The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Red Room, by August Strindberg
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Title: The Red Room
Author: August Strindberg
Translator: Ellie Schleussner
Release Date: August 11, 2011 [EBook #37039]
Language: English
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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 Riddarfjörd, 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 Hästarholm, 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
employé. 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 Employés' 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 Employés' 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
employés.
"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 Employés' 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 Cæsar,
Julius Cæsar, Julius Cæsar 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
Employés' 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 employés 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 employés--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
employé 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 Employés' 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 Sellén, 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.
"Sellén! 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 Sellén, 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
Sellén, 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
Sellén 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: _Cæsare 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.
Sellén 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; Sellén
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. Sellén, 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 Sellén, of whom he was fond, and stay
with Lundell whom he disliked.
"We shall meet to-night at the Red Room," said Sellén, comforting him,
and all agreed, even the philosophers and the moral Lundell.
On their way to town Sellén 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--Sellén 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 Nyström 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 Nyström 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 Nyström, 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, Nyström," 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, Nyström, surely you know it by heart, don't
you?"
Nyström 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, Nyström! 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!"
Nyström 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 Nyström 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, Nyström,
if--I--forge a bill--am I a scoundrel?"
"Of course you are a scoundrel, the devil take you!" answered Nyström,
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 Nyström 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 Employés'
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 Nyström, 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 Nyström
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.
Nyström 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 Sjöholm. 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 Sjöholm'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 Sjöholm'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 Sjöblom (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 Sjöholm 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 Sjöholm's name is
already well known." Then a correspondence was started in the
_X-köpings Miscellaneous_, reproaching the metropolitan papers with
being hard on young authors. "Gustav Sjöholm 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
Sjöholm's name is already well known, etc. (_Grey Bonnet_)." "Gustav
Sjöholm is a genius, etc. (_X-köpings 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
Sjöholm 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 Sjöholm, and
others. It was a fact. In the eighth month Gustav Sjöholm 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 Tegnér, like Ohrenschlägel, 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 cliché 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 Görtz--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 £60,000. 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, £1500.
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 début
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 Sellén, 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 Sellén's picture. He had great faith in Sellén'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, Sellén," 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 Sellén.
"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!"
Sellén 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.
Sellén 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 Sellén, 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 Sellén were alone. Sellén 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."
Sellén 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 Sellén 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 _tête-à-tête_ 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. Sellén 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 Sellén, 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 Sellén without recognizing him.
"Good evening, old chap," said Sellén.
"Oh! It's you. I must have had a strange dream. Good evening! Sit down
and smoke a pipe! Is it evening already?"
Sellén 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 Sellén; "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?"
Sellén dropped his eyes until his glance reached the height of Falk's
waistcoat pocket, into which a heavy gold chain was creeping; not that
Sellén 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 Sellén, 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?"
Sellén 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 Sellén, 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 Sellén, 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 _café-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; Sellén, 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. Sellén, 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
Employés' 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. Sellén 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 Sellén.
"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; Sellén 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 Sellén'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 Sellén two green pawn-tickets across the table, which Sellén
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? Västmanland! 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
Västmanland 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 Sellén 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 Sellén 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
Sellén 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 Sellén 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 naïve 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
9½_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 Mediæval 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 Nyström!"--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
Employés' 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
Jönsson'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 Lûtzen. Eyes Europe.
Verdict posterity. Mourning. Shame. Green fields. Wash my hands. They
would not hear.
Carl Jönsson 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 Jönsson'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
öre."
"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 Employés' 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 Träskola."
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 Träskola are countrymen? He's a
shrewd fellow! Look at the expression on his face now that Träskola'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 Träskola 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 _à 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 Göteberg 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 Nyström 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 were now
criticized. There were even, among the students, some who discovered
that the whole movement had originated in a country which stood in very
close relationship to the promoter of the Bill, and that the original
could be found in a well-known handbook. But enough of it!
Characteristic of these days was a certain embarrassment which soon
took the form of universal discontent or, as it was called, opposition.
But it was a new kind of opposition; it was not, as is generally the
case, directed against the Government, but against Parliament. It was a
Conservative opposition including Liberals as well as Conservatives,
young men as well as old; there was much misery in the country.
Now it happened that the newspaper syndicate _Grey Bonnet_, born and
grown up under Liberal auspices, fell asleep when it was called upon to
defend unpopular views--if one may speak of the views of a syndicate.
The directors proposed at the General Meeting that certain opinions
should be changed, as they had the effect of decreasing the number of
subscribers, necessary to the continuance of the enterprise. The
General Meeting agreed to the proposition, and the _Grey Bonnet_ became
a Conservative paper. But there was a _but_, although it must be
confessed that it did not greatly embarrass the syndicate; it was
necessary to have a new chief editor to save the syndicate from
ridicule; that no change need be made so far as the invisible editorial
staff was concerned, went without saying. The chief editor, a man of
honour, tendered his resignation. The editorial management, which had
long been abused on account of its red colour, accepted it with
pleasure, hoping thereby, without further trouble, to take rank as a
better class paper. There only remained the necessity of finding a new
chief editor. In accordance with the new programme of the syndicate, he
would have to possess the following qualifications: he must be known as
a perfectly trustworthy citizen; must belong to the official class;
must possess a title, usurped or won, which could be elaborated if
necessity arose. In addition to this he must be of good appearance, so
that one could show him off at festivals and on other public
occasions; he must be dependent; a little stupid, because true
stupidity always goes hand in hand with Conservative leanings; he must
be endowed with a certain amount of shrewdness, which would enable him
to know intuitively the wishes of his chiefs and never let him forget
that public and private welfare are, rightly understood, one and the
same thing. At the same time he must not be too young, because an older
man is more easily managed; and finally, he must be married, for the
syndicate, which consisted of business men, knew perfectly well that
married slaves are more amenable than unmarried ones.
The individual was discovered, and he was to a high degree endowed with
all the characteristics enumerated. He was a strikingly handsome man
with a fairly fine figure and a long, wavy beard, hiding all the weak
points of his face, which otherwise would have given him away. His
large, full, deceitful eyes caught the casual observer and inspired his
confidence, which was then unscrupulously abused. His somewhat veiled
voice, always speaking words of love, of peace, of honour and above all
of patriotism, beguiled many a misguided listener, and brought him to
the punch table where the excellent man spent his evenings, preaching
straightforwardness and love of the Mother Country.
The influence which this man of honour exerted on his evil environment
was marvellous; it could not be seen, but it could be heard. The whole
pack, which for years had been let loose on everything time-honoured
and venerable, which had not even let alone the higher things, was now
restrained and full of love--not only for its old friends--was now--and
not merely in its heart--moral and straightforward. They carried out in
every detail the programme drawn up by the new editor on his accession,
the cardinal points of which, expressed in a few words, were: to
persecute all good ideas if they were new, to fight for and uphold all
bad ones if they were old, to grovel before those in power, to extol
all those on whom fortune was smiling, to push down all those who
strove to rise, to adore success and abuse misfortune. Freely
translated the programme read: to acknowledge and cheer only the tested
and admittedly good, to work against the mania of innovation, and to
persecute severely, but justly, everybody who was trying to get on by
dishonest means, for honest work only should be crowned with success.
The secret of the last clause which the editorial staff had principally
at heart was not difficult to discover. The staff consisted entirely of
people whose hopes had been disappointed in one way or another; in most
cases by their own fault--through drinking and recklessness. Some of
them were "college geniuses," who in the past had enjoyed a great
reputation as singers, speakers, poets or wits, and had then justly--or
according to them unjustly--been forgotten. During a number of years it
had been their business to praise and promote, frequently against their
own inclination, everything that was new, all the enterprises started
by reformers; it was, therefore, not strange that now they seized the
opportunity to attack--under the most honourable pretexts--everything
new, good or bad.
The chief editor in particular was great in tracking humbug and
dishonesty. Whenever a delegate opposed a Bill which tended to injure
the interests of the country for the sake of the party, he was
immediately taken to task and called a humbug, trying to be original,
longing for a ministerial dress-coat; he did not say portfolio, for he
always thought of clothes first. Politics, however, was not his strong,
or rather his weak point, but literature. In days long past, on the
occasion of the Old Norse Festival at Upsala, he had proposed a toast
in verse on woman, and thereby furnished an important contribution to
the literature of the world; it was printed in as many provincial
papers as the author considered necessary for his immortality. This
had made him a poet, and when he had taken his degrees, he bought a
second-class ticket to Stockholm, in order to make his début in the
world and receive his due. Unfortunately the Stockholmers do not read
provincial papers. The young man was unknown and his talent was not
appreciated. As he was a shrewd man--his small brain had never been
exuberantly imaginative--he concealed his wound and allowed it to
become the secret of his life.
The bitterness engendered by the fact that his honest work, as he
called it, remained unrewarded specially qualified him for the post of
a literary censor; but he did not write himself: his position did not
allow him to indulge in efforts of his own, and he preferred leaving it
to the reviewer who criticized everybody's work justly and with
inflexible severity. The reviewer had written poetry for the last
sixteen years under a pseudonym. Nobody had ever read his verses and
nobody had taken the trouble to discover the author's real name. But
every Christmas his verses were exhumed and praised in the _Grey
Bonnet_, by a third party, of course, who signed his article so that
the public should not suspect that the author had written it
himself--it was taken for granted that the author was known to the
public. In the seventeenth year, the author considered it advisable to
put his name to a new book--a new edition of an old one. As misfortune
would have it, the _Red Cap_, the whole staff of which was composed of
young people who had never heard the real name, treated the author as a
beginner, and expressed astonishment, not only that a young writer
should put his name to his first book, but also that a young man's book
could be so monotonous and old-fashioned. This was a hard blow; the old
"pseudonymus" fell ill with fever, but recovered after having been
brilliantly rehabilitated by the _Grey Bonnet_; the latter went for the
whole reading public in a lump, charging it with being immoral and
dishonest, unable to appreciate an honest, sound, and moral book which
could safely be put into the hands of a child. A comic paper made fun
of the last point, so that the "pseudonymus" had a relapse, and, on his
second recovery, vowed annihilation to all native literature which
might appear in future; it did, however, not apply to quite all native
literature, for a shrewd observer would have noticed that the _Grey
Bonnet_ frequently praised bad books; true, it was often done lamely
and in terms which could be read in two ways. The same shrewd observer
could have noticed that the miserable stuff in question was always
published by the same firm; but this did not necessarily imply that the
reviewer was influenced by extraneous circumstances, such as little
lunches, for instance; he and the whole editorial staff were upright
men who would surely not have dared to judge others with so much
severity if they themselves had not been men of irreproachable
character.
Another important member of the staff was the dramatic critic. He had
received his education and qualified at a recruiting bureau in
X-köping; had fallen in love with a "star" who was only a "star" in
X-köping. As he was not sufficiently enlightened to differentiate
between a private opinion and a universal verdict, it happened to him
when he was for the first time let loose in the columns of the _Grey
Bonnet_ that he slated the greatest actress in Sweden, and maintained
that she copied Miss----, whatever her name was. That it was done very
clumsily goes without saying, and also that it happened before the
_Grey Bonnet_ had veered round. All this made his name detested and
despised; but still, he had a name, and that compensated him for the
indignation he excited. One of his cardinal points, although not at
once appreciated, was his deafness. Several years went by before it was
discovered, and even then nobody could tell whether or no it had any
connexion with a certain encounter, caused by one of his notices, in
the foyer of the Opera House, one evening after the lights had been
turned down. After this encounter he tested the strength of his arm
only on quite young people; and anybody familiar with the
circumstances could tell by his critique when he had had an accident in
the wings, for the conceited provincial had read somewhere the
unreliable statement that Stockholm was another Paris, and had believed
it.
The art critic was an old academician who had never held a brush in his
hand, but was a member of the brilliant artists club "Minerva," a fact
which enabled him to describe works of art in the columns of his paper
before they were finished, thereby saving the reader the trouble of
forming an opinion of his own. He was invariably kind to his
acquaintances, and in criticizing an exhibition never forgot to mention
every single one of them. His practice, of many years' standing, of
saying something pretty about everybody--and how would he have dared to
do otherwise--made it child's play to him to mention twenty names in
half a column; in reading his reviews one could not help thinking of
the popular game "pictures and devices." But the young artists he
always conscientiously forgot, so that the public, which, for ten years
had heard none but the old names, began to despair of the future of
art. One exception, however, he had made, and made quite recently, in
an unpropitious hour; and in consequence of this exception there was
great excitement one morning in the editorial office of the _Grey
Bonnet_.
What had occurred was this: Sellén--the reader may remember this
insignificant name mentioned on a former, and not a particularly
important occasion--had arrived with his picture at the exhibition at
the very last moment. When it had been hung--in the worst possible
place--for the artist was neither a member of the Academy nor did he
possess the royal medal--the "professor of Charles IX" arrived; he had
been given this nickname because he never painted anything but scenes
from the life of Charles IX; the reason again for this was that a long
time ago he had bought at an auction a wine glass, a tablecloth, a
chair, and a parchment from the period of Charles IX; these objects he
had painted for twenty years, sometimes with, sometimes without, the
king. But he was a professor now and a knight of many orders, and so
there was no help for it. He was with the academician when his eye fell
on the silent man of the opposition and his picture.
"Here again, sir?" He put up his pince-nez. "And this, then, is the new
style! Hm! Let me tell you, sir! Believe the word of an old man: take
that picture away! Take it away! It makes me sick to look at it. You do
yourself the greatest service if you take it away. What do you say, old
fellow?"
The old fellow said that the exhibition of such a picture was an
impertinence, and that if the gentleman would take his kindly meant
advice, he would change his profession and become a sign-board painter.
Sellén replied mildly, but shrewdly, that there were so many able
people in that profession, that he had chosen an artistic career where
success could be obtained far more easily, as had been proved.
The professor was furious at this insolence; he turned his back on the
contrite Sellén with a threat which the academician translated into a
promise.
The enlightened Committee of Purchases had met--behind closed doors.
When the doors were opened again, six pictures had been bought for the
money subscribed by the public for the purpose of encouraging native
artists. The excerpt from the minutes which found its way into the
columns of the newspapers, was worded as follows:
"The Art Union yesterday bought the following pictures: (1) 'Water with
Oxen,' landscape by the wholesale merchant K. (2) 'Gustavus Adolphus at
the Fire of Magdeburg,' historical painting by the linen draper L. (3)
'A Child blowing its Nose,' genre-picture by lieutenant M. (4) 'S. S.
Bore in the Harbour,' marine picture by the shipbroker N. (5) 'Sylvan
Scene with Women,' landscape by the royal secretary O. (6) 'Chicken
with Mushrooms,' still-life by the actor P."
These works of art, which cost a thousand pounds each on an average,
were afterwards praised in the _Grey Bonnet_ in two three-quarter
columns at fifteen crowns each; that was nothing extraordinary, but the
critic, partly in order to fill up the space, and partly in order to
seize the right moment for suppressing a growing evil, attacked a bad
custom which was beginning to creep in. He referred to the fact that
young, unknown adventurers, who had run away from the academy without
study, were trying to pervert the sound judgment of the public by a
mere running after effect. And then Sellén was taken by the ears and
flogged, so that even his enemies found that his treatment was
unfair--and that means a great deal. Not only was he denied every trace
of talent and his art called humbug; even his private circumstances
were dragged before the public; the article hinted at cheap restaurants
where he was obliged to dine; at the shabby clothes he was forced to
wear; at his loose morals, his idleness; it concluded by prophesying in
the name of religion and morality that he would end his days in a
public institution unless he mended his ways while there was yet time.
It was a disgraceful act, committed in indifference and selfishness;
and it was little less than a miracle that a soul was not lost on the
night of the publication of that particular number of the _Grey
Bonnet_.
Twenty-four hours later the _Incorruptible_ appeared. It reflected on
the way in which public moneys were administered by a certain clique,
and mentioned the fact that at the last purchase of pictures, not a
single one had been bought which had been painted by an artist, but
that the perpetrators had been officials and tradesmen, impudent enough
to compete with the artists, although the latter had no other market;
it went on to say that these pirates lowered the standard and
demoralized the artists, whose sole endeavour would have to be to
paint as badly as they did if they did not want to starve. Then
Sellén's name was mentioned. His picture was the first soulfully
conceived work within the last ten years. For ten years art had been a
mere affair of colours and brushes; Sellén's picture was an honest
piece of work, full of inspiration and devotion, and entirely original;
a picture which could only have been produced by an artist who had met
the spirit of nature face to face. The critic enjoined the young artist
to fight against the ancients, whom he had already left a long way
behind, and exhorted him to have faith and hope, because he had a
mission to fulfil, etc.
The _Grey Bonnet_ foamed with rage.
"You'll see that that fellow will have success!" exclaimed the chief
editor. "Why the devil did we slate him quite so much! Supposing he
became a success now! We should cover ourselves with ridicule."
The academician vowed that he should not have any success, went home
with a troubled heart, referred to his books and wrote an essay in
which he proved that Sellén's art was humbug, and that the
_Incorruptible_ had been corrupted.
The _Grey Bonnet_ drew a breath of relief, but immediately afterwards
it received a fresh blow.
On the following day the morning papers announced the fact that his
Majesty had bought Sellén's "masterly landscape which, for days, had
drawn a large public to the Exhibition."
The _Grey Bonnet_ received the full fury of the gale; it was tossed
hither and thither, and fluttered like a rag on a pole. Should they
veer round or steer ahead? Both paper and critic were involved. The
chief editor decided, by order of the managing director, to sacrifice
the critic and save the paper. But how was it to be done? In their
extremity they remembered Struve. He was a man completely at home in
the maze of publicity. He was sent for. The situation was clear to him
in a moment, and he promised that in a very few days the barge should
be able to tack.
To understand Struve's scheme, it is necessary to know the most
important data of his biography. He was a "born student," driven to
journalism by sheer poverty. He started his career as editor of the
Socialist _People's Flag_. Next he belonged to the Conservative
_Peasants' Scourge_, but when the latter removed to the provinces with
inventory, printing plant and editor, the name was changed into
_Peasants' Friend_, and its politics changed accordingly. Struve was
sold to the _Red Cap_, where his knowledge of all the Conservative
tricks stood him in good stead; in the same way his greatest merit in
the eyes of the _Grey Bonnet_ was his knowledge of all the secrets of
their deadly foe, the _Red Cap_, and his readiness to abuse his
knowledge of them.
