in the _Grey Bonnet_ that you are going to edit
the _Torch of Reconciliation_. Meet me in my office to-morrow
morning.
Your saved brother,
NATHANAEL SKORE.
Now he partially understood Lundell's riddle. He did not know Skore,
the great champion of the Lord, personally; he knew nothing of the
_Torch of Reconciliation_, but he was curious and decided to obey the
insolent request.
At nine o'clock he was in Government Street, looking at the imposing
four-storied house, the front of which, from cellar to roof, was
covered by sign-boards: "Christian Printing office, _Peace_, Ltd.,
second floor. Editorial office, _The Inheritance of the Children of
God_, half-landing floor. Publishing office, _The Last Judgment_, first
floor. Publishing office, _The Trump of Peace_, second floor. Editorial
office of the children's paper, _Feed My Lambs_, first floor. Offices
of the Christian Prayer House Society, Ltd., _The Seat of Mercy_. Loans
granted against first securities, third floor. _Come to Jesus_, third
floor. Employment found for respectable salesmen who can offer
security. Foreign Missions Society, Ltd., _Eagle_, distribution of the
profits of the year 1867 in coupons, second floor. Offices of the
Christian Mission Steamer _Zululu_, second floor. The steamer will
leave, D.V., on the 28th. Goods received against bill of lading and
certificate at the shipping offices close to the landing-bridge where
the steamer is loading. Needlework society 'Ant Heap' receives gifts,
first floor. Clergymen's bands washed and ironed by the porter. Wafers
at 1_s._ 6_d._ a pound obtainable from the porter. Black dress-coats
for confirmation candidates let out. Unfermented wine (Mat. xix. 32) at
91/2_d._ per quart; apply to the porter. (Bring your own jug.)"
On the ground floor, to the left of the archway, was a Christian
bookshop. Falk stopped for a few moments and read the titles of the
books exhibited in the window. It was the usual thing. Indiscreet
questions, impudent charges, offensive familiarities. But his attention
was mainly attracted to a number of illustrated magazines with large
English woodcuts, displayed in the window in order to attract the
passers-by. More especially the children's papers had an interesting
table of contents, and the young man in the shop could have told anyone
who cared to know that old men and women would pass hours before this
window, lost in contemplation of the illustrations, which appeared to
move their pious hearts and awaken memories of their vanished--and
perhaps wasted--youth.
He climbed the broad staircase between Pompeian frescoes reminiscent of
the path which does not lead to salvation, and came to a large room
furnished with desks like a bank, but so far unoccupied by cashiers and
book-keepers. In the centre of the room stood a writing-table, of the
size of an altar, resembling an organ with many stops; there was a
complete key-board with buttons and semaphores with trumpet-like
speaking-tubes, connected with all parts of the building. A big man in
riding-boots was standing at the writing-desk. He wore a cassock
fastened with one button at the neck which gave it a military
appearance; the coat was surmounted by a white band and the mask of a
sea captain, for the real face had long ago been mislaid in one of the
desks or boxes. The big man was slapping the tops of his boots with his
horsewhip, the handle of which was in the form of a symbolical hoof,
and sedulously smoking and chewing a strong regalia, probably to keep
his jaws in trim. Falk looked at the big man in astonishment.
This, then, was the last fashion in clergymen, for in men, too, there
is a fashion. This was the great promulgator, who had succeeded in
making it fashionable to be sinful, to thirst for mercy, to be poor and
wretched, in fact, to be a worthless specimen of humanity in every
possible way. This was the man who had brought salvation in vogue! He
had discovered a gospel for smart society. The divine ordinance of
grace had become a sport! There were competitions in viciousness in
which the prize was given to the sinner. Paper chases were arranged to
catch poor souls for the purpose of saving them; but also, let us
confess it, battues for subjects on whom to demonstrate one's
conversion in a practical manner, by venting on them the most cruel
charity.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Falk," said the mask. "Welcome, dear friend! Perhaps
you would like to see something of my work? Pardon me, I hope you are
saved? Yes, this is the office of the printing works. Excuse me a
second."
He stepped up to the organ and pulled out several stops. The answer was
a long whistle.
"Just have a look round."
He put his mouth to one of the trumpets and shouted: "The seventh
trumpet and the eighth woe! Composition Mediaeval 8, titles Gothic,
names spaced out."
A voice answered through the same trumpet: "No more manuscript." The
mask sat down at the organ, and took a pen and a sheet of foolscap. The
pen raced over the paper while he talked, cigar in mouth.
"This activity--is so extensive--that it would soon--be beyond my
strength--and my health--would be worse--than it is--if I did--not look
after it--so well."
He jumped up, pulled out another stop and shouted into another trumpet:
"Proofs of 'Have you paid your Debt?'" Then he continued writing and
talking.