Struve began the work of whitewashing by starting a correspondence in
the _People's Flag_; a few lines of this, mentioning the rush of
visitors to the Exhibition, were reprinted in the _Grey Bonnet_. Next
there appeared in the _Grey Bonnet_ an attack on the academician; this
attack was followed by a few reassuring words signed "The Ed." which
read as follows: "Although we never shared the opinion of our art
critic with regard to Mr. Sellén's justly praised landscape, yet we
cannot altogether agree with the judgment of our respected
correspondent; but as, on principle, we open our columns to all
opinions, we unhesitatingly printed the above article."
The ice was broken. Struve, who had the reputation of having written on
every subject--except cufic coins--now wrote a brilliant critique of
Sellén's picture and signed it very characteristically Dixi. The _Grey
Bonnet_ was saved; and so, of course, was Sellén; but the latter was of
minor importance.
CHAPTER XI
HAPPY PEOPLE
It was seven o'clock in the evening. The band at Berns' was playing the
Wedding March from "A Midsummer Night's Dream," when to the
accompaniment of its inspiriting strains Olle Montanus made his entry
into the Red Room. None of the members had yet arrived. Olle looked
imposing. For the first time since his confirmation he was wearing a
high hat. He was dressed in a new suit, and his boots were without
holes; he had had a bath, had been newly shaved, and his hair was waved
as if he were going to a wedding. A heavy brass chain ornamented his
waistcoat, and his left waistcoat pocket bulged visibly. A sunny smile
lit up his features; he radiated kindness; one might have thought that
he wanted to help all the world with little loans. Taking off his
overcoat, no longer cautiously buttoned up, he took the centre of the
sofa in the background, opened his coat and tugged at his white shirt
front so that it rose with a crackle and stood out like an arch; at
every movement the lining of his waistcoat and trousers creaked. This
seemed to give him as much pleasure as the knocking of his boot against
the leg of the sofa. He pulled out his watch, his dear old turnip,
which for a year and a month's grace had been in the pawnbroker's
hands, and the two old friends both seemed to enjoy its liberty.
What had happened that this poor fellow should be so inexpressibly
happy? We know that he had not drawn the winner in a lottery, that he
had not inherited a fortune, that he had not been "honourably
mentioned," that he had not won the sweet happiness which baffles
description. What had happened then? Something very commonplace: he had
found work.
Sellén was the next to arrive. He wore a velvet jacket and
patent-leather boots; he carried a rug, a field-glass on a strap, and a
cane; a yellow silk handkerchief was knotted round his throat; his
hands were covered by flesh-coloured gloves and a flower blossomed in
his buttonhole. He was, as usual, cheerful and calm; his lean,
intelligent face betrayed no trace of the emotions undergone during the
last few days.
Sellén was accompanied by Rehnhjelm; the lad was unusually subdued; he
knew that his friend and patron was leaving him.
"Hallo! Sellén," said Olle, "you are happy at last, aren't you, old
chap?"
"Happy? What nonsense you are talking! I've sold a piece of work! The
first in five years! Is that so overwhelming?"
"But you must have read the papers! Your name's made!"
"Oh! I don't care the toss of a button for that! Don't imagine that I
care for such trifles. I know exactly how much I still have to learn
before I shall be anybody. Let's talk of it again in ten years' time,
Olle."
Olle believed half of what Sellén said and doubted the rest; his shirt
front crackled and the lining creaked so that Sellén's attention was
aroused.
"By the Lord Harry!" he burst out, "you are magnificent!"
"Think so? You look like a lion."
Sellén rapped his patent-leather boots with his cane, shyly smelt the
flower in his buttonhole, and looked indifferent. Olle pulled out his
watch to see whether it was not yet time for Lundell to arrive, which
gave Sellén an opportunity of sweeping the galleries with his
field-glass. Olle was permitted to feel the soft texture of the velvet
coat, while Sellén assured him that it was an exceptionally good
quality at the price; Olle could not resist asking the cost. Sellén
told him, and admired Olle's studs, which were made of shells.
Presently Lundell appeared; he, too, had been given a bone at the great
banquet; he was commissioned to paint the altar-piece for the church of
Träskola for a small sum; but this had not visibly affected his outward
appearance, unless, indeed, his fat cheeks and beaming face hinted at a
more generous diet.
Falk was with Lundell. He was grave, but he rejoiced, in the name of
the whole world sincerely rejoiced, that merit had found its just
reward.
"Congratulations, Sellén!" he said, "but it's no more than your due."
Sellén agreed.
"I have been painting just as well these last five years and all the
world has jeered; they were still jeering the day before yesterday, but
now! It's disgusting! Look at this letter which I received from the
idiot, the professor of Charles IX!"
All eyes opened wide and became keen, for it is gratifying to examine
the oppressor closely, have him--on paper at least--in one's hands, at
one's mercy.
"'My dear Mr. Sellén,'--Fancy that!--'Let me welcome you among
us'--he's afraid of me, the blackguard--'I have always appreciated your
talent'--the liar!--let's tear up the rag and forget all about him."
Sellén invited his friends to drink; he drank to Falk, and hoped that
his pen would soon bring him to the front. Falk became self-conscious,
blushed and promised to do his best when his time came; but he was
afraid that his apprenticeship would be a long one, and he begged his
friends not to lose patience with him if he tarried; he thanked Sellén
for his friendship, which had taught him endurance and renunciation.
Sellén begged him not to talk nonsense; where was the merit of
endurance when there was no other alternative? And where was the virtue
in renouncing what one had no chance of obtaining?
But Olle smiled a kindly smile, and his shirt front swelled with
pleasure, so that the red braces could be plainly seen; he drank to
Lundell and implored him to take an example from Sellén, and not forget
the Land of Promise in lingering over the fleshpots of Egypt. He
assured him that his friend, Olle, believed in his talent, that was to
say, when he was himself and painted according to his own light; but
whenever he humbugged and painted to please others he was worse than
the rest; therefore he should look upon the altar-piece as a pot boiler
which would put him into a position to follow his own inspiration in
art.
Falk tried to seize the opportunity of finding out what Olle thought of
himself and his own art, a puzzle which he had long vainly attempted to
solve, when Ygberg walked into the Red Room. Everybody eagerly invited
him to be his guest, for he had been forgotten during the last hot
days, and everyone was anxious to show him that it had not been out of
selfishness. But Olle searched in his right waistcoat pocket, and with
a movement which he was anxious to hide from all eyes he slipped a
rolled-up banknote into Ygberg's coat pocket; the latter understood and
acknowledged it by a grateful look.
Ygberg drank to Sellén; he said that one might consider, in one way,
that Sellén's fortune was made; but, on the other hand, one might
consider, with equal justification, that it was not so. Sellén was not
sufficiently developed; he still wanted many years' study, for art was
long, as he, Ygberg, had himself experienced. He had had nothing but
ill-luck, therefore nobody could suspect him of envying a man of
Sellén's reputation.
The envy which peered through Ygberg's words slightly clouded the sunny
sky; but it was only for a moment, for everybody realized that the
bitterness of a long, wasted life, must be held responsible for it.
All the more gladly Ygberg handed Falk a small newly printed essay, on
the cover of which he beheld with consternation the black portrait of
Ulrica Eleonora. Ygberg stated that he had delivered the manuscript on
the day stipulated. Smith had taken Falk's refusal with the greatest
calm, and was now printing Falk's poems.
To Falk's eyes the gas-jets lost their brilliancy; he sat plunged in
deep thought; his heart was too full to find vent in words. His poems
were to be printed at Smith's expense. This was proof that they were
not without merit! The thought was sufficient food for the whole
evening.
The evening passed quickly for the happy circle; the band ceased
playing and the light was turned out; they were obliged to leave, but,
finding the night far too young for breaking up, they strolled along
the quays, amid endless conversation and philosophical discussions,
until they were tired and thirsty. Lundell offered to take his friends
to see Marie, where they could have some beer.
They turned towards the north and came to a street which gave on a
fence; the fence enclosed a tobacco field, bordering on the open
country. They stopped before a two-storied brick-house with a gable
facing the street. From above the door grinned two sandstone faces
whose ears and shins were lost in fantastic scrolls. Between the heads
hung a sword and an axe. It was formerly the house of the executioner.
Lundell, apparently quite familiar with the neighbourhood, gave a
signal before one of the windows on the ground floor; the blind was
drawn up; the window opened, and a woman's head looked out; a voice
asked whether the caller was Albert? No sooner had Lundell owned to
this, his _nom de guerre_, than a girl opened the door and, on the
promise of silence, admitted the party. As the promise was readily
given, the Red Room was soon in her apartment, and introduced to her
under fictitious names.
The room was not a large one; it had once been the kitchen, and the
range was still standing in its place. The furniture consisted of a
chest of drawers, of a pattern usually found in servants' rooms; on the
drawers stood a looking-glass, swathed in a piece of white muslin;
above the glass hung a coloured lithograph, representing the Saviour on
the Cross. The chest was littered with small china figures, scent
bottles, a prayer book, and an ash tray, and with its looking-glass and
two lighted tallow candles seemed to form a little house altar. Charles
XV, surrounded by newspaper cuttings, mostly representing police
constables, those enemies of the Magdalenes, was riding on horseback on
the wall above the folding sofa, which had not yet been converted into
a bed. On the window-sill stood a stunted fuchsia, a geranium and a
myrtle--the proud tree of Aphrodite in the poor dwelling. A photograph
album lay on the work-table. On the first leaf was a picture of the
King, on the second and third papa and mamma--poor country folk; on the
fourth a student, the seducer; on the fifth, a baby; and on the sixth
the fiancé, a journeyman. This was her history, so like the history of
most of them. On a nail, close to the range, hung an elegant dress, a
velvet cloak, and a hat with feathers--the fairy disguise in which she
went out to catch young men. The fairy herself was a tall, ordinary
looking young woman of twenty-four. Recklessness and vigils had given
her face that white transparency which as a rule distinguishes the
untoiling rich, but her hands still showed traces of hard work. In her
pretty dressing-gown, with her flowing hair down her back, she was the
picture of a Magdalene; her manner was comparatively shy, but she was
merry and courteous and on her best behaviour.
The party split up into groups, continued the interrupted discussions
and started fresh ones. Falk, who now looked upon himself as a poet and
was determined to be interested in everything--be it ever so
banal--began a sentimental conversation with Marie, which she greatly
enjoyed, for she appreciated the honour of being treated like a human
being. As usual the talk drifted to her story and the motives which had
shaped her career. She did not lay stress on her first slip, "that was
hardly worth speaking about"; but all the blacker was her account of
the time she had spent as a servant, leading the life of a slave, made
miserable by the whims and scoldings of an indolent mistress, a life of
never-ending toil. No, the free life she was leading now was far
preferable.
"But when you are tired of it?"
"Then I shall marry Vestergren."
"Does he want you?"
"He's looking forward to the day; moreover, I am going to open a little
shop with the money I have saved. But so many have asked me that
question: 'Have you got any cigars?'"
"Oh, yes; here you are! But do you mind my talking about it?"
He took the album and pointed out the student--it is always a student,
with a white handkerchief round his neck, a white student's hat on his
knees, and a gauche manner, who plays Mephisto.
"Who is this?"
"He was a nice fellow."
"The seducer? What?"
"Oh! let it alone! I was every bit as much to blame, and it is always
so, my dear; both are to blame! Look, this is my baby. The Lord took
it, and I dare say it was for the best. But now let's talk about
something else. Who is that gay dog whom Albert has brought here
to-night? The one closest to the stove, by the side of the tall one,
whose head reaches up to the chimney?"
Olle, very much flattered by her attention, patted his wavy hair which,
after the many libations, was beginning to stand up again.
"That is assistant preacher Monsson," said Lundell.
"Ugh! A clergyman! I might have known it from the cunning look in his
eyes. Do you know that a clergyman came here last week? Come here,
Monsson, and let me look at you!"
Olle descended from his seat where he and Ygberg had been criticizing
Kant's Categorical Imperative. He was so accustomed to exciting the
curiosity of the sex that he immediately felt younger; he lurched
towards the lady whom he had already ogled and found charming. Twirling
his moustache, he asked in an affected voice, with a bow which he had
not learned at a dancing class:
"Do you really think, miss, that I look like a clergyman?"
"No, I see now that you have a moustache; your clothes are too clean
for an artisan--may I see your hand--oh! you are a smith!"
Olle was deeply hurt.
"Am I so very ugly, miss?" he asked pathetically.
Marie examined him for a moment.
"You are very plain," she said, "but you look nice."
"Oh, dear lady, if you only knew how you are hurting me! I have never
yet found a woman ready to love me, and yet I have met so many who
found happiness although they were plainer than I am. But woman is a
cursed riddle, which nobody can solve; I detest her."
"That's right, Olle," came a voice from the chimney, where Ygberg's
head was; "that's all right."
Olle was going back to the stove, but he had touched on a topic which
interested Marie too much to allow it to drop; he had played on a
string the sound of which she knew. She sat down by his side and soon
they were deep in a long-winded and grave discussion--on love and
women.
Rehnhjelm, who during the whole evening had been more quiet and
restrained than usual, and of whom nobody could make anything, suddenly
revived and was now sitting in the corner of the sofa near Falk.
Obviously something was troubling him, something which he could not
make up his mind to mention. He seized his beer-glass, rapped on the
table as if he wanted to make a speech, and when those nearest to him
looked up ready to listen to him, he said in a tremulous and
indifferent voice:
"Gentlemen, you think I am a beast, I know; Falk, I know you think me a
fool, but you shall see, friends--the devil take me, you shall see!"
He raised his voice and put his beer-glass down with such determination
that it broke in pieces, after which he sank back on the sofa and fell
asleep.
This scene, although not an uncommon one, had attracted Marie's
attention. She dropped the conversation with Olle, who, moreover, had
begun to stray from the purely abstract point of the question and rose.
"Oh! what a pretty boy!" she exclaimed. "How does he come to be with
you? Poor little chap! How sleepy he is! I hadn't seen him before."
She pushed a cushion under his head and covered him with a shawl.
"How small his hands are! Far smaller than yours, you country louts!
And what a face! How innocent he looks! Albert, did you make him drink
so much?"
Whether it had been Lundell or another was a matter of no importance
now; the man was drunk. But it also was a fact that he did not need any
urging to drink. He was consumed by a constant longing to still an
inner restlessness which seemed to drive him away from his work.
The remarks made by his pretty friend had not perturbed Lundell; but
now his increasing intoxication excited his religious feelings, which
had been blunted by a luxurious supper. And as the intoxication began
to be general, he felt it incumbent on him to remind his companions of
the significance of the day and the impending leave-taking. He rose,
filled his glass, steadied himself against the chest of drawers and
claimed the attention of the party.
"Gentlemen,"--he remembered Magdalene's presence--"and ladies! We have
eaten and drunk to-night with--to come to the point--an intent which,
if we set aside the material which is nothing but the low, sensual
animal component of our nature--that in a moment like this when the
hour of parting is imminent--we have here a distressing example of the
vice which we call drunkenness! Doubtless, it arouses all one's
religious emotion if, after an evening spent in a circle of friends,
one feels moved to propose a glass to him who has shown more than
ordinary talent--I am speaking of Sellén--one should think that
self-respect should to a certain extent prevail. Such an example, I
maintain, has been manifested here, in higher potency, and therefore I
am reminded of the beautiful words which will never cease ringing in my
ears as long as I am able to think, and I am convinced they are now in
the mind of each one of us, although this spot is anything but
suitable. This young man, who has fallen a victim to the vice which we
will call drunkenness, has unfortunately crept into our circle and--to
cut my speech short--matured a sadder result than anybody could have
expected. Your health, noble friend Sellén! I wish you all the
happiness which your noble heart deserves! Your health, Olle Montanus!
Falk, too, has a noble heart, and will come to the front when his
religious sense has acquired the vigour which his character
foreshadows. I won't mention Ygberg, for he has at last come to a
decision, and we wish him luck in the career upon which he has so
splendidly entered--the philosophical career. It is a difficult one,
and I repeat the words of the psalmist: Who can tell? At the same time
we have every reason to hope for the best in the future, and I believe
that we can count on it as long as our sentiments are noble and our
hearts are not striving for worldly gain; for, gentlemen, a man without
religion is a beast. I therefore ask every gentleman here present to
raise his glass and empty it to all that is noble, beautiful, and
splendid, and for which we are striving. Your health, gentlemen!"
Religious emotion now overwhelmed Lundell to such a degree that it was
thought best to break up the party.
Daylight had been shining through the window-blind for some time and
the landscape with the castle and the maiden stood out brilliantly in
the first radiance of the morning sun. When the blind was drawn up, day
rushed in and illuminated the faces of those nearest the window; they
were deadly pale. The red light of the tallow candles fell with
magnificent effect on the face of Ygberg, who was sitting on the stove,
clutching his glass. Olle was proposing toasts to women, the spring,
the sun, the universe, throwing open the window, to give vent to his
feelings. The sleepers were roused, the party took their leave of
Marie, and filed through the front door.
When they had reached the street, Falk turned round. Magdalene was
leaning out of the window; the rays of the sun fell on her pale face;
her long, black hair, which shone deep red in the sunlight, seemed to
trickle down her throat and over her shoulders and to be falling on the
street in little streams. Above her head hung the sword and the axe and
the two grinning faces; but in an apple tree on the other side of the
road perched a black and white fly-catcher, and sang its frenzied song
of joy that the night was over.
CHAPTER XII
MARINE INSURANCE SOCIETY "TRITON"
Levi was a young man born and educated for business and on the point of
establishing himself with the assistance of his wealthy father, when
the latter died, leaving nothing but a family totally unprovided for.
This was a great disappointment to the young man; he had reached an age
when he considered that he might stop working altogether and let others
toil for him. He was twenty-five and of good appearance.