"You wonder--why--I--wear riding-boots. It's first--because--I take
riding exercises--for the sake of--my health...."
A boy appeared with proofs. The mask handed them to Falk. "Please read
that," he said, speaking through his nose, because his mouth was busy,
while his eyes shouted to the boy: Wait!
"... secondly--(a movement of the ears plainly conveyed to Falk that he
had not lost the thread), because--I am of opinion--that a spiritually
minded man should not--be conspicuous--by his appearance--for this
would be--spiritual pride--and a challenge--to the scoffers."
A book-keeper entered. The mask acknowledged his salutation by a
wrinkling of his forehead, the only part of his face which was
unoccupied.
For want of something else to do, Falk took the proofs and began to
read them. The cigar continued talking:
"Everybody--wears--riding-boots. I won't--be conspicuous--by
my--appearance. I wear--riding-boots--because--I'm no humbug."
He handed the manuscript to the boy and shouted--with his lips: "Four
sticks--Seventh trumpet for Nystroem!"--and then to Falk:
"I shall be disengaged in five minutes. Will you come with me to the
warehouse?"
And to the book-keeper:
"Zululu is charging?"
"Brandy," answered the book-keeper in a rusty voice.
"Everything all right?"
"Everything all right."
"In God's name, then! Come along Mr. Falk."
They entered a room the walls of which were lined with shelves, filled
with piles of books. The mask touched them with his horsewhip and said
proudly:
"I've written those! What do you think of that? Isn't it a lot? You,
too, write--a little. If you stick to it, you might write as much."
He bit and tore at his cigar and spat out the tiny flakes which filled
the air like flies and settled on the backs of the books. His face wore
a look of contempt.
"The _Torch of Reconciliation_! Hm! I think it's a stupid name! Don't
you rather agree with me? What made you think of it?"
For the first time Falk had a chance of getting in a word, for like all
great men, the mask answered his own questions. His reply was in the
negative but he got no further; the mask again usurped the
conversation.
"I think it's a very stupid name. And do you really believe that it
will draw?"
"I know nothing whatever about the matter; I don't know what you are
talking about."
"You don't know?"
He took up a paper and pointed to a paragraph.
Falk, very much taken aback, read the following advertisement:
"Notice to subscribers: The _Torch of Reconciliation_. Magazine for
Christian readers, about to appear under the editorship of Arvid Falk
whose work has been awarded a prize by the Academy of Sciences. The
first number will contain 'God's Creation,' by Hokan Spegel, a poem of
an admittedly religious and profoundly Christian spirit."
Falk had forgotten Spegel and his agreement; he stood speechless.
"How large is the edition going to be? What? Two thousand, I suppose.
Too small! No good! My _Last Judgment_ was ten thousand, and yet I
didn't make more than--what shall I say?--fifteen net."
"Fifteen?"
"Thousand, young man!"
The mask seemed to have forgotten his part and reverted to old habits.
"You know," he continued, "that I'm a popular preacher; I may say that
without boasting, for all the world knows it. You know, that I'm very
popular; I can't help that--it is so! I should be a hypocrite if I
pretended not to know what all the world knows! Well, I'll give you a
helping hand to begin with. Look at this bag here! If I say that it
contains letters from persons--ladies--don't upset yourself, I'm a
married man--begging for my portrait, I have not said too much."
As a matter of fact it was nothing but an ordinary bag which he touched
with his whip.
"To save them and me a great deal of trouble, and at the same time for
the sake of doing a fellow-man a kindness, I have decided to permit you
to write my biography; then you can safely issue ten thousand copies of
your first number and pocket a clear thousand."
"But, my dear pastor--he had it on the tip of his tongue to say
captain--I know nothing at all about this matter."
"Never mind! Never mind! The publisher has himself written to me and
asked me for my portrait. And you are to write my biography! To
facilitate your work, I asked a friend to write down the principal
points. You have only to write an introduction, brief and eloquent--a
few sticks at the most. That's all."
So much foresight depressed Falk; he was surprised to find the portrait
so unlike the original, and the friend's handwriting so much like that
of the mask.
The latter, who had given him portrait and manuscript, now held out his
hand expecting to be thanked.
"My regards to--the publisher."
He had so nearly said Smith, that a slight blush appeared between his
whiskers.
"But you don't know my views yet," protested Falk.
"Views? Have I asked what your views are? I never ask anybody about his
views. God forbid! I? Never!"
Once more he touched the backs of his publications with his whip,
opened the door, let the biographer out and returned to his service at
the altar.
Falk, as usual, could not think of a suitable answer until it was too
late; when he thought of one, he was already in the street. A cellar
window which happened to stand wide open (and was not covered with
advertisements) received biography and portrait into safe keeping.
Then Falk went to the nearest newspaper office, handed in a protest
against the _Torch of Reconciliation_, and resigned himself to starve.
CHAPTER VIII
POOR MOTHER COUNTRY
The clock on the Riddarholms Church struck ten as Falk arrived, a few
days later, at the Parliamentary buildings to assist the representative
of the Red Cap in reporting the proceedings of the Second Chamber.
He hastened his footsteps, convinced that here, where the pay was good,
strict punctuality would be looked upon as a matter of course. He
climbed the Committee stairs and was shown to the reporters' gallery on
the left. A feeling of awe overcame him as he walked across the few
boards, hung up under the roof like a pigeon house, where the men of
"free speech listen to the discussion of the country's most sacred
interests by the country's most worthy representatives."
It was a new sensation to Falk; but he was far from being impressed as
he looked down from his scaffolding into the empty hall which resembled
a Lancastrian school. It was five minutes past ten, but with the
exception of himself, not a soul was present. All of a sudden the
silence was broken by a scraping noise. A rat! he thought, but almost
immediately he discovered, on the opposite gallery, across the huge,
empty hall, a short, abject figure sharpening a pencil on the rail. He
watched the chips fluttering down and settling on the tables below.
His eyes scanned the empty walls without finding a resting-place, until
finally they fell on the old clock, dating from the time of Napoleon I,
with its imperial newly lit emblems, symbolical of the old story, and
its hands, now pointing to ten minutes past ten, symbolical in the
spirit of irony--of something else. At the same moment the doors in the
background opened and a man entered. He was old; his shoulders stooped
under the burden of public offices; his back had shrunk under the
weight of communal commissions; the long continuance in damp offices,
committee-rooms and safe deposits had warped his neck; there was a
suggestion of the pensioner in his calm footsteps, as he walked up the
cocoa-nut matting towards the chair. When he had reached the middle of
the long passage and had come into line with the imperial clock, he
stopped; he seemed accustomed to stopping half-way and looking round
and backwards; but now he stopped to compare his watch with the clock;
he shook his old, worn out head with a look of discontent: "Fast!
Fast!" he murmured. His features expressed a supernatural calm and the
assurance that his watch could not be slow. He continued his way with
the same deliberate footsteps; he might be walking towards the goal of
his life; and it was very much a question whether he had not attained
it when he arrived at the venerable chair on the platform. When he was
standing close by it he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose;
his eyes roamed over the brilliant audience of chairs and tables,
announcing an important event: "Gentlemen, I have blown my nose." Then
he sat down and sank into a presidential calm which might have been
sleep, if it had not been waking; and, alone in the large room, as he
imagined, alone with his God, he prepared to summon strength for the
business of the day, when a loud scraping on the left, high up,
underneath the roof, pierced the stillness; he started and turned his
head to kill with a three-quarter look the rat which dared to gnaw in
his presence. Falk who had omitted to take into account the resonant
capacity of the pigeon house, received the deadly thrust of the
murderous glance; but the glance softened as it slid down from the
eaves-mouldings, whispering--"Only a reporter; I was afraid it might
be a rat." And deep regret stole over the murderer, contrition at the
sin committed by his eye; he buried his face in his hands and--wept?
Oh, no! he rubbed off the spot which the appearance of a repulsive
object had thrown on his retina.
Presently the doors were flung wide open; the delegates were beginning
to arrive, while the hands on the clock crept forward--forward. The
president rewarded the good with friendly nods and pressures of the
hand, and punished the evil-doers by turning away his head; he was
bound to be just as the Most High.
The reporter of the Red Cap arrived, an unprepossessing individual, not
quite sober and only half awake. In spite of this he seemed to find
pleasure in answering truthfully the questions put by the newcomer.
Once more the doors were flung open and in stalked a man with as much
self-assurance as if he were in his own home: he was the treasurer of
the Inland Revenue Office and actuary of the Board of Payment of
Employes' Salaries; he approached the chair, greeted the president like
an old acquaintance and began to rummage in the papers as if they were
his own.
"Who's this?" asked Falk.
"The chief clerk," answered his friend from the Red Cap.
"What? Do they write here, too, then?"
"Too? You'll soon see! They keep a story full of clerks; the attics are
full of clerks and they'll soon have clerks in the cellars."
The room below was now presenting the aspect of an ant-heap. A rap of
the hammer and there was silence. The head clerk read the minutes of
the last meeting, and they were signed without comment. Then the same
man read a petition for a fortnight's leave, sent in by Jon Jonson from
Lerbak. It was granted.
"Do they have holidays here?" asked the novice, surprised.
"Certainly, Jon Jonson wants to go home and plant his potatoes."
The platform down below was now beginning to fill with young men armed
with pen and paper. All of them were old acquaintances from the time
when Falk was a Government official. They took their seats at little
tables as if they were going to play "Preference."
"Those are the clerks," explained the Red Cap; "they appear to
recognize you."