Broad-shouldered and lean in the flank, his body seemed specially
adapted for wearing a frock-coat in the manner which he had much
admired in certain foreign diplomatists. Nature had arched his chest in
the most elegant fashion, so that he was capable of setting off to the
fullest advantage a four-buttoned shirt front, even in the very act of
sinking into an easy chair at the foot of a long Board-table occupied
by the whole Administrative Committee. A beautiful beard, parted in the
middle, gave his young face a sympathetic and trustworthy expression;
his small feet were made for walking on the Brussels carpet of a
Board-room, and his carefully manicured hands were particularly
suitable for very light work, such as the signing of his name,
preferably on a printed circular.
In the days which are now called the good days, although in reality
they were very bad ones for a good many people, the greatest discovery
of a great century was made, namely, that one could live more cheaply
and better on other people's money than on the results of one's own
efforts. Many, a great many, people had taken advantage of the
discovery, and as no patent law protected it, it was not surprising
that Levi should be anxious to profit by it, too, more particularly as
he had no money himself and no inclination to work for a family which
was not his own. He, therefore, put on his best suit one day and called
on his uncle Smith.
"Oh, indeed! You have an idea," said Smith, "Let's hear it! It's a good
thing to have ideas!"
"I have been thinking of floating a joint stock company."
"Very good. Aaron will be treasurer, Simon secretary, Isaac cashier,
and the other boys book-keepers; it's a good idea! Go on! What sort of
a company is it going to be?"
"I'm thinking of a marine insurance society."
"Indeed! So far so good; everybody has to insure his property when he
goes on a voyage. But your idea?"
"This _is_ my idea."
"I don't think much of it. We have the big society 'Neptune.' It's a
good society. Yours would have to be better if you intend to compete
with it. What would be the novelty in your society?"
"Oh! I understand! I should reduce the premiums and all the patrons of
the 'Neptune' would come to me."
"That's better! Very well, then, the prospectus which I would print
would begin in this way: 'As the crying need of reducing the marine
insurance premiums has long been felt, and it is only owing to the want
of competition that it has not yet been done, we, the undersigned, beg
to invite the public to take up shares in the new society.... What
name?"
"Triton."
"Triton? What sort of a chap was he?"
"He was a sea-god."
"All right, Triton. It will make a good poster! You can order it from
Ranch in Berlin, and we will reproduce it in my almanac 'Our Country.'
Now for the undersigned. First, of course, my name. We must have big,
well-sounding names. Give me the official almanac."
Smith turned over the leaves for some time.
"A marine insurance company must have a naval officer of high rank. Let
me see! An admiral."
"Oh! Those sort of people have no money!"
"Bless me! You don't know much about business, my boy! They are only
wanted to subscribe, not to pay up! And they receive their dividends
for attending the meetings and being present at the directors' dinners!
Here we have two admirals; one of them has the Commander's Ribbon of
the Polar Star, and the other one has the Russian Order of Anna. What
shall we do? I think we had better take the Russian, for there is
splendid marine insurance ground in Russia.... There!"
"But is it such a simple matter to get hold of these people?"
"Tut, tut! Next we want a retired minister of State! Yes! Well! They
are called Your Excellency! Yes! Good. And a Count! That's more
difficult! Counts have lots of money! And we must have a professor!
They have no money! Is there such a thing as a Professor of Navigation?
That would be a capital thing for our venture! Isn't there a School of
Navigation somewhere near the South Theatre? Yes? Very well! Everything
is as clear as possible to me. Oh! I nearly forgot the most important
point. We must have a legal man! A counsellor of a high court. Here he
is!"
"But we have no money yet!"
"Money? What's the use of money in company promoting? Doesn't the man
who insures his goods pay us money? What? Or do we pay him? No! Well
then, he pays with his premiums."
"But the original capital?"
"One issues debentures!"
"True, but there must be some cash!"
"One pays cash in debentures! Isn't that paying? Supposing I gave you a
cheque for a sum, any bank would cash it for you. Therefore, a cheque
is money. Very well! And is there a law which ordains that cash shall
mean bank-notes? If there were, what about private bank-notes?"
"How large should the capital be?"
"Very small! It's bad business to tie up large sums. A million! Three
hundred thousand in cash and the remainder in debentures."
"But--but--but! The three hundred thousand crowns surely must be in
bank-notes!"
"Good Lord in Heaven! Bank-notes? Notes are money! If you have notes,
well and good; if you haven't, it comes to the same thing. Therefore,
we must interest the small capitalists, who have nothing but
bank-notes."
"And the big ones? How do they pay?"
"In shares, debenture guarantees, of course. But that will be a matter
for later on. Get them to subscribe, and we'll see to the rest."
"And only three hundred thousand? One single great steamer costs as
much. Supposing we insured a thousand steamers?"
"A thousand? Last year the 'Neptune' issued forty-eight thousand
insurance policies, and did well out of it."
"All the worse, I say! But if--but if--matters should go wrong...."
"One goes into liquidation!"
"Liquidation?"
"Declares oneself insolvent! That's the proper term. And what does it
matter if the society becomes insolvent? It isn't you, or I, or he! But
one can also increase the number of shares, or issue debentures which
the Government may buy up in hard times at a good price."
"There's no risk then?"
"Not the slightest! Besides what have you got to lose? Do you possess
one farthing? No! Very well then! What do I risk? Five hundred crowns!
I shall only take five shares, you see! And five hundred is as much as
this to me!"
He took a pinch of snuff and the matter was settled.
* * * * *
The society was floated and during the first ten years of its activity
it paid 6, 10, 10, 11, 20, 11, 5, 10, 36, and 20 per cent. The shares
were eagerly bought up, and, in order to enlarge the business, more
shares were issued; the new issue of shares was followed by a general
meeting of shareholders; Falk was sent to report it for the _Red Cap_,
whose assistant reporter he was.
When, on a sunny afternoon in June, he entered the Exchange, the hall
was already crowded with people. It was a brilliant assembly.
Statesmen, geniuses, men of letters, officers, and civil service men of
high rank; uniforms, dress-coats, orders, and ribbons; all those here
assembled had one big general interest! The advancement of the
philanthropic institution called marine insurance. It required a great
love to risk one's money for the benefit of the suffering neighbour
whom misfortune had befallen, but here was love! Falk had never seen
such an accumulation of it in one spot. Although not yet an entirely
disillusioned man, he could not suppress a feeling of amazement.
But he was even more amazed when he noticed the little blackguard
Struve, the former Socialist, creeping through the crowd like a
reptile, greeted, and sometimes addressed by distinguished people with
a familiar nod, a pressure of the hand or a friendly slap on the
shoulder. He saw a middle-aged man, wearing a ribbon belonging to a
high order, nodding to him, and he noticed that Struve blushed and
concealed himself behind an embroidered coat. This brought him into
Falk's vicinity, and the latter immediately accosted him and asked him
who the man was. Struve's embarrassment increased, but summoning up
all his impudence, he replied, "You ought to know that! He's the
president of the Board of Payment of Employés' Salaries." No sooner had
the words left his lips than he pretended to be called to the other
side of the room; but he was in so great a hurry that Falk wondered
whether he felt uncomfortable in his society? A blackguard in the
company of an honourable man!
The brilliant assembly began to be seated. But the president's chair
was still vacant. Falk was looking for the reporter's table, and when
he discovered Struve and the reporter for the _Conservative_ sitting at
a table on the right-hand side of the secretary he took his courage
into his hands and marched through the distinguished crowd; just as he
had reached the table, the secretary stopped him with a question. "For
which paper?" he asked. A momentary silence ensued. "For the _Red
Cap_," answered Falk, with a slight tremor in his voice; he had
recognized in the secretary the actuary of the Board of Payment of
Employés' Salaries. A half-stifled murmur ran through the room;
presently the secretary said in a loud voice: "Your place is at the
back, over there!" He pointed to the door and a small table standing
close to it.
Falk realized in a moment the significance of the word "Conservative,"
and also what it meant to be a journalist who was not a Conservative.
Boiling inwardly he retraced his footsteps, walking to his appointed
place through the sneering crowd; he stared at the grinning faces,
challenging them with burning eyes, when his glance met another glance,
quite in the background, close to the wall. The eyes, bearing a strong
resemblance to a pair of eyes now closed in death, which used to rest
on his face full of love, were green with malice and pierced him like a
needle; he could have shed tears of sorrow at the thought that a
brother could thus look at a brother.
He took his modest place near the door, for he was determined not to
beat a retreat. Very soon he was roused from his apparent calm by a
newcomer who prodded him in the back as he took off his coat and shoved
a pair of rubber overshoes underneath his chair. The newcomer was
greeted by the whole assembly which rose from their seats as one man.
He was the chairman of the Marine Insurance Society Limited "Triton,"
but he was something else beside this. He was a retired
district-marshal, a baron, one of the eighteen of the Swedish Academy,
an Excellency, a knight of many orders, etc. etc.
A rap with the hammer and amid dead silence the president whispered the
following oration: just delivered by him at a meeting of the Coal
Company Limited, in the hall of the Polytechnic.
"Gentlemen! Amongst all the patriotic and philanthropic enterprises
there are few--if any--of such a noble and beneficial nature as an
Insurance Society."
This statement was received with a unanimous "Hear! hear!" which,
however, made no impression on the district-marshal.
"What else is life but a struggle, a life and death struggle, one might
say, with the forces of Nature! There will be few among us who do not,
sooner or later, come into conflict with them."
"Hear! hear!"
"For long ages man, more especially primitive man, has been the sport
of the elements; a ball tossed hither and thither, a glove blown here
and there by the wind like a reed. This is no longer the case. I'm
correct in saying it is not. Man has determined to rebel; it is a
bloodless rebellion, though, and very different to the revolutions
which dishonourable traitors to their country have now and again
stirred up against their lawful rulers. No! gentlemen! I'm speaking of
a revolution against nature! Man has declared war to the natural
forces; he has said, 'Thus far shalt thou go and no farther!'"
"Hear! hear!" and clapping of hands.
"The merchant sends out his steamer, his brig, his schooner, his
barge, his yacht, and so forth. The gale breaks the vessel to pieces.
'Break away!' says the merchant, for he loses nothing. This is the
great aspect of the insurance idea. Imagine the position, gentlemen!
The merchant has declared war upon the storms of heaven--and the
merchant has won the day!"
A storm of applause brought a triumphant smile to the face of the great
man; he seemed thoroughly to enjoy this storm.
"But, gentlemen, do not let us call an Insurance Institution a
business. It is not a business; we are not business men. Far from it!
We have collected a sum of money and we are ready to risk it. Is this
not so, gentlemen?"
"Yes, yes!"
"We have collected a sum of money so as to have it ready to hand over
to him whom misfortune has befallen; his percentage--I think he pays 1
per cent.--cannot be called a contribution; it is called a premium, and
rightly so. Not that we want any sort of reward--premium means
reward--for our little services, which we merely render because we are
interested--as far as I am concerned it is purely for this reason. I
repeat, I don't think--there can be any question that any one in our
midst would hesitate--I don't think that one of us would mind seeing
his contribution, if I may be allowed to call the shares by that name,
used for the furtherance of the idea."
"No! No!"
"I will now ask the Managing Director to read the annual report."
The director rose. He looked as pale as if he had been through a storm;
his big cuffs with the onyx studs could hardly hide the slight
trembling of his hand; his cunning eyes sought comfort and strength in
Smith's bearded face; he opened his coat and his expansive shirt front
swelled as if it were ready to receive a shower of arrows--and read:
"Truly, strange and unexpected are the ways of Providence...."
At the word Providence a considerable number of faces blanched, but the
district-marshal raised his eyes towards the ceiling as if he were
prepared for the worst (a loss of two hundred crowns).
"The year which we have just completed will long stand in our annals
like a cross on the grave of the accidents which have brought to scorn
the foresight of the wisest and the calculations of the most cautious."
The district-marshal buried his face in his hands as if he were
praying. Struve, believing that the white wall dazzled his eyes, jumped
up to pull down the blind, but the secretary had already forestalled
him.
The reader drank a glass of water. This caused an outburst of
impatience.
"To business! Figures!"
The district-marshal removed his hand from his eyes and was taken aback
when he found that it was so much darker than it had been before. There
was a momentary embarrassment and the storm gathered. All respect was
forgotten.
"To business! Go on!"
The director skipped the preliminary banalities, and plunged right into
the heart of the matter.
"Very well, gentlemen, I will cut my speech short!"
"Go on! Go on! Why the devil don't you?"
The hammer fell. "Gentlemen!" There was so much dignity in this brief
"Gentlemen" that the assembly immediately remembered their
self-respect.
"The Society has been responsible during the year for one hundred and
sixty-nine millions."
"Hear! hear!"
"And has received a million and a half in premiums."
"Hear! hear!"
Falk made a hasty calculation and found that if the full receipts in
premiums, namely, one million and a half, and the total original
capital, one million, were deducted, there remained about one hundred
and sixty-six millions for which the society was responsible. He
realized what "the ways of Providence" meant.
"Unfortunately the amount paid on policies was one million seven
hundred and twenty-eight thousand six hundred and seventy crowns and
eight öre."
"Shame!"
"As you see, gentlemen, Providence...."
"Leave Providence alone! Figures! Figures! Dividends!"
"Under the circumstances I can only propose, in my capacity as Managing
Director, a dividend of 5 per cent. on the paid-up capital."
Now a storm burst out which no merchant in the world could have
weathered.
"Shame! Impudence! Swindler! Five per cent! Disgusting! It's throwing
one's money away!"
But there were also a few more philanthropic utterances, such as: "What
about the poor, small capitalists who have nothing but their dividends
to live on? How'll they manage? Mercy on us, what a misfortune! The
State ought to help, and without delay! Oh dear! Oh dear!"
When the storm had subsided a little and the director could make his
voice heard, he read out the high praise given by the Supervisory
Committee to the Managing Director and all the employés who, without
sparing themselves, and with indefatigable zeal, had done the thankless
work. The statement was received with open scorn.
The report of the accountants was then read. They stated--after again
censuring Providence--that they had found all the books in good--not to
say excellent--order, and in checking the inventory all debentures on
the reserve fund had been found correct (!) They therefore called upon
the shareholders to discharge the directors and acknowledge their
honest and unremitting labour.
The directors were, of course, discharged.
The Managing Director then declared that under the circumstances he
could not think of accepting his bonus (a hundred crowns) and handed it
to the reserve fund. This declaration was received with applause and
laughter.
After a short evening prayer, that is to say a humble petition to
Providence that next year's dividend might be 20 per cent., the
district-marshal closed the proceedings.
CHAPTER XIII
DIVINE ORDINANCE
On the same afternoon on which her husband had attended the meeting of
the Marine Insurance Society "Triton," Mrs. Falk for the first time
wore a new blue velvet dress, with which she was eager to arouse the
envy of Mrs. Homan, who lived in the house opposite. Nothing was easier
or more simple; all she had to do was to show herself every now and
then at the window while she supervised the preparations in her room,
intended to "crush" her guests, whom she expected at seven. The
Administrative Committee of the Crèche "Bethlehem" was to meet and
examine the first monthly report; it consisted of Mrs. Homan, whose
husband, the controller, Mrs. Falk suspected of pride because he was a
Government official; Lady Rehnhjelm whom she suspected of the same
failing because of her title, and the Rev. Skore, who was private
chaplain of all the great families. The whole committee was to be
crushed and crushed in the sweetest possible manner.
The new setting for the scene had already been displayed at the big
party. All the old pieces which were neither antique nor possessed of
any artistic value had been replaced by brand new furniture. Mrs. Falk
intended to manage the actors in the little play until the close of the
proceedings, when her husband would arrive upon the scene with an
admiral--he had promised his wife at least an admiral in full-dress
uniform. Both were to crave admission to the society. Falk was to
enlarge the funds of the society on the spot by handing over to it a
part of the sum which he had been earning so easily as shareholder of
the "Triton."
Mrs. Falk had finished with the window and was now arranging the
rosewood table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, on which the proofs of the
monthly report were to be laid. She dusted the agate inkstand, placed
the silver penholder on the tortoiseshell rack, turned up the seal of
the chrysoprase handle so as to hide her commoner's name, cautiously
shook the cash-box made of the finest steel wire, so that the value of
the few bank-notes it contained could be plainly read. Finally, having
given her last orders to the footman dressed up for the parade, she sat
down in her drawing-room in the careless attitude in which she desired
that the announcement of her friend, the controller's wife, should
discover her; Mrs. Homan would be sure to be the first to arrive.
She did arrive first. Mrs. Falk embraced Evelyn and kissed her on the
cheek, and Mrs. Homan embraced Eugenia, who received her in the
dining-room and retained her there for a few moments in order to ask
her opinion of the new furniture. Mrs. Homan wasted no time on the
solid oak sideboard dating from the time of Charles XII, with the tall
Japanese vases, because she felt small by the side of it; she looked at
the chandelier which she found too modern, and the dining-table, which,
she said, was not in keeping with the prevailing style; in addition to
this she considered that the oleographs were out of place among the old
family portraits, and took quite a long time to explain the difference
between an oil painting and an oleograph. Mrs. Falk's new silk-lined
velvet dress swished against every corner within reach without
succeeding in attracting her friend's attention. She asked her whether
she liked the new Brussels carpet in the drawing-room; Mrs. Homan
thought it contrasted too crudely with the curtains; at last Mrs. Falk
felt annoyed with her and dropped her questions.
They sat down at the drawing-room table, clutching at life-buoys in the
guise of photographs, unreadable volumes of verse, and so on. A little
pamphlet fell into Mrs. Homan's hands; it was printed on gold-edged
pink paper and bore the title: "To the wholesale merchant Nicholas
Falk, on his fortieth birthday."
"Ah! These are the verses which were read at your party! Who wrote
them?"
"A very clever man, a friend of my husband's. His name's Nyström."
"Hm! How queer that his name should be quite unknown! Such a clever
man! But why wasn't he at your party?"
"Unfortunately he was ill, my dear; so he couldn't come."
"I see! But, my dear Eugenia, isn't it awfully sad about your
brother-in-law? I hear he's so very badly off."