And they really did; they put on their eye-glasses and stared at the
pigeon house with the condescension vouchsafed in a theatre by the
occupants of the stalls to the occupants of the galleries. They
whispered among themselves, evidently discussing an absent acquaintance
who, from unmistakable evidence, must have been sitting on the chair
occupied by Falk. The latter was so deeply touched by the general
interest that he looked with anything but a friendly eye on Struve, who
was entering the pigeon house, reserved, unembarrassed, dirty and a
conservative.
The chief clerk read a petition, or a resolution, to grant the
necessary money for the provision of new door mats and new brass
numbers on the lockers destined for the reception of overshoes.
Granted!
"Where is the opposition?" asked the tyro.
"The devil knows!"
"But they say Yes to everything!"
"Wait a little and you'll see!"
"Haven't they come yet?"
"Here every one comes and goes as he pleases."
"But this is the Government Offices all over again!"
The conservative Struve, who had heard the frivolous words, thought it
incumbent on him to take up the cudgels for the Government.
"What is this, little Falk is saying?" he asked. "He mustn't growl
here."
It took Falk so long to find a suitable reply that the discussions down
below had started in the meantime.
"Don't mind him," said the Red Cap, soothingly; "he's invariably a
conservative when he has the price of a dinner in his pocket, and he's
just borrowed a fiver from me."
The chief clerk was reading: 54. Report of the Committee on Ola
Hipsson's motion to remove the fences.
Timber merchant Larsson from Norrland demanded acceptance as it stood.
"What is to become of our forests?" he burst out. "I ask you, what _is_
to become of our forests?" And he threw himself on his bench, puffing.
This racy eloquence had gone out of fashion during the last few years,
and the words were received with hisses, after which the puffing on the
Norrland bench ceased.
The representative for Oeland suggested sandstone walls; Scania's
delegate preferred box; Norbotten's opined that fences were unnecessary
where there were no fields, and a member on the Stockholm bench
proposed that the matter should be referred to a Committee of experts:
he laid stress on "experts." A violent scene followed. Death rather
than a committee! The question was put to the vote. The motion was
rejected; the fences would remain standing until they decayed.
The chief clerk was reading: 66. Report of the Committee on Carl
Joensson's proposition to intercept the moneys for the Bible Commission.
At the sound of the venerable name of an institution a hundred years
old, even the smiles died away and a respectful silence ensued. Who
would dare to attack religion in its very foundation, who would dare to
face universal contempt? The Bishop of Ystad asked permission to speak.
"Shall I write?" asked Falk.
"No, what he says doesn't concern us."
But the conservative Struve took down the following notes: Sacred. Int.
Mother country. United names religion humanity 829, 1632. Unbelief.
Mania for innovations. God's word. Man's word. Centen. Ansgar. Zeal.
Honesty. Fairplay. Capac. Doctrine. Exist. Swed. Chch. Immemorial Swed.
Honour. Gustavus I. Gustavus Adolphus. Hill Lutzen. Eyes Europe.
Verdict posterity. Mourning. Shame. Green fields. Wash my hands. They
would not hear.
Carl Joensson held the floor.
"Now it's our turn!" said the Red Cap.
And they wrote while Struve embroidered the Bishop's velvet.
Twaddle. Big words. Commission sat for a hundred years. Costs 100.000
Crowns. 9 archbishops. 30 Prof. Upsala. Together 500 years. Dietaries.
Secretaries. Amanuenses. Done nothing. Proof sheet. Bad work. Money
money money. Everything by its right name. Humbug. Official
sucking-system.
No one else spoke but when the question was put to the vote, the motion
was accepted.
While the Red Cap with practised hand smoothed Joensson's stumbling
speech, and provided it with a strong title, Falk took a rest.
Accidentally scanning the strangers' gallery, his gaze fell on a
well-known head, resting on the rail and belonging to Olle Montanus. At
the moment he had the appearance of a dog, carefully watching a bone;
and he was not there without a very definite reason, but Falk was in
the dark. Olle was very secretive.
From the end of the bench, just below the right gallery, on the very
spot where the abject individual's pencil chips had fluttered down, a
man now arose. He wore a blue uniform, had a three-cornered hat tucked
under his arm and held a roll of paper in his hand.
The hammer fell and an ironical, malicious silence followed.
"Write," said the Red Cap; "take down the figures, I'll do the rest."
"Who is it?"
"These are Royal propositions."
The man in blue was reading from the paper roll: "H.M. most gracious
proposition; to increase the funds of the department assisting young
men of birth in the study of foreign languages, under the heading of
stationery and sundry expenses, from 50.000 crowns to 56.000 crowns 37
oere."
"What are sundry expenses?" asked Falk.
"Water bottles, umbrella stands, spittoons, Venetian blinds, dinners,
tips and so on. Be quiet, there's more to come!"
The paper roll went on: "H.M. most gracious proposition to create sixty
new commissions in the West-Gotic cavalry."