"Don't mention him! He's a disgrace and a grief to the whole family!
It's terrible!"
"Yes; it was quite unpleasant when everybody asked about him at your
party. I was so sorry for you, dear...."
This is for the oak sideboard, dating from the time of Charles XII, and
the Japanese vases, thought the controller's wife.
"For me! Oh, please don't! You mean for my husband?" interrupted Mrs.
Falk.
"Surely, that's the same thing!"
"Not at all! I can't be held responsible for all the black sheep in his
family."
"What a pity it was that your parents, also, were ill and couldn't
come! How's your dear father?"
"Thanks. He's quite well again. How kind of you to think of everybody!"
"Well, one shouldn't think of oneself only! Is he delicate, the
old--what _is_ his title?"
"Captain, if you like."
"Captain! I was under the impression that my husband said he was--one
of the crew of the flagship, but very likely it's the same thing. But
where were the girls?"
That's for the Brussels carpet, mentally reflected the controller's
wife.
"They are so full of whims, they can never be depended on."
Mrs. Falk turned over the leaves in her photograph album; the binding
cracked; she was in a towering rage.
"I say, dear, who was the disagreeable individual who read the verses
on the night of your party?"
"You mean Mr. Levin; the royal secretary; he's my husband's most
intimate friend."
"Is he really? Hm! How strange! My husband's a controller in the same
office where he's a secretary; I don't want to vex you, or say anything
unpleasant; I never do; but my husband says that Levin's in such bad
circumstances that it's not wise for your husband to associate with
him."
"Does he? That's a matter of which I know nothing, and in which I don't
interfere, and let me tell you, my dear Evelyn, I never interfere in my
husband's affairs, though I've heard of people who do."
"I beg your pardon, dear, I thought I was doing you a service by
telling you."
That's for the chandelier and the dining-table. There only remains the
velvet dress.
"Well," the controller's wife took up the thread again, "I hear that
your brother-in-law...."
"Spare my feelings and don't talk of the creature!"
"Is he really such a bad lot? I've been told that he associates with
the worst characters in town...."
At this juncture Mrs. Falk was reprieved; the footman announced Lady
Rehnhjelm.
Oh! How welcome she was! How kind of her it was to come!
And Mrs. Falk really was pleased to see the old lady with the kindly
expression in her eyes; an expression only found in the eyes of those
who have weathered the storms of life with true courage.
"My dear Mrs. Falk," said her ladyship taking a seat; "I have all
sorts of kind messages for you from your brother-in-law."
Mrs. Falk wondered what she had done to the old woman that she, too,
evidently wanted to annoy her.
"Indeed?" she said, a little stiffly.
"He's a charming young man. He came to see my nephew to-day, at my
house; they are great friends! He really is an excellent young man!"
"Isn't he?" joined in Mrs. Homan, always ready for a change of front.
"We were just talking about him."
"Indeed? What I most admire in him is his courage in venturing on a
course where one easily runs aground; but we need have no apprehensions
so far as he is concerned; he's a man of character and principle. Don't
you agree with me, Mrs. Falk?"
"I've always said so, but my husband thinks differently."
"Oh! Your husband has always had peculiar views," interposed Mrs.
Homan.
"Is he a friend of your nephew's, Lady Rehnhjelm?" asked Mrs. Falk
eagerly.
"Yes, they both belong to a small circle, some of the members of which
are artists. You must have heard about young Sellén, whose picture was
bought by his Majesty?"
"Of course, I have! We went to the Exhibition on purpose to have a look
at it. Is he one of them?"
"Yes; they're often very hard up, these young fellows, but that's
nothing new in the case of young men who have to fight their way in the
world."
"They say your brother-in-law's a poet," went on Mrs. Homan.
"Oh, rather! He writes excellent verse! The academy gave him a prize;
the world will hear of him in time," replied Mrs. Falk with conviction.
"Haven't I always said so?" agreed Mrs. Homan.
And Arvid Falk's talents were enlarged upon, so that he had arrived in
the Temple of Fame when the footman announced the Rev. Nathanael Skore.
The latter entered hastily and hurriedly shook hands with the ladies.
"I must ask your indulgence for being so late," he said, "but I'm a
very busy man. I have to be at a meeting at Countess Fabelkrantz's at
half-past nine, and I have come straight from my work."
"Are you in a hurry then, dear pastor?"
"Yes, my wide activities give me no leisure. Hadn't we better begin
business at once?"
The footman handed round refreshments.
"Won't you take a cup of tea, pastor, before we begin?" asked the
hostess, smarting under the unpleasantness of a small disappointment.
The pastor glanced at the tray.
"Thank you, no; I'll take a glass of punch, if I may. I've made it a
rule, ladies, never to differ from my fellow-creatures in externals.
Everybody drinks punch; I don't like it, but I don't want the world to
say that I'm better than anybody else; boasting is a failing which I
detest. May I now begin with the proceedings?"
He sat down at the writing-table, dipped the pen into the ink and read:
"'Account of the Presents received by the Administrative Committee of
the Crèche "Bethlehem" during the month of May: Signed Eugenia Falk.'"
"Née, if I may ask?"
"Oh, never mind about that," said Mrs. Falk.
"Evelyn Homan."
"Née, if I may make so bold?"
"Von Bähr, dear pastor."
"Antoinette Rehnhjelm."
"Née, madame?"
"Rehnhjelm, pastor."
"Ah! true! You married your cousin, husband dead, no children. But to
continue: Presents...."
There was a general--almost general--consternation.
"But won't you sign, too, pastor?" asked Mrs. Homan.
"I dislike boasting, ladies, but if it's your wish! Here goes!"
"Nathanael Skore."
"Your health, pastor! Won't you drink a glass of punch before we
begin?" asked the hostess with a charming smile, which died on her lips
when she looked at the pastor's glass. It was empty; she quickly filled
it.
"Thank you, Mrs. Falk, but we mustn't be immoderate! May I begin now?
Please check me by the manuscript."
"'Presents: H.M. the Queen, forty crowns. Countess Fabelkrantz, five
crowns and a pair of woollen stockings. Wholesale merchant Schalin, two
crowns, a packet of envelopes, six steel nibs, and a bottle of ink.
Miss Amanda Libert, a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. Miss Anna Feif, a pair
of cuffs. Charlie, twopence halfpenny from his money box. Johanna
Pettersson, half-dozen towels. Miss Emily Björn, a New Testament.
Grocer Persson, a bag of oatmeal, a quart of potatoes, and a bottle of
pickled onions. Draper Scheike, two pairs of woollen under....'"
"May I ask the meeting whether all this is to be printed?" interrupted
her ladyship.
"Well, of course," answered the pastor.
"Then I must resign my post on the Administrative Committee."
"But do you imagine, Lady Rehnhjelm, that the society could exist on
voluntary contributions if the names of the donors did not appear in
print? Impossible!"
"Is charity to shed its radiance on petty vanity?"
"No, no! Don't say that! Vanity is an evil, certainly; we turn the evil
into good by transforming it into charity. Isn't that praiseworthy?"
"Oh, yes! But we mustn't call petty things by high-sounding names. If
we do, we are boastful!"
"You are very severe, Lady Rehnhjelm! Scripture exhorts us to pardon
others; you should pardon their vanity."
"I'm ready to pardon it in others but not in myself. It's pardonable
and good that ladies who have nothing else to do should find pleasure
in charity; but it's disgraceful if they call it a good action seeing
that it is only their pleasure and a greater pleasure than most others
on account of the wide publicity given to it by printing."
"Oh!" began Mrs. Falk, with the full force of her terrible logic, "do
you mean to say that doing good is disgraceful, Lady Rehnhjelm?"
"No, my dear; but in my opinion it is disgraceful to print the fact
that one has given a pair of woollen stockings...."
"But to give a pair of woollen stockings is doing good; therefore it
must be disgraceful to do good...."
"No, but to have it printed, my child! You aren't listening to what I'm
saying," replied her ladyship, reproving her stubborn hostess who would
not give in, but went on:
"I see! It's the printing which is disgraceful! But the Bible is
printed, consequently it is disgraceful to print the Bible...."
"Please go on, pastor," interrupted her ladyship, a little annoyed by
the tactless manner in which her hostess defended her inanities; but
the latter did not yet count the battle as lost.
"Do you think it beneath your dignity, Lady Rehnhjelm, to exchange
views with so unimportant a person as I am...?"
"No, my child; but keep your views to yourself; I don't want to
exchange."
"Do you call this discussing a question, may I ask? Won't you enlighten
us on the point, pastor? Can it be called discussing a question if one
party refuses to reply to the argument of the other?"
"Of course it can't, my dear Mrs. Falk," replied the pastor, with an
ambiguous smile, which nearly reduced Mrs. Falk to tears. "But don't
let us spoil a splendid enterprise by quarrelling over trifles,
ladies! We'll postpone the printing until the funds are larger. We
have seen the young enterprise shooting up like a seed and we have seen
that powerful hands are willing to tend the young plant; but we must
think of the future. The Society has a fund; the fund must be
administered; in other words, we must look round for an administrator,
a practical man, able to transform these presents into hard cash; we
must elect a treasurer. I'm afraid we shall not find one without a
sacrifice of money--does one ever get anything without such a
sacrifice? Have the ladies anybody in view?"
No, the ladies had not thought of it.
"Then may I propose a young man of steady character, who in my opinion
is just the right person for the work? Has the Administrative Committee
any objection to appointing secretary Ekelund to the post of treasurer
at a suitable salary?"
The ladies had no objection to make, especially as the young man was
recommended by the Rev. Nathanael Skore; and the Pastor felt the more
qualified to recommend him because he was a near relative of his. And
so the Crèche had a treasurer with a salary of six hundred crowns.
"Ladies," began the pastor again, "have we worked long enough in the
vineyard for one day?"
There was silence. Mrs. Falk stared at the door wondering where her
husband was.
"My time's short and I'm prevented from staying any longer. Has anybody
any further suggestion to make? No! In calling down the blessing of the
Lord on our enterprise, which has begun so auspiciously, I commend all
of us to His loving mercy; I cannot do it in a better way than by
repeating the words which He Himself has taught us when He prayed:
'Abba, Father--Our Father....'"
He was silent as if he were afraid of the sound of his own voice, and
the Committee covered their faces with their hands as if they were
ashamed of looking each other in the eyes. The ensuing pause grew
long, unbearably long; yet no one dared to break it; every one looked
through the fingers hoping that someone else would make the first move,
when a violent pull at the front door bell brought the party down to
earth.
The pastor took his hat and emptied his glass; there was something
about him of a man who is trying to steal away. Mrs. Falk beamed, for
here was the crushing, the vengeance, the rehabilitation.
Revenge was there and the crushing too, for the footman handed her a
letter from her husband which contained--the guests were not
enlightened as to its contents, but they saw enough to make them
declare at once that they had pressing engagements.
Lady Rehnhjelm would have liked to stay and comfort her young hostess,
whose appearance betrayed a high degree of consternation and
unhappiness. The latter, however, did not encourage her, but on the
contrary was so exceedingly eager to help her visitors with their hats
and cloaks that it looked as if she wanted to be rid of them as quickly
as possible.
They parted in great embarrassment. The footsteps died away on the
staircase and the departing guests could tell from the nervous haste
with which the hostess shut the door behind them that she longed for
solitude in order to be able to give vent to her feelings.
It was quite true. Left by herself in the large rooms Mrs. Falk burst
into violent sobs; but her tears were not the tears which fall like a
May shower on a wizened old heart; they were the tears of wrath and
rage which darken the mirror of the soul and fall like an acid on the
roses of health and youth and wither them.
CHAPTER XIV
ABSINTH
A hot afternoon sun was scorching the pavements of the provincial town
X-köping.
The large vaults of the town hall were still deserted; fir branches
were scattered all over the floor, and it smelt of a funeral. The
graduated liqueur bottles stood on the shelves, having an afternoon
nap, opposite the brandy bottles which wore the collars of their orders
round their necks and were on leave until the evening; the clock, which
could never take a nap, stood against the wall like a tall peasant,
whiling away the time by contemplating, apparently, a huge playbill,
impaled on a clothes peg close by. The vault was very long and narrow;
both of the long walls were furnished with birchwood tables, jutting
out from the wall, giving it the appearance of a stable, in which the
four-legged tables represented the horses tied with their heads to the
wall and turning their hind quarters towards the room; at the present
moment all of them were asleep; one of them lifted its hind leg a
little off the ground, for the floor was very uneven. One could see
that they were fast asleep, for the flies were calmly walking up and
down their backs.
The sixteen-year-old waiter who was leaning against the tall clock
close to the poster was not asleep; he was incessantly waving his white
apron at the flies which had just finished their dinner in the kitchen
and were now playing about the vaults. Every now and then he leaned
back and put his ear to the chest of the clock, as if he were sounding
it, or wanting to find out what it had had for dinner. He was soon to
be enlightened. The tall creature gave a sob, and exactly four minutes
later it sobbed again; a groaning and rumbling in its inside made the
lad jump; rattling terribly it struck six times, after which it
continued its silent work.
The boy, too, began to work. He walked round his stable, grooming his
horses with his apron and putting everything in order as if he were
expecting visitors. On one of the tables, in the background, from which
a spectator could view the whole long room, he placed matches, a bottle
of absinth and two glasses, a liqueur glass and a tumbler; then he
fetched a bottle of water from the pump and put it on the table by the
side of the inflammables. When everything was ready, he paced up and
down the room, occasionally striking quite unexpected attitudes, as if
he were imitating somebody. Now he stood with arms folded across his
chest, his head bowed, staring fiercely at the faded paper on the old
walls; now he stood with legs crossed, the knuckles of his right hand
touching the edge of the table holding in his left a lorgnette, made of
a piece of wire from a beer bottle through which he sarcastically
scanned the mouldings on the ceiling.
The door flew open, and a man of thirty-five entered with assurance, as
if he were coming into his own house. His beardless face had the
sharply cut features which are the result of much exercise of the
facial muscles, characteristic of actors and one other class. Every
muscle and ligament was plainly visible under the skin with its bluish
shadows on upper lip and chin, but the miserable wire-work which set
these fine tangents in motion was invisible, for he was not like a
common piano which requires a pedal. A high, rather narrow forehead
with hollow temples, rose like a true Corinthian capital; black, untidy
locks of hair climbed round it like wild creepers, from which small
straight snakes darted, trying to reach the sockets of his eyes, but
ever failing to do so. In calm moments his large, dark eyes looked
gentle and sad, but there were times when they blazed and then the
pupils looked like the muzzles of a revolver.
He took his seat at the table which the boy had prepared and looked
sadly at the water bottle.
"Why do you always give me a bottle of water, Gustav?"
"So that you won't be burned to death, sir."
"What does it matter to you whether I am or not? Can't I burn if I
like?"
"Don't be a nihilist to-day, sir."
"Nihilist? Who talked to you of nihilists? When did you hear that word?
Are you mad, boy? Speak!"
He rose to his feet and fired a few shots from his dark revolvers.
Fear and consternation at the expression in the actor's face kept
Gustav tongue tied.
"Answer, boy, when did you hear this word?"
"Mr. Montanus said it a few days ago, when he came here from his
church," answered the boy timidly.
"Montanus, indeed!" said the melancholy man, sitting down again.
"Montanus is my man: he has a large understanding. I say, Gustav,
what's the name, I mean the nickname, by which these theatrical
blackguards call me? Tell me! You needn't be afraid."
"I'd rather not, sir; it's very ugly."
"Why not if you can please me by doing so? Don't you think I could do
with a little cheering up? Do I look so frightfully gay? Out with it!
What do they say when they ask you whether I have been here? Don't they
say: Has...."
"The devil...."
"Ah, the devil! They hate me, don't they?"
"Yes, they do!"
"Good! But why? Have I done them any harm?"
"No, they can't say that, sir."
"No, I don't think they can."
"But they say that you ruin people, sir."
"Ruin?"
"Yes, they say that you ruined me, sir, because I find that there's
nothing new in the world."
"Hm! Hm! I suppose you tell them that their jokes are stale?"
"Yes; everything they say is stale; they are so stale themselves that
they make me sick."
"Indeed! And don't you think that being a waiter is stale?"
"Yes, I do; life and death and everything is an old story--no--to be an
actor would be something new."
"No, my friend. That is the stalest of all stale stories. But shut up,
now! I want to forget myself."
He drank his absinth and rested his head against the wall with its
long, brown streak, the track on which the smoke of his cigar had
ascended during the six long years he had been sitting there, smoking.
The rays of the sun fell through the window, passing through the sieve
of the great aspens outside, whose light foliage, dancing in the
evening breeze, threw a tremulous net on the long wall. The shadow of
the melancholy man's head, with its untidy locks of hair, fell on the
lowest corner of the net and looked very much like a huge spider.
Gustav had returned to the clock, where he sat plunged in nihilistic
silence, watching the flies dancing round the hanging lamp.
"Gustav!" came a voice from the spider's web.
"Yes sir!" was the prompt response from the clock.
"Are your parents still alive?"
"No, sir, you know they aren't."
"Good for you."
A long pause.
"Gustav!"
"Yes sir!"
"Can you sleep at night?"
"What do you mean, sir?" answered Gustav blushing.
"What I say!"
"Of course I can! Why shouldn't I?"
"Why do you want to be an actor?"
"I don't know! I believe I should be happy!"
"Aren't you happy now?"
"I don't know! I don't think so!"
"Has Mr. Rehnhjelm been here again?"
"No, sir, but he said he would come here to meet you about this time."
A long pause; the door opened and a shadow fell into the spider's net;
it trembled, and the spider in the corner made a quick movement.
"Mr. Rehnhjelm?" said the melancholy head.
"Mr. Falander?"
"Glad to meet you! You came here before?"
"Yes; I arrived this afternoon and called at once. You'll guess my
purpose. I want to go on the stage."
"Do you really? You amaze me!"
"Amaze you?"
"Yes! But why do you come to me first?"
"Because I know that you are one of our finest actors and because a
mutual friend, Mr. Montanus, the sculptor, told me that you were in
every way to be trusted."
"Did he? Well, what can I do for you?"
"I want advice."
"Won't you sit down?"
"If I may act as host...."
"I couldn't think of such a thing."
"Then as my own guest, if you don't mind."
"As you like! You want advice?--Hm! Shall I give you my candid opinion?
Yes, of course! Then listen to me, take what I'm going to say
seriously, and never forget that I said such and such a thing on such
and such an evening; I'll be responsible for my words."
"Give me your candid opinion! I'm prepared for anything."
"Have you ordered your horses? No? Then do so and go home."
"Do you think me incapable of becoming an actor?"
"By no means! I don't think anybody in all the world incapable of that.
On the contrary! Everybody, has more or less talent for acting."
"Very well then!"
"Oh! the reality is so different from your dream! You're young, your
blood flows quickly through your veins, a thousand pictures, bright and
beautiful like the pictures in a fairy tale throng your brain; you want
to bring them to the light, show them to the world and in doing so
experience a great joy--isn't that so?"
"Yes, yes, you're expressing my very thoughts!"
"I only supposed quite a common case--I don't suspect bad motives
behind everything, although I have a bad opinion of most things! Well,
then, this desire of yours is so strong, that you would rather suffer
want, humiliate yourself, allow yourself to be sucked dry by vampires,
lose your social reputation, become bankrupt, go to the dogs--than turn
back. Am I right?"
"Yes! How well you know me!"
"I once knew a young man--I know him no longer, he is so changed! He
was fifteen years old when he left the penitentiary which every
community keeps for the children who commit the outrageous crime of
being born, and where the innocent little ones are made to atone for
their parents' fall from grace--for what should otherwise become of
society? Please remind me to keep to the subject! On leaving it he went
for five years to Upsala and read a terrible number of books; his brain
was divided into six pigeon-holes in which six kinds of information,
dates, names, a whole warehouseful of ready-made opinions, conclusions,
theories, ideas and nonsense of every description, were stored like a
general cargo. This might have been allowed to pass, for there's plenty
of room in a brain. But he was also supposed to accept foreign
thoughts, rotten, old thoughts, which others had chewed for a
life-time, and which they now vomited. It filled him with nausea
and--he was twenty years old--he went on the stage. Look at my watch!
Look at the second-hand; it makes sixty little steps before a minute
has passed; sixty times sixty before it is an hour; twenty-four times
the number and it is a day; three hundred and sixty-five times and it
is only a year. Now imagine ten years! Did you ever wait for a friend
outside his house? The first quarter of an hour passes like a flash!
The second quarter--oh! one doesn't mind waiting for a person one's
fond of; the third quarter: he's not coming; the fourth: hope and fear;
the fifth: one goes away but hurries back; the sixth: Damn it all! I've
wasted my time for nothing! the seventh: having waited so long, I might
just as well wait a little longer; the eighth: raging and cursing; the
ninth: One goes home, lies down on one's sofa and feels as calm as if
one were walking arm in arm with death. He waited for ten years! Ten
years! Isn't my hair standing on end when I say ten years? Look at it!
Ten years had passed before he was allowed to play a part. When he did,
he had a tremendous success--at once. But his ten wasted years had
brought him to the verge of insanity; he was mad that it hadn't
happened ten years before. And he was amazed to find that happiness
when at last he held it within his grasp didn't make him happy! And so
he was unhappy."
"But don't you think he required the ten years for the study of his
art?"
"How could he study it when he was never allowed to play? He was a
laughing-stock, the scum of the playbill; the management said he was no
good; and whenever he tried to find an engagement at another theatre,
he was told that he had no repertoire."
"But why couldn't he be happy when his luck had turned?"
"Do you think an immortal soul is content with happiness? But why speak
about it? Your resolution is irrevocable. My advice is superfluous.
There is but one teacher: experience, and experience is as capricious,
or as calculating, as a schoolmaster; some of the pupils are always
praised; others are always beaten. You are born to be praised; don't
think I'm saying this because you belong to a good family; I'm
sufficiently enlightened not to make that fact responsible for good or
evil; in this case it is a particularly negligible quantity, for on the
stage a man stands or falls by his own merit. I hope you'll have an
early success so that you won't be enlightened too soon; I believe you
deserve it."
"But have you no respect for your art, the greatest and most sublime of
all arts?"
"It's overrated like everything about which men write books. It's full
of danger and can do much harm! A beautifully told lie can impress like
a truth! It's like a mass meeting where the uncultured majority turns
the scale. The more superficial the better--the worse, the better! I
don't mean to say that it is superfluous."
"That can't be your opinion!"
"That _is_ my opinion, but all the same, I may be mistaken."
"But have you really no respect for your art?"
"For mine? Why should I have more respect for my art than for anybody
else's?"
"And yet you've played the greatest parts! You've played Shakespeare!
You've played Hamlet! Have you never been touched in your inmost soul
when speaking that tremendous monologue: To be or not to be...."
"What do you mean by tremendous?"
"Full of profound thought."
"Do explain yourself! Is it so full of profound thought to say: Shall I
take my life or not? I should do so if I knew what comes hereafter, and
everybody else would do the same thing; but as we don't know, we don't
take our lives. Is that so very profound?"
"Not if expressed in those words."
"There you are! You've surely contemplated suicide at one time or
another? Haven't you?"
"Yes; I suppose most people have."
"And why didn't you do it? Because, like Hamlet, you hadn't the
courage, not knowing what comes after. Were you very profound then?"
"Of course I wasn't!"
"Therefore it's nothing but a banality! Or, expressed in one word it
is--what is it, Gustav?"
"Stale!" came a voice from the clock, a voice which seemed to have
waited for its cue.
"It's stale! But, supposing the poet had given us an acceptable
supposition of a future life, that would have been something new."
"Is everything new excellent?" asked Rehnhjelm. Under the pressure of
all the new ideas to which he had been listening, his courage was fast
ebbing away.
"New ideas have one great merit--they are new! Try to think your own
thoughts and you will always find them new! Will you believe me when I
say that I knew what you wanted before you walked in at that door? And
that I know what you are going to say next, seeing that we are
discussing Shakespeare?"
"You are a strange man! I can't help confessing that you're right in
what you're saying, although I don't agree with you."
"What do you say to Anthony's speech over the body of Cæsar? Isn't it
remarkable?"
"That's exactly what I was going to speak about. You seem to be able to
read my thoughts."
"Exactly what I was telling you just now. And is it so wonderful
considering that all men think the same, or at any rate say the same
thing? Well, what do you find in it of any great depth?"
"I can't explain in words...."
"Don't you think it a very commonplace piece of sarcastic oratory? One
expresses exactly the reverse of one's meaning, and if the points are
sharpened, they are bound to sting. But have you ever come across
anything more beautiful than the dialogue between Juliet and Romeo
after their wedding night?"
"Ah! You mean where he says, 'It is the nightingale and not the
lark'...."
"What other passage could I mean? Doesn't every one quote that? It is a
wonderful poetical conception on which the effect depends. Do you think
Shakespeare's greatness depends on poetical conceptions?"
"Why do you break up everything I admire? Why do you take away my
supports?"
"I am throwing away your crutches so that you may learn to walk without
them. But let me ask you to keep to the point."
"You are not asking, you are compelling me to do so."
"Then you should steer clear of me. Your parents are against your
taking this step?"
"Yes! How do you know?"
"Parents always are. Why overrate my judgment? You should never
exaggerate anything."
"Do you think we should be happier if we didn't?"
"Happier? Hm! Do you know anybody who is happy? Give me your own
opinion, not the conventional one."
"No!"
"If you don't believe anybody is happy, how can you postulate such a
condition as being happier? Your parents are alive then? It's a mistake
to have parents."
"Why? What do you mean?"
"Don't you think it unfair of an older generation to bring up a younger
one in its antiquated inanities? Your parents expect gratitude from
you, I suppose?"
"And doesn't one owe it to one's parents?"
"For what? For the fact that with the connivance of the law they have
brought us into this world of misery, have half-starved us, beaten us,
oppressed us, humiliated us, opposed all our wishes? Believe me, a
revolution is needed--two revolutions! Why don't you take some
absinth? Are you afraid of it? Look at the bottle! It's marked with the
Geneva cross! It heals those who have been wounded on the battlefield,
friends and foes alike; it lulls all pain, blunts the keen edge of
thought, blots out memories, stifles all the nobler emotions which
beguile humanity into folly, and finally extinguishes the light of
reason. Do you know what the light of reason is? First, it is a phrase,
secondly, it is a will-o'-the-wisp; one of those flames, you know,
which play about spots where decaying fish have engendered
phosphoretted hydrogen; the light of reason is phosphoretted hydrogen
engendered by the grey brain substance. It is a strange thing.
Everything good on this earth perishes and is forgotten. During my ten
years' touring, and my apparent idleness, I have read through all the
libraries one finds in small towns, and I find that all the twaddle and
nonsense contained in the books is popular and constantly quoted; but
the wisdom is neglected and pushed aside. Do remind me to keep to the
point...."
The clock went through its diabolical tricks and thundered seven. The
door was flung open and a man lurched noisily into the room. He was a
man of about fifty, with a huge, heavy head, fixed between a pair of
lumpy shoulders like a mortar on a gun carriage, with a permanent
elevation of forty-five degrees, looking as if it were going to throw
bombs at the stars. To judge from the face, the owner was capable of
all possible crimes and impossible vices, but too great a coward to
commit any. He immediately threw a bombshell at the melancholy man, and
harshly ordered a glass of grog made of rum, in grammatical, uncouth
language and in the voice of a corporal.
"This is the man who holds your fate in his hands," whispered the
melancholy man to Rehnhjelm. "This is the tragedian, actor-manager, and
my deadly foe."
Rehnhjelm could not suppress a shudder of disgust as he looked at the
terrible individual who, after having exchanged a look of hatred with
Falander, now closed the passage of arms by repeated expectorations.
The door opened again, and in glided the almost elegant figure of a
middle-aged man with oily hair and a waxed moustache. He familiarly
took his place by the side of the actor-manager, who gave him his
middle finger on which shone a ring with a large cornelian.
"This is the editor of the Conservative paper, the defender of throne
and altar. He has the run of the theatre and tries to seduce all the
girls on whom the actor-manager hasn't cast his eye. He started his
career as a Government official, but had to resign his post, I'm
ashamed to tell you why," explained Falander. "But I am also ashamed to
remain in the same room with these gentlemen, and, moreover, I have
asked a few friends here, to-night, to a little supper in celebration
of my recent benefit. If you care to spend the evening in bad company,
among the most unimportant actors, two notorious ladies and an old
blackguard, you are welcome at eight."
Rehnhjelm hesitated a moment before he accepted the invitation.
The spider on the wall climbed through his net as if to examine it and
disappeared. The fly remained in its place a little longer. The sun
sank behind the cathedral, the meshes of the net were undone as if they
had never existed, and the aspens outside the window shivered. The
great man and stage-director raised his voice and shouted--he had
forgotten how to speak:
"Did you see the attack on me in the _Weekly_?"
"Don't take any notice of such piffle."
"Take no notice of it? What the devil do you mean? Doesn't everybody
read it? Of course the whole town does! I should like to give him a
horse-whipping! The impertinent rascal calls me affected and
exaggerated."
"Bribe him! Don't make a fuss!"
"Bribe him? Haven't I tried it? But these Liberal journalists are
damned queer. If you are on friendly terms with them, they'll give you
a nice enough notice; but they won't be bribed however poor they may
be."
"Oh! You don't go about it in the right way! You shouldn't do it
openly, you could send them presents which they can turn into cash, or
cash, if you like, but anonymously, and never refer to it."
"As I do in your case! No, old chap, the trick doesn't work in their
case. I've tried it! It's hell to reckon with people with opinions."
"Who do you think was the victim in the devil's clutches, to change the
subject?"
"That's nothing to do with me."
"Oh, but I think it has! Gustav! Who was the gentleman with Mr.
Falander?"
"His name's Rehnhjelm! He wants to go on the stage."
"What do you say? He wants to go on the stage? He!" shouted the
actor-manager.
"Yes, that's it!" replied Gustav.
"And, of course, act tragedy parts? And be Falander's protégé? And not
come to me? And take away my parts? And honour us by playing here? And
I know nothing about the whole matter? I? I? I'm sorry for him! It's a
pity! Bad prospects for him. Of course, I shall patronize him! I'll
take him under my wing! The strength of my wings may be felt even when
I don't fly! They have a way of pinching now and then! He was a nice
looking lad! A smart lad! Beautiful as Antinous! What a pity he didn't
come to me first, I should have given him Falander's parts, every one
of them! Oh! Oh! Oh! But it isn't too late yet! Hah! Let the devil
corrupt him first! He's still a little too fresh! He really looked
quite an innocent boy! Poor little chap! I'll only say 'God help him!'"
The sound of the last sentence was drowned in the noise made by the
grog drinkers of the whole town who were now beginning to arrive.
CHAPTER XV
THE THEATRICAL COMPANY "PHOENIX"
On the following day Rehnhjelm awoke late in the morning in his hotel
bed. Memories of the previous night arose like phantoms and crowded
round him.
He saw again the pretty, closely shuttered room, richly decorated with
flowers, in which the orgy had been held. He saw the actress, a lady of
thirty-five who, thanks to a younger rival, had to play the parts of
old women; he saw her entering the room, in a frenzy of rage and
despair at the fresh humiliations heaped upon her, throwing herself
full length on the sofa, drinking glass after glass of wine and, when
the temperature of the room rose, opening her bodice, as a man opens
his waistcoat after a too-plentiful dinner.
He saw again the old comedian who, after a very short career, had been
degraded from playing lead to taking servant's parts; he now
entertained the tradespeople of the town with his songs, and, above
all, with the stories of his short glory.
But, in the very heart of the clouds of smoke and his drunken visions
Rehnhjelm saw the picture of a young girl of sixteen, who had arrived
with tears in her eyes, and told the melancholy Falander that the great
actor-manager had again been persecuting her with insulting proposals,
vowing that in future, unless she would accede to them, she should play
only the very smallest parts.
And he saw Falander, listening to everybody's troubles and complaints,
breathing on them until they vanished; he watched him, reducing
insults, humiliations, kicks, accidents, want, misery, and grief to
nothing; watched him teaching his friends and warning them never to
exaggerate anything, least of all their troubles.
But again and again his thoughts reverted to the little girl of sixteen
with the innocent face, with whom he had made friends, and who had
kissed him when they parted, hungrily, passionately. To be quite
candid, her kiss had taken him by surprise. But what _was_ her name?
He rose, and stretching out his hand for the water-bottle, he seized a
tiny handkerchief, spotted with wine. Ah! Here was her name,
ineffaceable, written in marking ink--Agnes! He kissed the handkerchief
twice on the cleanest spot and put it into his box.
When he had carefully dressed himself, he went out to see the
actor-manager, whom he confidently expected to find at the theatre
between twelve and three.
To be on the safe side, he arrived at the office at twelve o'clock; he
found no one there but a porter, who asked him what he wanted and put
himself at his service.
Rehnhjelm did not think that he would need his help, and asked to see
the actor-manager; he was told that the actor-manager was at the
present moment at the factory, but would no doubt come to the office in
the course of the afternoon.
Rehnhjelm supposed factory to be a slang expression for theatre, but
the porter explained to him that the actor-manager was also a match
manufacturer. His brother-in-law, the cashier, was a post office
employé and never came to the theatre before two o'clock; his son, the
secretary, had a post in the telegraph office, and his presence could
never be safely relied upon. But the porter, who seemed to guess the
object of Rehnhjelm's visit, handed him, on his own responsibility and
in the name of the theatre, a copy of the statutes; the young
gentleman was at liberty to amuse himself with it until one of the
managerial staff arrived.
Rehnhjelm possessed his soul in patience and sat down on the sofa to
study the documents. It was half-past twelve when he had finished
reading them. He talked to the porter until a quarter to one, and then
set himself to fathom the meaning of paragraph 1 of the statutes. "The
theatre is a moral institution," it ran, "therefore the members of the
company should endeavour to live in the fear of God, and to lead a
virtuous and moral life." He turned and twisted the sentence about,
trying to throw light upon it, without succeeding. "If the theatre is a
moral institution," he mused, "the members who--in addition to the
manager, the cashier, the secretary, the machinists, and
scene-shifters--form the institution, need not endeavour to practise
all these beautiful things. If it said: The theatre is an immoral
institution and therefore ... there would be some sense in it; but
that, surely, the management does not intend to convey."
He thought of Hamlet's "words, words," but immediately remembered that
to quote Hamlet was stale, and that one ought to clothe one's thoughts
in one's own words; he chose his own term, and called the regulations
nonsense, but discarded the expression again, because it was not
original; but then the original was not original either.
Paragraph 2 helped him to while away a quarter of an hour in meditation
on the text: "The theatre is not a place for amusement; it does not
merely exist to give pleasure." In one place it said the theatre is not
a place for amusement and in another the theatre does not "merely"
exist to give pleasure, therefore it did exist to give pleasure--to a
certain extent.
He reflected under what circumstances the theatre ministered to one's
pleasure. It was amusing to see children, especially sons, defrauding
their parents, more particularly when the parents were thrifty,
goodhearted, and sensible; it was amusing to see wives deceiving their
husbands; especially when the husband was old and required his wife's
care. Besides this he remembered having laughed very heartily at two
old men who nearly died of starvation because their business was on the
decline, and that to this day all the world laughed at it in a piece
written by a classical author. He also recollected having been much
amused by the misfortune of an elderly man who had become deaf; and
that, together with six hundred other men and women, he had shouted
with laughter at a priest, who tried, by natural means, to cure his
insanity, the result of self-restraint; his mirth had been particularly
stimulated by the hypocrisy displayed by the wily priest in order to
gain the object of his desire.
Why does one laugh? he wondered. And as he had nothing else to do, he
tried to find an answer. One laughed at misfortune, want, misery, vice,
virtue, the defeat of good, the victory of evil.
This conclusion, which was partly new to him, put him into a good
temper; he found a great deal of amusement in playing with his
thoughts. As the management still remained invisible, he went on
playing, and, before the lapse of five minutes, he had come to the
following conclusion: In a tragedy one weeps at just those things which
in comedy make one laugh.