"Did he say sixty?" asked Falk, who was unfamiliar with public affairs.
"Sixty, yes; write it down."
The paper roll opened out and grew bigger and bigger. "H.M. most
gracious proposition to create five new regular clerkships in the Board
of Payment of Employes' Salaries."
Great excitement at the Preference tables; great excitement on Falk's
chair.
Now the paper roll rolled itself up; the chairman rose and thanked the
reader with a bow which plainly said: "Is there nothing else we can
do?" The owner of the paper roll sat down on the bench and blew away
the chips the man above him had allowed to fall down. His stiff,
embroidered collar prevented him from committing the same offence which
the president had perpetrated earlier in the morning.
The proceedings continued. The peasant Sven Svensson asked for
permission to say a few words on the Poor Law. With one accord all the
reporters arose, yawned and stretched themselves.
"We'll go to lunch now," explained the Red Cap. "We have an hour and
ten minutes."
But Sven Svensson was speaking.
The delegates began to get up from their places; two or three of them
went out. The president spoke to some of the good members and by doing
so expressed in the name of the Government his disapproval of all Sven
Svensson might be going to say. Two older members pointed him out to a
newcomer as if he were a strange beast; they watched him for a few
moments, found him ridiculous and turned their backs on him.
The Red Cap was under the impression that politeness required him to
explain that the speaker was the "scourge" of the Chamber. He was
neither hot nor cold, could be used by no party, be won for no
interests, but he spoke--spoke. What he spoke about no one could tell,
for no paper reported him, and nobody took the trouble to look up the
records; but the clerks at the tables had sworn that if they ever came
into power, they would amend the laws for his sake.
Falk, however, who had a certain weakness for all those who were
overlooked remained behind and heard what he had not heard for many a
day: a man of honour, who lived an irreproachable life, espousing the
cause of the oppressed and the down-trodden while nobody listened to
him.
Struve, at the sight of the peasant, had taken his own departure, and
had gone to a restaurant; he was quickly followed by all the reporters
and half the deputies.
After luncheon they returned and sat down on the narrow stairs; for a
little longer they heard Sven Svensson speaking, or rather, saw him
speaking, for now the conversation had become so lively that not a
single word of the speech could be understood.
But the speaker was bound to come to an end; nobody had any objections
to make; his speech had no result whatever; it was exactly as if it had
never been made.
The chief clerk, who during this interval had had time to go to his
offices, look at the official papers, and poke his fires, was again in
his place, reading: "72. Memorial of the Royal Commission on Per
Ilsson's motion to grant ten thousand crowns for the restoration of the
old sculptures in the church of Traeskola."
The dog's head on the rail of the strangers' gallery assumed a
threatening aspect; he looked as if he were going to fight for his
bone.
"Do you know the freak up there in the gallery?" asked the Red Cap.
"Olle Montanus, yes, I know him."
"Do you know that he and the church of Traeskola are countrymen? He's a
shrewd fellow! Look at the expression on his face now that Traeskola's
turn has come."
Per Ilsson was speaking.
Struve contemptuously turned his back on the speaker and cut himself a
piece of tobacco. But Falk and the Red Cap trimmed their pencils for
action.
"You take the flourishes, I'll take the facts," said the Red Cap.
After the lapse of a quarter of an hour Falk's paper was covered with
the following notes.
Native Culture. Social Interests. Charge of materialism. Accord. Fichte
material, Native Culture not mater. Ergo charge rejected. Venerable
temple. In the radiance morning sun pointing heavenwards. From heath.
times Philos. never dreamt. Sacred rights. Nation. Sacred Int. Native
Cult. Literature. Academy. History. Antiquity.
The speech which had repeatedly called forth universal amusement
especially at the exhumation of the deceased Fichte, provoked replies
from the Metropolitan Bench and the bench of Upsala.
The delegate on the Metropolitan bench said that although he knew
neither the church of Traeskola nor Fichte and doubted whether the old
plaster-boys were worth ten thousand crowns, yet he thought himself
justified in urging the Chamber to encourage this beautiful undertaking
as it was the first time the majority had asked for money for a purpose
other than the building of bridges, fences, national schools, etc.
The delegate on the bench of Upsala held--according to Struve's
notes--that the mover of the proposition was _a priori_ right; that his
premise, that native culture should be encouraged, was correct; that
the conclusion that ten thousand crowns should be voted was binding;
that the purpose, the aim, the tendency, was beautiful, praiseworthy,
patriotic; but an error had certainly been committed. By whom? By the
Mother country? The State? The church? No! By the proponent? The
proponent was right according to common sense, and therefore the
speaker--he begged the Chamber to pardon the repetition--could only
praise the purpose, the aim, the tendency. The proposition had its
warmest sympathies; he was calling on the Chamber in the name of the
Mother country, in the name of art and civilization, to vote for it.