At this point his thoughts were arrested; the great actor-manager burst
into the room, brushed past Rehnhjelm without apparently being aware of
his presence and entered a room on the left, whither, a moment
afterwards, the violent ringing of a bell summoned the porter. In less
than half a minute he had gone in and come out again, announcing that
his Highness was ready to receive the visitor.
As Rehnhjelm entered the director had already fired his shot and his
mortar was fixed at an angle which quite prevented him from perceiving
the nervous mortal who was timidly coming into the room. But he had no
doubt heard him, for he asked him immediately, in an offensive manner,
what he wanted.
Rehnhjelm stammered that he was anxious to make his début on the stage.
"What? A début? Have you a repertory, sir? Have you played 'Hamlet,'
'Lear,' 'Richard Sheridan'; been called ten times before the curtain
after the third act? What?"
"I've never played a part."
"Oh, I see! That's quite another thing!"
He sat down in an easy-chair painted with silver paint and covered with
blue brocade. His face had become a mask. He might have been sitting
for a portrait for one of the biographies of Suetonius.
"Shall I give you my candid opinion, what? Leave the theatrical
profession alone!"
"Impossible!"
"I repeat, leave it alone! It's the worst of all professions! Full of
humiliations, unpleasantnesses, little annoyances, and thorns which
will embitter your life so that you'll wish you had never been born."
He looked as if he were speaking the truth, but Rehnhjelm's resolution
was not to be shaken.
"I beg you to take my advice! I solemnly adjure you to drop this idea.
I tell you that the prospects are so bad, that for years to come you'll
have simply to walk on. Think of it! And don't come to me with
complaints when it is too late. The theatrical career is so infernally
difficult, sir, that you would not dream of taking it up, if you had
the least knowledge of it! It's a hell! believe me. I have spoken."
It was a waste of breath.
"Well, wouldn't you prefer an engagement without a début? The risk is
less great."
"I shall be only too pleased; I never expected more."
"Then you'd better sign this agreement. A salary of twelve hundred
crowns and a two years' engagement. Do you agree?"
He pulled a filled-up agreement, signed by the management, from
underneath the blotting-pad, and gave it to Rehnhjelm. The latter's
brain was whirling at the thought of the twelve hundred crowns and he
signed it without a look at the contents.
When he had signed the actor-manager held out his large middle finger
with the cornelian ring, and said: "Be welcome!" He flashed at him with
the gums of his upper jaw and the yellow and bloodshot whites of his
eyes with their green irises.
The audience was over. But Rehnhjelm--in whose opinion the whole
business had been hurried through far too quickly--instead of moving,
took the liberty of asking whether he had not better wait until all the
members of the management were assembled.
"The management?" shouted the great tragedian. "I am the management. If
you have any questions to ask, address yourself to me! If you want
advice, come to me! To me, sir! To nobody else! That's all! You can go
now!"
The skirt of Rehnhjelm's coat must have caught on a nail, for he turned
on the threshold to see what the last words looked like; but he saw
only the red gums, which had the appearance of an instrument of
torture, and the bloodshot eyes; he felt no desire to ask for an
explanation, but went straight to the vaults of the town hall to have
some dinner and meet Falander.
Falander was sitting at one of the tables, calm and indifferent, as if
he were prepared for the worst. He was not surprised to hear that
Rehnhjelm had been engaged, although this news considerably increased
his gloom.
"And what did you think of the manager?" he asked.
"I wanted to box his ears, but I hadn't the courage."
"Nor has the management, and therefore he rules
autocratically--brutality always rules! Perhaps you know that he is a
playwright as well as all the rest?"
"I've heard about it."
"He writes a sort of historical play which is always successful. The
reason is that he writes parts instead of creating characters; he
manipulates the applause at the exits and trades on so-called
patriotism. His characters never talk, they quarrel; men and women, old
and young, all of them; for this reason his popular piece, _The Sons of
King Gustavus_, is rightly called a historical quarrel in five acts; it
contains no action, nothing but quarrels: family rows, street brawls,
scenes in Parliament, and so on. Questions are answered by sly cuts,
which do not provoke scenes, but the most terrible scuffles. There is
no dialogue, nothing but squabbling, in which the characters insult
each other, and the highest dramatic effect is attained by blows. The
critics call his characterisation great. What has he made of Gustavus
Vasa in the play I just mentioned? A broad-shouldered, long-bearded,
bragging, untenable fellow of enormous strength; at the meeting of
Parliament at Västeros, he breaks a table with his fist, and at
Vadstena he kicks a door panel to pieces. On one occasion however the
critics said there was no meaning in his plays; it made him angry, and
he resolved to write comedies with plenty of meaning. He had a boy at
school--the blackguard's married--who had been playing pranks and got a
thrashing. Immediately his father wrote a comedy in which he drew the
masters and exposed the inhuman treatment boys receive at school in
these days. On another occasion he was criticized by an honest
reviewer, and immediately he wrote a comedy, libelling the liberal
journalists of the town. But I'll say no more about him!"
"Why does he hate you?"
"Because I said, at a rehearsal, Don Pasquale, in spite of his
maintaining that the proper pronunciation was Pascal. Result: I was
ordered, on penalty of a fine, to pronounce the word in _his_ way. It
was immaterial to him, he said, how the rest of the world pronounced
the word, at X-köping it was to be pronounced Pascal, because it was
his wish."
"Where does he come from? What was he before?"
"Can't you guess that he was a wheelwright? He'd poison you if he
thought you knew it. But let us change the subject; how do you feel
after last night's revels?"
"Splendid! I quite forgot to thank you!"
"Don't mention it! Are you fond of the girl? I mean Agnes?"
"Yes, I'm very fond of her."
"And she loves you? That's all right, then! Take her!"
"What nonsense you talk! We couldn't be married for a long time!"
"Who told you to be married?"
"What are you driving at?"
"You're eighteen, she's sixteen! You're in love with each other! If
you're agreed, only the most private detail is wanting."
"I don't understand what you mean! Are you trying to encourage me to
behave like a scoundrel towards her?"
"I am trying to encourage you to obey the great voice of nature and
snap your fingers at the petty commands of men. It's only envy if men
condemn your conduct; their much-talked-of morality is nothing but
malice, in a suitable, presentable guise. Hasn't nature called you for
some time to her great banquet, the delight of the gods and the horror
of society afraid of having to pay alimony?"
"Why don't you advise me to marry her?"
"Because that's quite another thing! One doesn't bind oneself for life
after having spent one evening together; it doesn't follow that he who
has enjoyed the rapture, must also undergo the pain. Matrimony is an
affair of souls; there can be no question of this in your case.
However, there's no need for me to spur you on; the inevitable is bound
to happen. Love each other while you're young, before it's too late;
love each other as birds love, without worrying about how to furnish a
home; love as the flowers of the species Dioecia."
"You've no right to talk disrespectfully of the girl. She is good,
innocent, and to be pitied, and whoever denies it is a liar. Have you
ever seen more innocent eyes than hers? Doesn't truth proclaim itself
in the sound of her voice? She is worthy of a great and pure love, not
merely of the passion you speak of. Don't ever talk to me about her in
this way again. You can tell her that I shall look upon it as the
greatest happiness, the highest honour, to ask her to marry me when I'm
worthy of her."
Falander shook his head so violently that the snakes on his forehead
wriggled.
"Worthy of her? Marriage? What stuff!"
"I mean it!"
"Dreadful! And if I should tell you that the girl does not only lack
all the qualities which you ascribe to her, but possesses all the
reverse ones, you wouldn't believe me, but would deprive me of your
friendship?"
"Yes!"
"The world is so full of lies, that nobody will believe a man when he
speaks the truth."
"How can a man believe you, who have no morals?"
"That word again! What an extraordinary word it is! It answers all
questions, cuts off all discussions, excuses all failings--one's own,
not those of others--strikes down all adversaries, pleads for or
against a cause, just like a lawyer. For the moment you have defeated
me with it, next time I shall defeat you. I must be off, I have a
lesson at three! Good-bye, good luck!"
And he left Rehnhjelm to his dinner and his reflections.
* * * * *
When Falander arrived home, he put on a dressing-gown and slippers, as
if he were expecting no visitors. But he seemed full of an
uncontrollable restlessness. He walked up and down the room, stopping
every now and then at the window and gazing at the street from behind
the curtain. After a while he stopped before the looking-glass, took
his collar off and laid it on the sofa table. For a few more minutes he
continued his promenade, but suddenly, coming to a standstill before a
card-tray, he took up the photograph of a lady, placed it under a
strong magnifying glass and examined it as if it were a microscopic
slide. He lingered a long time over his examination.
Presently he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs; quickly
concealing the photograph in the place from where he had taken it, he
jumped up and went and sat at his writing-table, turning his back to
the door. He was apparently absorbed in writing when a knocking--two
short, gentle raps--broke the silence.
"Come in," he called, in a voice which was anything but inviting.
A young girl, small but well-proportioned, entered the room. She had a
delicate, oval face, surrounded by an aureole of hair which might have
been bleached by the sun, for it was of a less pronounced tint than the
usual natural blond. The constant play of the small nose and
exquisitely cut mouth produced roguish curves which were incessantly
changing, like the figures in a kaleidoscope; when, for instance, she
moved the wings of her nose, so that the bright red cartilage showed
like the leaf of the liverwort, her lips fell apart and disclosed the
edges of very small, straight teeth which, although her own, were too
white and even to inspire confidence. Her eyes were drawn up at the
root of the nose and slanted towards the temples; this gave them a
pleading, pathetic expression, which stood in bewitching contrast to
the lower, roguish parts of her face; she had restless pupils, small
like the point of a needle at one moment, and distended at the next,
like the objective of a night-telescope.
On entering the room, she removed the key from the lock and shot the
bolt.
Falander remained sitting at his table, writing.
"You are late to-day, Agnes," he said.
"Yes, I know," she replied, defiantly, taking off her hat.
"We were up late last night."
"Why don't you get up and say how do you do to me? You can't be as
tired as all that!"
"I beg your pardon, I forgot all about it!"
"You forgot? I have noticed for some time that you've been forgetting
yourself in many ways."
"Indeed? Since when have you noticed it?"
"Since when? What do you mean? Please change your dressing-gown and
slippers."
"This is the first time you have found me in them, and you said for
some time. Isn't that funny? Don't you think it is?"
"You are laughing at me! What's the matter with you? You've been
strange for some time."
"For some time? There you are at it again! Why do you say for some
time? Is it because lies have got to be told? Why should it be
necessary to tell lies?"
"Are you accusing me of telling lies?"
"Oh! no, I'm only teasing you!"
"Do you think I can't see that you are tired of me? Do you think I
didn't see last night how attentive you were to that stupid Jenny? You
hadn't a word for me!"
"Do you mean to say you're jealous?"
"Jealous! No, my dear, not in the least! If you prefer her to me, well
and good! I don't care a toss!"
"Really? You're not jealous? Under ordinary circumstances this would be
an unpleasant fact."
"Under ordinary circumstances? What do you mean by that?"
"I mean--quite plainly--that I'm tired of you, as you just suggested."
"It's a lie! You're not!"
The wings of her nose trembled, she showed her teeth and stabbed him
with the needles.
"Let's talk of something else," he said. "What do you think of
Rehnhjelm?"
"I like him very much! He's a dear boy!"
"He's fallen in love with you!"
"Nonsense!"
"And the worst of it is he wants to marry you!"
"Please spare me these inanities!"
"But as he's not twenty, he's going to wait until he's worthy of you,
so he said."
"The little idiot!"
"By worthy he means when he's made a name as an actor. And he can't
succeed in that until he's allowed to play parts. Can't you manage it
for him?"
Agnes blushed, threw herself back on the sofa cushions and exhibited a
pair of elegant little boots with gold tassels.
"I? I can't manage it for myself! You're making fun of me!"
"Yes, I am!"
"You're a friend, Gustav, you really are!"
"Perhaps I am, perhaps I'm not. It's difficult to say. But as a
sensible girl...."
"Oh! shut up!"
She took up a keen-edged paper knife and threatened him in fun, but it
looked very much as if she were in earnest.
"You are very beautiful to-day, Agnes," said Falander.
"To-day? Why to-day? Has it never struck you before?"
"Of course it has!"
"Why are you sighing?"
"Too much drink last night!"
"Let me look at you! What's the matter with your eyes?"
"No sleep last night, my dear!"
"I'll go, then you can take a nap."
"Don't go! I can't sleep anyhow!"
"I must be off! I really only came to tell you that."
Her voice softened; her eyelids dropped slowly, like the curtain after
a death scene.
"It was kind of you to come and tell me that it's all over," said
Falander.
She rose and pinned on her hat before the glass.
"Have you any scent?" she asked.
"Not here; at the theatre."
"You should stop smoking a pipe; the smell hangs about one's clothes."
"I will."
She stooped and fastened her garter.
"I beg your pardon," she said, looking at Falander, pleadingly.
"What for?" he asked, absent-mindedly.
As she made no reply, he took courage and drew a deep breath.
"Where are you going?" he said.
"To be fitted for a dress; you needn't be afraid," she replied,
innocently, as she thought.
Falander could easily tell that it was an excuse.
"Good-bye, then," he said.
She went to him to be kissed. He took her in his arms and pressed her
against him as if he wanted to crush her; then he kissed her on the
forehead, led her to the door, pushed her outside, and said briefly:
"Good-bye!"
CHAPTER XVI
IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS
One afternoon in August, Falk was again sitting in the garden on Moses
Height; but he was alone, and he had been alone during the whole
summer. He was turning over in his mind all that had happened to him
during the three months which had passed since his last visit, when his
heart was brimful of hope, courage, and strength. He felt old, tired,
indifferent; he had seen the houses at his feet from the inside, and on
every occasion his expectations had been disappointed. He had seen
humanity under many aspects, aspects which are only revealed to the eye
of the poor man's doctor or the journalist, with the only difference
that the journalist generally sees men as they wish to appear, and the
doctor as they are. He had every opportunity of studying man as a
social animal in all possible guises; he had been present at
Parliamentary meetings, church councils, general meetings of
shareholders, philanthropic meetings, police court proceedings,
festivals, funerals, public meetings of working men; everywhere he had
heard big words and many words, words never used in daily intercourse,
a particular species of words which mean nothing, at least not what
they ought to mean. This had given him a one-sided conception of
humanity; he could see in man nothing but the deceitful social animal,
a creature he is bound to be because civilization forbids open war. His
aloofness blinded him to the existence of another animal, an animal
which "between glass and wall" is exceedingly amiable, as long as it
is not exasperated, and which is ready to come out with all its
failings and weaknesses when there are no witnesses. He was blind to it
and that was the reason why he had become embittered.
But the worst of it all was he had lost his self-respect. And that had
happened without his having committed a single action of which he need
have been ashamed. He had been robbed of it by his fellow-creatures,
and it had not been a very difficult thing to do. He had been slighted
everywhere, and how could he, whose self-confidence had been destroyed
in his early youth, respect a person whom everybody despised? With many
a bitter pang he saw that all Conservative journalists, that was to say
men who defended and upheld everything that was wrong--or if they could
not defend it, at least left it untouched--were treated with the utmost
courtesy. He was despised, not so much as a pressman as in his
character of advocate of all those who were down-trodden and hardly
dealt with.
He had lived through times of cruel doubt. For instance: in reporting
the General Meeting of Shareholders of the Marine Insurance Society
"Triton," he had used the word swindle. In replying to his report, the
_Grey Bonnet_ had published a long article proving so clearly that the
society was a national, patriotic, philanthropic institution that he
had almost felt convinced of having been wrong, and the thought of
having recklessly played with the reputation of his fellow citizens was
a nightmare to him for many days to come.
He was now in a state of mind which alternated between fanaticism and
callousness; his next impulse would decide the direction his
development was to take.
His life had been so dreary during the summer that he welcomed with
malicious pleasure every rainy day, and it was a comparatively pleasant
sensation to watch leaves rustling along the garden paths.
He sat absorbed in grimly humorous meditations on life and its
purposes, when one lean, bony hand was laid on his shoulder, and
another clutched his arm; he felt as if death had come to take him at
his word. He looked up and started: before him stood Ygberg, pale as a
corpse, emaciated and looking at him with those peculiarly washed out
eyes which only starvation produces.
"Good morning, Falk," he whispered, almost inaudibly, and his whole
body seemed to rattle.
"Good morning, Ygberg," replied Falk, suddenly brightening up. "Sit
down and have a cup of coffee! How are you? You look as if you had been
lying under the ice."
"Oh! I've been so ill, so ill!"
"You seem to have had as jolly a summer as I had!"
"Have you had a hard time, too?" asked Ygberg, a faint hope that it had
been the case brightening his yellow face.
"I can only say: Thank God that the cursed summer is over! It might be
winter all the year round for all I care! Not only that one is
suffering all the time, but one also has to watch others enjoying
themselves! I never put a foot out of town; did you?"
"I haven't seen a pine tree since Lundell left Lill-Jans in June! And
why should one want to see pine trees? It isn't absolutely essential;
nor is a pine tree anything extraordinary! But that one can't have the
pleasure, that's where the sting comes in."
"Oh, well! Never mind! It's clouding over in the east, therefore it
will rain to-morrow; and when the sun shines again, it will be autumn.
Your health!"
Ygberg looked at the punch as if it were poison, but he drank it
nevertheless.
"But you wrote that beautiful story of the guardian angel, or the
Marine Insurance Society 'Triton,' for Smith," remarked Falk. "Didn't
it go against your convictions?"
"Convictions? I have no convictions."
"Haven't you?"
"No, only fools have convictions."
"Have you no morals, Ygberg?"
"No! Whenever a fool has an idea--it comes to the same thing whether it
is original or not--he calls it his conviction, clings to it and boasts
of it, not because it is _a_ conviction, but because it is _his_
conviction. So far as the Marine Insurance Society is concerned, I
believe it's a swindle! I'm sure it injures many men, the shareholders
at all events, but it's a splendid thing for others, the directors and
employés, for instance; so it does a fair amount of good, after all."
"Have you lost all sense of honour, old friend?"
"One must sacrifice everything on the altar of duty."
"I admit that."
"The first and foremost duty of man is to live--to live at any price!
Divine as well as human law demands it."
"One must never sacrifice honour."
"Both laws, as I said, demand the sacrifice of everything--they compel
a poor man to sacrifice his so-called honour. It's cruel, but you can't
blame the poor man for it."
"Your theory of life is anything but cheerful."
"How could it be otherwise?"
"That's true!"
"But to talk of something else: I've had a letter from Rehnhjelm. I'll
read it to you, if you like."
"I heard he had gone on the stage."
"Yes, and he doesn't seem to be having a good time of it."
Ygberg took a letter from his breast-pocket, put a piece of sugar into
his mouth and began to read.
"If there is a hell in a life after this, which is very doubtful...."
"The lad's become a free-thinker!"
"It cannot be a worse place than this. I've been engaged for two
months, but it seems to me like two years. A devil, formerly a
wheelwright, now theatrical manager, holds my fate in his hand, and
treats me in such a way that three times a day I feel tempted to run
away. But he has so carefully drafted the penal clauses in the
agreement, that my flight would dishonour my parents' name.
"I have _walked on_ every single night, but I've never been allowed to
open my lips yet. For twenty consecutive evenings I have had to smear
my face with umber and wear a gipsy's costume, not a single piece of
which fits me; the tights are too long, the shoes too large, the jacket
is too short. An under-devil, called the prompter, takes good care that
I don't exchange my costume for one more suitable; and whenever I try
to hide myself behind the crowd, which is made up of the
director-manufacturer's factory hands, it opens and pushes me forward
to the footlights. If I look into the wings, my eyes fall on the
under-devil, standing there, grinning, and if I look at the house, I
see Satan himself sitting in a box, laughing.
"I seem to have been engaged for his amusement, not for the purpose of
playing any parts. On one occasion I ventured to draw his attention to
the fact that I ought to have practice in speaking parts if I was ever
going to be an actor. He lost his temper and said that one must learn
to crawl before one can learn to walk. I replied that I could walk. He
said it was a lie and asked me whether I imagined that the art of
acting, the most beautiful and difficult of all arts, required no
training. When I said that that was exactly what I did imagine, and
that I was impatiently waiting for the beginning of my training, he
told me I was an ignorant puppy, and he would kick me out. When I
remonstrated, he asked me whether I looked upon the stage as a refuge
for impecunious youths. My reply was a frank, unconditional glad Yes.
He roared that he would kill me.
"This is the present state of my affairs.
"I feel that my soul is flickering out like a tallow candle in a
draught, and I shall soon believe that 'Evil will be victorious, even
though it be concealed in clouds,' as the Catechism has it.
"But the worst of all is that I have lost all respect for this art,
which was the dream and the love of my boyhood. Can I help it when I
see that men and women without education or culture, spurred on by
vanity and recklessness, completely lacking in enthusiasm and
intelligence are able to play in a few months' time character parts,
historical parts, fairly well, without having a glimmer of knowledge of
the time in which they move, or the important part which the person
they represent played in history?
"It is slow murder, and the association with this mob which keeps me
down--some of the members of the company have come into collision with
various paragraphs of the penal code--is making of me what I've never
been, an aristocrat. The pressure of the cultured can never weigh as
heavily on the uncultured.
"There is but one ray of light in this darkness: I am in love. She is
purest gold among all this dross. Of course she, too, is persecuted and
slowly murdered, just as I am, since she refused the stage-manager's
infamous proposals. She is the only woman with a living spirit among
all these beasts, wallowing in filth, and she loves me with all her
soul. We are secretly engaged. I am only waiting for the day when I
shall have won success, to make her my wife. But when will that be? We
have often thought of dying together, but hope, treacherous hope, has
always beguiled us into continuing this misery. To see my innocent love
burning with shame when she is forced to wear improper costumes, is
more than I can bear. But I will drop this unpleasant subject.
"Olle and Lundell wish to be remembered. Olle is very much changed. He
has drifted into a new kind of philosophy, which tears down everything
and turns all things upside down. It sounds very jolly and sometimes
seems true, but it must be a dangerous doctrine if carried out.
"I believe he owes these ideas to one of the actors here, an
intelligent and well-informed man, who lives a very immoral life; I
like and hate him at the same time. He is a queer chap, fundamentally
good, noble and generous; a man who will sacrifice himself for his
friends. I cannot fix on any special vice, but he is immoral, and a man
without morality is a blackguard--don't you think so?
"I must stop, my angel, my good spirit is coming. There is a happy hour
in store for me; all evil spirits will flee, and I shall be a better
man.
"Remember me to Falk and tell him to think of me when life is hard on
him."
"Your friend R."
"Well, what do you think of that?"
"It's the old story of the struggle of the wild beasts. I'll tell you
what, Ygberg, I believe one has to be very unscrupulous if one wants to
get on in the world."
"Try it! You may not find it so easy!"
"Are you still doing business with Smith?"
"No, unfortunately not! And you?"
"I've seen him on the subject of my poems. He has bought them, ten
crowns the folio, and he can now murder me in the same way as the
wheelwright is murdering Rehnhjelm. And I'm afraid something of the
sort is going to happen, for I haven't heard a word about them. He was
so exceedingly friendly that I expect the worst. If only I knew what's
going on! But what's the matter with you? You're as white as a sheet."
"The truth is," replied Ygberg, clutching the railings, "all I've had
to eat these last two days has been five lumps of sugar. I'm afraid I'm
going to faint."
"If food will set you right, I can help you; fortunately I have some
money."
"Of course it will set me right," whispered Ygberg faintly.
But it was not so. When they were sitting in the dining-room and food
was served to them, Ygberg grew worse, and Falk had to take him to his
room, which fortunately was not very far off.
* * * * *
The house was an old, one-story house built of wood; it had climbed on
to a rock and looked as if it suffered from hip-disease. It was spotted
like a leper; a long time ago it was going to be painted, but when the
old paint had been burned off, nothing more was done to it; it looked
in every respect miserable, and it was hard to believe the legend of
the sign of the Fire Insurance Office, rusting on the wall, namely,
that a phoenix should rise from the ashes.
At the base of the house grew dandelions, nettles, and roadweed, the
faithful companions of poverty; sparrows were bathing in the scorching
sand and scattering it about; pale-faced children with big stomachs,
looking as if they were being brought up on 90 per cent. of water, were
making dandelion chains and trying to embitter their sad lives by
annoying and insulting each other.
Falk and Ygberg climbed a rotten, creaking staircase and came to a
large room. It was divided into three parts by chalk lines. The first
and second divisions served a joiner and a cobbler as workshops; the
third was exclusively devoted to the more intimate pursuits of family
life.
Whenever the children screamed, which happened once in every quarter of
an hour, the joiner flew into a rage and burst out scolding and
swearing; the cobbler remonstrated with quotations from the Bible. The
joiner's nerves were so shattered by these constant screams, the
unceasing punishments and scoldings, that five minutes after partaking
of the snuff of reconciliation offered by the cobbler, he flew into a
fresh temper in spite of his firm resolve to be patient. Consequently
he was nearly all day long in a red-hot fury. But the worst passages
were when he asked the woman, "why these infernal females need bring so
many children into the world;" then the woman in question came on the
tapis and his antagonist gave him as good as he brought.
Falk and Ygberg had to pass this room to gain the latter's garret, and
although both of them went on tiptoe, they wakened two of the children;
immediately the mother began humming a lullaby, thereby interrupting a
discussion between cobbler and joiner; naturally the latter nearly had
a fit.
"Hold your tongue, woman!"
"Hold your tongue yourself! Can't you let the children sleep?"
"To hell with the children! Are they my children? Am I to suffer for
other people's immorality? Am I an immoral man? What? Have I any
children? Hold your tongue, I say, or I'll throw my plane at your
head."
"I say, master, master!" began the cobbler; "you shouldn't talk like
that of the children; God sends the little ones into the world."
"That's a lie, cobbler! The devil sends them! The devil! And then the
dissolute parents blame God! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!"
"Master, master! You shouldn't use such language! Scripture tells us
that the kingdom of heaven belongs to the children."
"Oh, indeed! They have them in the kingdom of heaven, have they?"
"How dare you talk like that!" shrilled the furious mother. "If you
ever have any children of your own, I shall pray that they may be lame
and diseased; I shall pray that they shall be blind and deaf and dumb;
I shall pray that they shall be sent to the reformatory and end on the
gallows; see if I won't."
"Do so for all I care, you good-for-nothing hussy! I'm not going to
bring children into the world to see them living a dog's life. You
ought to be sent to the House of Correction, for bringing the poor
things into all this misery. You are married, you say? Well! Need you
be immoral because you are married?"
"Master, master! God sends the children."
"It's a lie, cobbler! I read in a paper the other day that the damned
potato is to blame for the large families of the poor; don't you see,
the potato consists of two substances, called oxygen and nitrogen;
whenever these substances occur in a certain quantity and proportion,
women become prolific."
"But what is one to do?" asked the angry mother, whom this interesting
explanation had calmed down a little.
"One shouldn't eat potatoes; can't you see that?"
"But what is one to eat if not potatoes?"
"Beef-steak, woman! Steak and onions! What! Isn't that good? Or steak à
la Châteaubriand! Do you know what that is? What? I saw in the
'Fatherland' the other day that a woman who had taken womb-grain very
nearly died as well as the baby."
"What's that?" asked the mother, pricking up her ears.
"You'd like to know, would you?"
"Is it true what you just said about womb-grain?" asked the cobbler,
blinking his eyes.
"Hoho! That brings up your lungs and liver, but there's a heavy penalty
on it, and that's as it should be."
"Is it as it should be?" asked the cobbler dully.
"Of course it is! Immorality must be punished; and it's immoral to
murder one's children."
"Children! Surely, there's a difference," replied the angry mother,
resignedly; "but where does the stuff you just spoke about come from,
master?"
"Haha! You want more children, you hussy, although you are a widow with
five! Beware of that devil of a cobbler! He's hard on women, in spite
of his piety. A pinch of snuff, cobbler?"
"There is really a herb then...."
"Who said it was a herb? Did I say so? No; it's an organic substance.
Let me tell you, all substances--nature contains about sixty--are
divided into organic and inorganic substances. This one's Latin name is
cornuticus secalias; it comes from abroad, for instance from the
Calabrian Peninsula."
"Is it very expensive, master?" asked the cobbler.
"Expensive!" ejaculated the joiner, manipulating his plane as if it
were a carbine. "It's awfully expensive!"
Falk had listened to the conversation with great interest. Now he
started; he had heard a carriage stopping underneath the window, and
the sound of two women's voices which seemed familiar to him.
"This house looks all right."
"Does it?" said an older voice. "I think it looks dreadful."
"I meant it looks all right for our purpose. Do you know, driver,
whether any poor people are living in this house?"
"I don't know," replied the driver, "but I'd stake my oath on it."
"Swearing is a sin, so you had better not. Wait for us here, while we
go upstairs to do our duty."
"I say, Eugenia, hadn't we better first talk a little to the children
down here?" said Mrs. Homan to Mrs. Falk, lagging behind.
"Perhaps it would be just as well. Come here, little boy! What's your
name?"
"Albert," answered a pale-faced little lad of six.
"Do you know Jesus, my laddie?"
"No," answered the child with a laugh, and put a finger into his mouth.
"Terrible!" said Mrs. Falk, taking out her note-book. "I'd better say:
Parish of St. Catherine's. White Mountains. Profound spiritual darkness
in the minds of the young. I suppose darkness is the right word?" She
turned to the little fellow: "And don't you want to know him?"
"No!"
"Would you like a penny?"
"Yes!"
"You should say please! Indescribably neglected, but I succeeded, by
gentleness, in awakening their better feelings."
"What a horrible smell! Let's go, Eugenia," implored Mrs. Homan.
They went upstairs and entered the large room without knocking.
The joiner seized his plane and began planing a knotty board, so that
the ladies had to shout to make themselves heard.
"Is anybody here thirsting for salvation?" shouted Mrs. Homan, while
Mrs. Falk worked her scent-spray so vigorously that the children began
to cry with the smarting of their eyes.
"Are you offering us salvation, lady?" asked the joiner, interrupting
his work. "Where did you get it from? Perhaps there's charity to be
had, too, and humiliation and pride?"
"You are a ruffian; you will be damned," answered Mrs. Homan.
Mrs. Falk made notes in her note-book. "He's all right," she remarked.
"Is there anything else you'd like to say?" asked Mrs. Homan.
"We know the sort you are! Perhaps you'd like to talk to me about
religion, ladies? I can talk on any subject. Have you ever heard
anything about the councils held at Nicæa, or the Smalcaldic Articles?"
"We know nothing about that, my good man."
"Why do you call me good? Scripture says nobody is good but God alone.
So you know nothing about the Nicene Council, ladies? How can you dare
to teach others, when you know nothing yourselves? And if you want to
dispense charity, do it while I turn my back to you, for true charity
is given secretly. Practise on the children, if you like, they can't
defend themselves; but leave us in peace. Give us work and pay us a
just wage and then you needn't run about like this. A pinch of snuff,
cobbler!"
"Shall I write: Great unbelief, quite hardened, Evelyn?" asked Mrs.
Falk.
"I should put _impenitent_, dear."
"What are you writing down, ladies? Our sins? Surely your book's too
small for that!"
"The outcome of the so-called working men's unions...."
"Very good," said Mrs. Homan.
"Beware of the working men's unions," said the joiner. "For hundreds of
years war has been made upon the kings, but now we've discovered that
the kings are not to blame. The next campaign will be against all
idlers who live on the work of others; then we shall see something."
"That's enough!" said the cobbler.
The angry mother, whose eyes had been riveted on Mrs. Falk during the
whole scene, took the opportunity of putting in a word.
"Excuse me, but aren't you Mrs. Falk?" she asked.
"No," answered that lady with an assurance which took even Mrs. Homan's
breath away.
"But you're as like her as its possible to be! I knew her father,
Ronock, who's now on the flagship."
"That's all very nice, but it doesn't concern us.... Are there any
other people in this house who need salvation?"
"No," said the joiner, "they don't need salvation, they need food and
clothes, or, better still, work; much work and well-paid work. But the
ladies had better not go and see them, for one of them is down with
small-pox...."
"Small-pox!" screamed Mrs. Homan, "and nobody said a word about it!
Come along Eugenia, let's at once inform the police! What a disgusting
set of people they are!"
"But the children? Whose children are these? Answer!" said Mrs. Falk,
holding up her pencil, threateningly.
"They're mine, lady," answered the mother.
"But your husband? Where's your husband?"
"Disappeared!" said the joiner.
"We'll set the police on his track! He shall be sent to the
Penitentiary. Things must be changed here! I said it was a good house,
Evelyn."
"Won't the ladies sit down?" asked the joiner. "It's so much easier to
keep up a conversation sitting down. We've no chairs, but that doesn't
matter; we've no beds either; they went for taxes, for the lighting of
the street, so that you need not go home from the theatre in the dark.
We've no gas, as you can see for yourselves. They went in payment of
the water-rate--so that your servants should be saved running up and
down stairs; the water's not laid on here. They went towards the
keeping up of the hospitals, so that your sons will not be laid up at
home when...."
"Come away, Eugenia, for God's sake! This is unbearable!"
"I agree with you, ladies, it is unbearable," said the joiner. "And the
day will come when things will be worse; on that day we shall come down
from the White Mountains with a great noise, like a waterfall, and ask
for the return of our beds. Ask? We shall take them! And you shall lie
on wooden benches, as I've had to do, and eat potatoes until your
stomachs are as tight as a drum and you feel as if you had undergone
the torture by water, as we...."
But the ladies had fled, leaving behind them a pile of pamphlets.
"Ugh! What a beastly smell of eau-de-Cologne! It smells of
prostitutes!" said the joiner. "A pinch of snuff, cobbler!"
He wiped his forehead with his blue apron and took up his plane while
the others reflected silently.
Ygberg, who had been asleep during the whole of the scene, now awoke
and made ready to go out again with Falk. Once more Mrs. Homan's voice
floated through the open window:
"What did she mean when she said your father was on the flagship? Your
father is a captain, isn't he?"
"That's what he's called. It's the same thing. Weren't they an insolent
crowd? I'll never go there again. But it will make a fine report. To
the restaurant Hasselbacken, driver!"
CHAPTER XVII
NATURA....
Falander was at home studying a part one afternoon, when he was
disturbed by a gentle tapping, two double-raps, at his door. He jumped
up, hastily donned a coat and opened.
"Agnes! This is a rare visit!"
"I had to come and see you, it's so damned slow!"
"What dreadful language!"
"Let me curse! It relieves my feelings."
"Hm! hm!"
"Give me a cigar; I haven't had a smoke these last six weeks. This
education makes me frantic."
"Is he so severe?"
"Curse him!"
"For shame, Agnes!"
"I've been forbidden to smoke, to curse, to drink punch, to go out in
the evening! But wait until we are married! I'll let him see!"
"Is he really serious about it?"
"Absolutely! Look at this handkerchief!"
"A. R. with a crown and nine balls."
"Our initials are the same and he's making me use his design. Isn't it
lovely?"
"Yes, very nice. It's gone as far as that, has it?"
The angel, dressed in blue, threw herself on the sofa and puffed at her
cigar. Falander looked at her body as if he were making an estimate,
and said:
"Will you have a glass of punch?"
"Rather!"
"Are you in love with your fiancé?"
"He doesn't belong to the class of men with whom one can really be in
love. But I don't know. Love? Hm! What is love?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"Oh, you know what I mean. He's very respectable, awfully respectable,
but, but, but...."
"But?"
"He's so proper."
She looked at Falander with a smile which would have saved the absent
fiancé, if he could have seen it.
"He isn't demonstrative enough?" asked Falander curiously, in an
unsteady voice.
She drank her glass of punch, paused, shook her head, and said with a
theatrical sigh:
"No!"
The reply seemed to satisfy Falander; it obviously relieved him. He
continued his cross-examination.
"It may be a long time before you can get married. He's never played a
single part yet."
"No, I know."