But he himself felt bound to vote against it, because he was of the
opinion that, conformable to the idea, it was erroneous, motiveless and
figurative, as it subsumed the conception of the place under that of
the State.
The head in the strangers' gallery rolled its eyes and moved its lips
convulsively while the motion was put to the vote; but when the
proceeding was over and the proposition had been accepted, the head
disappeared in the discontented and jostling audience.
Falk did not fail to understand the connexion between Per Ilsson's
proposition and Olle's presence and disappearance. Struve, who had
become even more loud and conservative after lunch, talked unreservedly
of many things. The Red Cap was calm and indifferent; he had ceased to
be astonished at anything.
From the dark cloud of humanity which had been rent by Olle's exit,
suddenly broke a face, clear, bright and radiant as the sun, and Arvid
Falk, whose glances had strayed to the gallery, felt compelled to cast
down his eyes and turn away his head--he had recognized his brother,
the head of the family, the pride of the name, which he intended to
make great and honourable. Behind Nicholas Falk's shoulder half of a
black face could be seen, gentle and deceitful, which seemed to whisper
secrets into the ear of the fair man. Falk had only time to be
surprised at his brother's presence--he knew his resentment at the new
form of administration--for the president had given Anders Andersson
permission to state a proposition. Andersson availed himself of the
permission with the greatest calm. "In view of certain events," he
read, "move that a Bill should be passed making his Majesty jointly and
severally liable for all joint-stock companies whose statutes he has
sanctioned."
The sun on the strangers' gallery lost its brilliancy and a storm burst
out in the Chamber.
Like a flash Count Splint was on his legs:
"_Quosque tandem, Catilina!_ It has come to that! Members are
forgetting themselves so far as to dare to criticize Government! Yes,
gentlemen, criticize Government, or, what is even worse, make a joke of
it; for this motion cannot be anything but a vulgar joke. Did I say
joke? It is treason! Oh! My poor country! Your unworthy sons have
forgotten the debt they owe you! But what else can we expect, now, that
you have lost your knightly guard, your shield and your arms! I request
the blackguard Per Andersson, or whatever his name may be, to withdraw
his motion or, by Gad! he shall see that King and country still have
loyal servants, able to pick up a stone and fling it at the head of the
many-headed hydra of treason."
Applause from the strangers' gallery; indignation in the Chamber.
"Ha! Do you think I'm afraid?"
The speaker made a gesture as if he were throwing a stone, but on every
one of the hydra's hundred faces lay a smile. Glaring round, in search
of a hydra which did not smile, the speaker discovered it in the
reporters' gallery.
"There! There!"
He pointed to the pigeon house and in his eyes lay an expression as if
he saw all hell open.
"That's the crows' nest! I hear their croaking, but it doesn't frighten
me! Arise, men of Sweden! Cut off the tree, saw through the boards,
pull down the beams, kick the chairs to pieces, break the desks into
fragments, small as my little finger--he held it up--and then burn the
blackguards until nothing of them is left. Then the kingdom will
flourish in peace and its institutions will thrive. Thus speaks a
Swedish nobleman! Peasants, remember his words!"
This speech which three years ago would have been welcomed with
acclamations, taken down verbatim and printed and circulated in
national schools and other charitable institutions, was received with
universal laughter. An amended version was placed on the record and,
strange to say, it was only reported by the opposition papers which do
not, as a rule, care to publish outbursts of this description.
The Upsala bench again craved permission to speak. The speaker quite
agreed with the last speaker; his acute ear had caught something of the
old rattling of swords. He would like to say a few words. He would like
to speak of the _idea_ of a joint-stock company as an idea, but begged
to be allowed to explain to the Chamber that a joint-stock company was
not an accumulation of funds, not a combination of people, but a moral
personality, and as such not responsible....
Shouts of laughter and loud conversation prevented the reporters from
hearing the remainder of the argument, which closed with the remark
that the interests of the country were at stake, conformable to the
idea, and that, if the motion were rejected the interests of the
country would be neglected and the State in danger.
Six speakers filled up the interval until dinner-time by giving
extracts from the official statistics of Sweden, Nauman's Fundamental
Statutes, the Legal Textbook and the Goeteberg Commercial Gazette: the
conclusion invariably arrived at was that the country was in danger if
his Majesty were to be jointly and severally liable for all joint-stock
companies the statutes of which he had sanctioned; and that the
interests of the whole country were at stake. One of the speakers was
bold enough to say that the interests of the country stood on a throw
of the dice; others were of the opinion that they stood on a card,
others again that they hung on a thread; the last speaker said they
hung on a hair.
At noon the proposition to go into Committee on the motion was
rejected; that was to say, there was no need for the country to go
through the Committee-mill, the office-sieve, the Imperial
chaff-cutter, the club-winnower and the newspaper-hubbub. The country
was saved. Poor country!
CHAPTER IX
BILLS OF EXCHANGE
Some time after Arvid Falk's first experience as a reporter Charles
Nicholas Falk and his beloved wife were sitting at the breakfast table.
He was, contrary to his custom, not in dressing-gown and slippers, and
his wife was wearing an expensive morning-gown.
"Yes, they were all here yesterday," said Mrs. Falk, laughing gaily,
"all five of them, and they were extremely sorry about the matter."
"I wish the deuce...."
"Nicholas, remember you are no longer standing behind the counter."
"What am I to say then if I lose my temper?"
"One doesn't lose one's temper, one gets annoyed! And it's permissible
to say: 'It's very extraordinary!'"
"Very well, then, it's very extraordinary that you have always
something unpleasant up your sleeve. Why can't you refrain from telling
me things you know will irritate me?"
"Vex you, old man! You expect me to keep my vexations to myself; but
you lie----"
"Lay, old girl!"
"I say _lie_ your burdens on my shoulders too. Was that what you
promised me when we got married?"
"Don't make a scene, and don't let's have any of your logic! Go on!
They were all here, mamma and your five sisters?"
"Four sisters! You don't care much for your family!"
"No more do you!"
"No more do I!"
"And they came here to condole with you on account of my brother's
discharge? Is that so?"
"Yes! And they were impertinent enough to say that I had no longer any
reason to be stuck up...."
"Proud, old girl!"
"They said _stuck up_. Personally I should never have condescended to
make use of such an expression."
"What did you say? I expect you gave them a piece of your mind?"
"You may depend on that! The old lady threatened never again to cross
our threshold."
"Did she really? Do you think she meant it?"
"No, I don't! But I'm certain that the old man...."
"You shouldn't speak of your father in that tone! Supposing somebody
heard you!"
"Do you think I should run that risk? However, the old man--between you
and me--will never come here again."
Falk pondered; after a while he resumed the conversation.
"Is your mother proud? Is she easily hurt? I'm always so afraid of
hurting people's feelings, as you know; you ought to tell me about her
weak points, so that I can take care."
"You ask me whether she is proud? You know; she is, in her own way.
Supposing, for instance, she was told that we had given a dinner-party
without asking her and my sisters, she would never come here again."
"Wouldn't she really?"
"You may depend upon it."
"It's extraordinary that people of her class----"
"What's that?"
"Oh, nothing; women are so sensitive! How's your association getting
on? What did you call it?"
"The Association for the Promotion of Women's Rights."
"What rights do you mean?"
"The wife shall have the right of disposing of her own property."
"Hasn't she got it already?"
"No, she hasn't."
"May I ask what your property is of which you are not allowed to
dispose?"
"Half of your's, old man! My dowry."
"The devil! Who taught you such rubbish?"
"It's not rubbish; it's the spirit of the age, my dear. The new law
should read like this: 'When a woman marries she becomes the owner of
half her husband's property, and of this half she can dispose as she
likes.'"
"And when she has run through it, the husband will have to keep her! I
should take jolly good care not to."
"Under the new law you would be forced to do so, or go to the
poor-house. This would be the penalty for a man who doesn't keep his
wife."
"Take care! You are going too far! But, have you any meetings? Who were
the women present? Tell me?"
"We are still busy with the statutes, with the preliminaries."
"But who are the women?"
"At present only Mrs. Homan, the controller's wife, and Lady
Rehnhjelm."
"Rehnhjelm? A very good name! I think I've heard it before. But didn't
you tell me you were going to float a Dorcas Society as well?"
"_Found_ a Dorcas Society! Oh, yes, and what d'you think? Pastor Skore
is coming one evening to read a paper."
"Pastor Skore is an excellent preacher and moves in good society. I'm
glad that you're keeping away from the lower classes. There's nothing
so fatal to man or woman as to form low connexions. My father always
said that; it was one of his strictest principles."
Mrs. Falk picked up the bread-crumbs from the tablecloth and dropped
them into her empty cup. Mr. Falk put his fingers into his waistcoat
pocket and brought out a tooth-pick with which he removed some tiny
atoms of coffee grounds lodged between his teeth.
Husband and wife felt self-conscious in each other's company. Each
guessed the thoughts of the other, and both realized that the first who
broke the silence would say something foolish and compromising. They
cast about for fresh subjects of conversation, mentally examined them
and found them unsuitable; every one of them had some connexion with
what had been said, or could be brought into connexion with it. Falk
would have liked to have reason for finding fault with the breakfast,
so as to have an excuse for expressing indignation; Mrs. Falk looked
out of the window, feebly hoping that there might be a change in the
weather--in vain.
A maid-servant entered and saved the situation by offering them a tray
with the newspapers, at the same time announcing Mr. Levin.
"Ask him to wait," said the master curtly.
For a few moments his boots squeaked up and down the room, preparing
the visitor who was waiting in the corridor for his arrival.
The trembling Levin, greatly impressed by the newly invented waiting in
the corridor, was ultimately conducted into the master's private room,
where he was received like a petitioner.
"Have you brought the bill of exchange with you?" asked Falk.
"I think so," replied the crestfallen Levin, producing a bundle of
guarantees and blank bills of various values. "Which bank do you
prefer? I have bills on all with the exception of one."
In spite of the grave character of the situation Falk could not help
smiling as he looked at the incomplete guarantees on which the name was
missing; the bills fully filled up with the exception of an acceptor's
name, and those completely filled up, which had not been accepted.
"Let's say the Ropemakers' Bank," he said.
"That's the one impossible one--I'm known there."
"Well, the Shoemakers' Bank, the Tailors' Bank, any one you like, only
do be quick about it."
They finally accepted the Joiners' Bank.
"And now," said Falk, with a look as if he had bought the other's soul,
"now you had better go and order a new suit; but I want you to order it
at a military tailor's, so that they will supply you later on with a
uniform on credit."
"Uniform? I don't want----"
"Hold your tongue, and do as you are told! It must be finished on
Thursday next, when I'm going to give a big party. As you know, I've
sold my shop and warehouse, and to-morrow I shall receive the freedom
of the city as a wholesale merchant."
"Oh! I congratulate you!"
"Hold your tongue when I'm speaking! You must go and pay a call now.
With your deceitful ways, your unrivalled capacity for talking
nonsense, you have succeeded in winning the good graces of my
mother-in-law. I want you to ask her what she thought of the party I
gave on Sunday last."
"Did you...."
"Hold your tongue and do as I tell you! She'll be jealous and ask you
whether you were present. Of course you weren't, for there was no
party. You'll both express discontent, become good friends and slander
me; I know you're an expert at it. But you must praise my wife. Do you
understand?"
"No; not quite."
"Well, it's not necessary that you should; all you've got to do is to
carry out my orders. Another thing--tell Nystroem that I've grown so
proud that I don't want to have anything more to do with him. Tell him
that straight out; you'll be speaking the truth for once! No! Hold on!
We'll postpone that! You'll go to him, speak of the importance of next
Thursday; paint for him the great advantages, the many benefits, the
brilliant prospects, and so on. You understand me!"
"I understand."
"Then you take the manuscript to the printers' and--then...."
"We'll kick him out!"
"If you like to call it that, I have no objection."
"And am I to read the verses to your guests and distribute them?"
"Hm--yes! And another thing! Try to meet my brother; find out all you
can about his circumstances and friends! Make up to him, worm yourself
into his confidence--the latter's an easy job--become his friend! Tell
him that I've cheated him, tell him that I am proud, and ask him how
much he'll take for changing his name."
A tinge of green, representing a blush, spread over Levin's pale face.
"That's ugly," he said.
"What? And besides--one thing more! I'm a business man and I like order
in all my transactions. I guarantee such and such a sum; I must pay
it--that's clear!"
"Oh, no!"
"Don't talk rubbish! I have no security in case of death. Just sign
this bond made out to the holder and payable at sight. It's merely a
formality."
At the word _holder_ a slight tremor shook Levin's body, and he seized
the pen hesitatingly, although he well knew that retreat was
impossible. In imagination he saw a row of shabby, spectacled men,
carrying canes in their hands, their breast-pockets bulging with
stamped documents; he heard knocking at doors, running on stairs,
summonses, threats, respite; he heard the clock on the town hall
striking as the men shouldered their canes and led him--with clogged
feet--to the place of execution, where he himself was finally released,
but where his honour as a citizen fell under the executioner's axe amid
the delighted shouts of the crowd. He signed. The audience was over.
CHAPTER X
THE NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE "GREY BONNET"
For forty years Sweden had worked for the right which every man obtains
when he comes of age. Pamphlets had been written, newspapers founded,
stones thrown, suppers eaten and speeches made; meetings had been held,
petitions had been presented, the railways had been used, hands had
been pressed, volunteer regiments had been formed; and so, in the end,
with a great deal of noise, the desired object had been attained.
Enthusiasm was great and justifiable. The old birchwood tables at the
Opera Restaurant were transformed into political tribunes; the fumes of
the reform-punch attracted many a politician, who, later on, became a
great screamer; the smell of reform cigars excited many an ambitious
dream which was never realized; the old dust was washed off with reform
soap; it was generally believed that everything would be right now; and
after the tremendous uproar the country lay down and fell asleep,
confidently awaiting the brilliant results which were to be the outcome
of all this fuss.
It slept for a few years, and when it awoke it was faced by a reality
which suggested a miscalculation. There were murmurs here and there;
the statesmen who had recently been lauded to the skies w
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/37039