"Won't you find the waiting dull?"
"One must be patient."
I must use the thumbscrew, thought Falander.
"I suppose you know that Jenny and I are lovers?"
"The ugly, old hag!"
A whole shower of white northern lights flamed across her face and
every muscle twitched, as if she were under the influence of a galvanic
battery.
"She isn't as old as all that," said Falander coldly. "Have you heard
that the waiter Gustav is going to play Don Diego in the new piece, and
that Rehnhjelm has been given the part of his servant? The waiter is
bound to have a success, for the part plays itself; but poor Rehnhjelm
will die with shame."
"Good heavens! Is it true?"
"It's true enough."
"It shan't happen!"
"Who's to prevent it?"
She jumped up from the sofa, emptied her glass and began to sob
wildly.
"Oh! How bitter the world is, how bitter!" she sobbed. "It's just as if
an evil power were spying on us, finding out our wishes, merely to
cross them; discerning our hopes, so as to shatter them; anticipating
our thoughts so as to paralyse them. If it were possible to long for
evil to happen to oneself, one ought to do it just for the sake of
making a fool of that power."
"Quite true, my dear; therefore one should always be prepared for a bad
ending. But that's not the worst. I'll give you a thought which will
comfort you. You know that every success you attain entails someone
else's failure; if you are given a part to play, some other woman is
disappointed; it makes her writhe like a worm trodden under foot, and
without knowing it you have committed a wrong; therefore, even
happiness is poisoned. Be comforted in misfortune by the thought that
every piece of ill-luck which falls to your share is equivalent to a
good action, even though it be a good action committed without your
knowing it; and the thought of a good action is the only pure enjoyment
which is given to us mortals."
"I don't want to do any good actions! I don't want any pure joys! I
have the same right to success as everybody else! And I--will--be
successful!"
"At any price?"
"I won't play your mistress's maid at any price."
"You're jealous! Learn to bear failure gracefully! That's greater--and
much more interesting."
"Tell me one thing! Is she in love with you?"
"I'm afraid she loves me only too well."
"And you?"
"I? I shall never love any woman but you!"
He seized her hand.
She jumped up from the sofa, showing her stockings.
"Do you believe in what is called love?" she asked, gazing at him with
distended pupils.
"I believe there are several kinds of love."
She crossed the room towards the door.
"Do you love me wholly and entirely?" She put her hand on the
door-handle.
He pondered for two seconds. Then he replied:
"Your soul is evil, and I don't love evil."
"I don't care a fig for my soul! Do you love me? Me?"
"Yes! So deeply...."
"Why did you send me Rehnhjelm?"
"Because I wanted to find out what life without you would be like."
"Did you lie when you said you were tired of me?"
"Yes, I lied."
"Oh! You old devil!"
She took the key out of the lock and he drew down the blind.
CHAPTER XVIII
NIHILISM
As Falk was walking home one rainy September evening and turning into
Count-Magni-Street, he saw to his amazement that his windows were lit
up. When he was near enough to be able to cast a glance into his room
from below, he noticed on the ceiling the shadow of a man which seemed
familiar, although he could not place it. It was a despondent-looking
shadow, and the nearer he came the more despondent it looked.
On entering his room he saw Struve sitting at his writing-table with
his head on his hands. His clothes were soaked with rain and clung
heavily to his body; there were little puddles on the floor which
slowly drained off through the chinks. His hair hung in damp strands
from his head, and his usually English whiskers fell like stalactites
on his damp coat collar. He had placed his black hat beside him on the
table; it had collapsed under its own weight, and the wide crape band
which it was wearing suggested that it was mourning for its lost youth.
"Good evening," said Falk. "This is an unexpected honour."
"Don't jeer at me," begged Struve.
"And why not? I see no reason why I should spare you."
"I see! You're done!"
"Yes! I shall turn Conservative too, before long. You're in mourning, I
see; I hope I may congratulate you."
"I've lost a little son."
"Then I'll congratulate him! But what do you want here? You know I
despise you! I expect you do yourself. Don't you?"
"Of course I do! But isn't life bitter enough without our unnecessarily
embittering it still further? If God, or Providence, is amused at it,
need it follow that man should equally degrade himself?"
"That sounds reasonable and does you honour. Won't you put on my
dressing-gown while you are drying your clothes? You must be cold."
"Thank you! But I mustn't stay."
"Oh! Stay a little while! It will give us a chance of having things
out."
"I don't like talking about my misfortunes."
"Then talk about your crimes!"
"I haven't committed any!"
"Oh, yes, you have! You have committed great crimes! You have put your
heavy hand on the oppressed; you have kicked the wounded; you have
sneered at the wretched. Do you remember the last strike when you were
on the side of power?"
"The side of the law, brother!"
"Haha! The law! Who has dictated the law which governs the life of the
poor man, you fool! The rich man! That is to say, the master made the
law for the slave."
"The law was dictated by the whole nation and the universal sense of
right. God gave the law."
"Save your big words when you talk to me. Who wrote the law of 1734?
Mr. Kronstedt! Who is responsible for the law of corporal punishment?
Colonel Sabelman--it was his Bill, and his friends, who formed the
majority at that time, pushed it through. Colonel Sabelman is not the
nation and his friends are not the universal sense of right. Who is
responsible for the law concerning joint stock companies? Judge
Svindelgren. Who is responsible for the new Parliamentary laws?
Assessor Vallonius. Who has written the law of 'legal protection,' that
is to say the protection of the rich from the just claims of the poor?
Wholesale merchant grocer. Don't talk to me! I know your claptrap. Who
has written the new law of succession? Criminals! The forest laws?
Thieves! The law relating to bills of private banks? Swindlers! And you
maintain that God has done it? Poor God!"
"May I give you a piece of advice, bought with my own experience,
advice which will be useful to you all your life? If you want to escape
self-immolation, a fate which in your fanaticism you are fast
approaching, change your point of view as soon as possible. Take a
bird's-eye view of the world, and you will see how small and
insignificant everything is. Start with the conviction that the whole
world is a rubbish heap; that men are the refuse, no better than
egg-shells, carrot stalks, cabbage leaves, rags; then nothing will take
you by surprise, you will never lose an illusion; but, on the contrary,
you will be filled with a great joy whenever you come across a fine
thought, a good action; try to acquire a calm contempt of the
world--you needn't be afraid of growing callous."
"I have not yet attained to that point of view, it's true, but I have a
contempt for the world. But that is my misfortune; for directly I hear
of a single act of generosity or kindness, I love humanity again, and
overrate my fellowmen, only to be deceived afresh."
"Be more selfish! Let the devil take your fellowmen!"
"I'm afraid I can't."
"Try another profession; join your brother; he seems to get on in this
world. I saw him yesterday at the church council of the Parish of St.
Nicholas."
"At the church council?"
"Yes; that man has a future. The pastor primarius nodded to him. He'll
soon be an alderman, like all landed proprietors."
"What about the 'Triton'?"
"They work with debentures now; but your brother hasn't lost anything
by it, even though he hasn't made anything. No, he's other fish to
fry!"
"Don't let us talk of that man."
"But he's your brother!"
"That isn't his merit! But now tell me what you want."
"My boy's funeral is to-morrow, and I have no dress-coat...."
"I'll lend you mine."
"Thank you, brother. You're extricating me from an awkward position.
That was one thing, but there is something else, of a rather more
delicate nature...."
"Why come to me, your enemy, with your delicate confidences? I'm
surprised...."
"Because you are a man of heart."
"Don't build on that any longer! But go on."
"How irritable you've grown! You're not the same man; you used to be so
gentle."
"We discussed that before! Speak up!"
"I want to ask you whether you would come with me to the churchyard."
"I? Why don't you ask one of your colleagues from the _Grey Bonnet_?"
"There are reasons. I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. I'm not
married."
"Not married! You! The defender of religion and morality, have broken
the sacred bonds!"
"Poverty, the force of circumstances! But I'm just as happy as if I
were married! I love my wife and she loves me, and that's all. But
there's another reason. The child has not been baptized; it was three
weeks old when it died, and therefore no clergyman will bury it. I
don't dare to tell this to my wife, because she would fret. I've told
her the clergyman would meet us in the churchyard; I'm telling you this
to prevent a possible scene. She, of course, will remain at home.
You'll only meet two other fellows; one of them, Levi, is a younger
brother of the director of the 'Triton,' and one of the employés of
that society. He's a decent sort, with an unusually good head and a
still better heart. Don't laugh, I can see that you think I've
borrowed money from him--and so I have--he's a man you'll like. The
other one is my old friend, Dr. Borg, who treated the little one. He is
very broad-minded, a man without any prejudices; you'll get on with
him! I can count on you, can't I? There'll be four of us in the coach,
and the little coffin, of course."
"Very well, I'll come."
"There's one more thing. My wife has religious scruples and is afraid
that the little one won't go to heaven because he died without baptism.
She asks everybody's opinion on the subject, so as to ease her mind."
"But what about the Augsburg Confession?"
"It's not a question of confessions."
"But in writing to your paper, you always uphold the official faith."
"The paper is the affair of the syndicate; if it likes to cling to
Christianity, it may do so for all I care! My work for the syndicate is
a matter apart. Please agree with my wife if she tells you that she
believes that her child will go to heaven."
"I don't mind denying the faith in order to make a human heart happy,
particularly as I don't hold it. But you haven't told me yet where you
live."
"Do you know where the White Mountains are?"
"Yes! Are you living in the spotted house on the mountain rock?"
"Do you know it?"
"I've been there once."
"Then perhaps you know Ygberg, the Socialist, who leads the people
astray? I am the landlord's deputy--Smith owns the property--I live
there rent free on condition that I collect the rents; whenever the
rents are not forthcoming, the people talk nonsense which he has put
into their heads about capital and labour, and other things which fill
the columns of the Socialistic press."
Falk did not reply.
"Do you know Ygberg?"
"Yes, I do. But won't you try on my dress-coat now?"
Struve tried it on, put his own damp coat over it, buttoned it up to
the chin, lit the chewed-up end of his cigar, impaled on a match, and
went.
Falk lighted him downstairs.
"You've a long way to go," he said, merely to say something.
"The Lord knows it! And I have no umbrella."
"And no overcoat. Would you like my winter coat?"
"Many thanks. It's very kind of you."
"You can return it to me by and by."
He went back to his room, fetched the overcoat and gave it to Struve,
who was waiting in the entrance hall. After a brief good-night they
parted.
Falk found the atmosphere in his room stifling; he opened the window.
The rain was coming down in torrents, splashing on the tiles and
running down into the dirty street. Tattoo sounded in the barracks
opposite; vespers were being sung in the lodgment; fragments of the
verses floated through the open window.
Falk felt lonely and tired. He had been longing to fight a battle with
a representative of all he regarded as inimical to progress; but the
enemy, after having to some extent beaten him, had fled. He tried to
understand clearly what the quarrel was about, but failed in his
effort; he was unable to say who was right. He asked himself whether
the cause he served, namely, the cause of the oppressed, had any
existence. But at the next moment he reproached himself with cowardice,
and the steady fanaticism which glowed in him burst into fresh flames;
he condemned the weakness which again and again had induced him to
yield. Just now he had held the enemy in his hand, and not only had he
not shown him his profound repugnance, but he had even treated him with
kindness and sympathy; what would he think of him?
There was no merit in this good nature, as it prevented him from
coming to a firm decision; it was nothing but moral laxity, making him
incapable of taking up a fight which seemed more and more beyond him.
He realized that he must extinguish the fire under the boilers; they
would not be able to stand the pressure, as no steam was being used. He
pondered over Struve's advice, and brooded until his mind was chaos in
which truth and lies, right and wrong, danced together in complete
harmony; his brain in which, owing to his academic training, all
conceptions had been so neatly pigeon-holed, would soon resemble a pack
of well-shuffled cards.
He succeeded beyond expectation in working himself into a state of
complete indifference; he looked for fine motives in the actions of his
enemies, and gradually it appeared to him that he had all along been in
the wrong; he felt reconciled to the existing order of things, and
ultimately came to the fine conclusion that it was quite immaterial
whether the whole was black or white. Whatever was, had to be; he was
not entitled to criticize it. He found this mood pleasant, it gave him
a feeling of restfulness to which he had been a stranger all those
years during which he had made the troubles of humanity his own.
He was enjoying this calm and a pipe of strong tobacco, when a maid
servant brought him a letter just delivered by the postman. It was from
Olle Montanus and very long. Parts of it seemed to impress Falk
greatly.
MY DEAR FELLOW, [it ran,]
Although Lundell and I have now finished our work and will soon be back
in Stockholm, I yet feel the need of writing down my impressions,
because they have been of great importance to myself and my spiritual
development. I have come to a conclusion, and I am as full of amazement
as a chicken which has just been hatched, and stares at the world with
its newly opened eyes, trampling on the egg-shell which had shut out
the light for so long. The conclusion, of course, is not a new one;
Plato propounded it before Christianity was: the world, the visible
world, is but a delusion, the reflexion of the ideas; that is to say,
reality is something low, insignificant, secondary and accidental. Yes!
but I will proceed synthetically, begin with the particular and pass on
from it to the general.
I will speak of my work first, in which both Government and Parliament
have been interested. On the altar of the church at Träskola two wooden
figures used to stand; one of them was broken, but the other one was
whole. The whole one, the figure of a woman, held a cross in her hand;
two sacks of fragments of the broken one were preserved in the
sacristy. A learned archæologist had examined the contents of the two
sacks, in order to determine the appearance of the broken figure, but
the result had been mere conjecture.
But he had been very thorough. He had taken a specimen of the white
paint with which the figure had been grounded, and sent it to the
Pharmaceutical Institute; the latter had reported that it contained
lead and not zinc; therefore, the figure must date from before 1844,
because zinc-white did not come into use until after that date. (What
can one say to such a conclusion, seeing that the figure might have
been painted over!) Next he sent a sample of the wood to the Stockholm
timber office; he was informed that it was birch. The figure was
therefore made of birchwood and dated from before 1844.
But that was not all he was striving for. He had a reason (!) in plain
words, he wished for his own aggrandisement, that the carved figures
should be proved to date from the sixteenth century; and he would have
preferred that they should be the work of the great--of course _great_,
because his name had been so deeply carved in oak that it has been
preserved to our time--Burchard von Schiedenhanne, who had carved the
seats in the choir of the Cathedral of Västeros.
The learned research was carried on. The professor stole a little
plaster from the figures in Västeros and sent it, together with a
specimen from the sacristy of Träskola to the Ekole Pollytechnik (I
can't spell it). The reply completely crushed the scoffers; the
analysis proved that the two specimens of plaster were identical; both
contained 77 per cent. of chalk and 35 of sulphuric acid; therefore (!)
the figures must date from the same period.
The age of the figures had now been settled; a sketch was made of the
whole one and "sent in" (what a terrible passion these learned men have
for "sending things in") to the Academy; the only thing which remained
to be done was to determine and reconstruct the broken one. For two
whole years the two sacks travelled up and down between Upsala and
Lund; the two professors differed and carried on a lively dispute. The
professor of Lund, who had just been made rector, took the figure as
the subject of his inaugural address and crushed the professor of
Upsala. The latter replied in a brochure. Fortunately at the very
moment a professor of the Stockholm Academy of Art appeared with a
totally new opinion; then Herod and Pilate "compromised," as is always
the case, and attacked the man from the capital, rending him with the
unbridled fury of provincials.
This was their compromise: the broken figure had represented Unbelief,
because the other one must have been meant for Faith, whose symbol is
the cross. The supposition (advanced by the professor of Lund) that the
broken figure had been intended to represent Hope, arrived at because
one of the sacks contained an anchor, was rejected, because that would
have postulated a third figure, Love, of which there was no trace, and
for which there could have been no room; moreover, it was proved by
specimens from the rich collection of arrow-heads in the historical
museum, that the fragment in question was not an anchor, but an
arrowhead, which forms a part of the weapons belonging to the symbols
of Unbelief. The shape of the arrowhead, which resembled in every
detail those from the period of the Vice-regent Sture, removed the last
doubt as to the age of the figure.
It was my task to make a statue of Unbelief, as a companion to the
figure of Faith, in accordance with the directions of the professors. I
was given my instructions and I did not hesitate. I looked for a male
model, for the figure was to be a man; I had to look for a long time,
but I found him in the end; I really believe I met the personification
of Unbelief--and I succeeded brilliantly.
And there he now stands, Falander, the actor, to the left of the altar,
with a Mexican bow (used in the drama _Ferdinand Cortez_) and a robber's
cloak (from _Fra Diavolo_), but the people say that it is Unbelief
throwing down his arms before Faith. And the Deputy-Superintendent, who
preached the inaugural sermon, spoke of the splendid gifts which God
sometimes gives to man, and which, in this case, he had given to me; and
the Count, who gave the inaugural dinner, declared that I had created a
masterpiece, fit to stand side by side with the antiques (he's been in
Italy); and a student who occupies some post in the Count's household,
seized the opportunity to write and circulate some verses, in which he
developed the conception of the Sublimely Beautiful, and gave a history
of the Myth of the Devil.
Up to now I have, like a true egoist, spoken only of myself. What am I
to say about Lundell's altar-piece? I will try to describe it to you.
Christ (Rehnhjelm) hangs on the cross in the background; to the left is
the impenitent thief (I; and the rascal has made me worse-looking than
I am); to the right the repenting thief (Lundell himself, squinting
with hypocritical eyes at Rehnhjelm); at the foot of the cross Mary
Magdalene (you will remember Marie--in a very low dress), and a Roman
centurion (Falander) on horseback (stallion belonging to Alderman
Olsson).
I cannot describe the awful impression made on me when, after the
sermon, the picture was unveiled, and I saw all these well-known faces
staring from the wall above the altar at the community rapturously
listening to the words of the preacher on the great importance of art,
particularly art in the service of religion. As far as I am concerned,
a veil has been lifted from many things; I will tell you by and by my
thoughts on Faith and Unbelief. I am going to embody my views on art
and its high mission in an essay, and read it at some public hall as
soon as I am back in town.
It goes without saying that Lundell's religious sense has tremendously
developed during those "dear" days. He is, comparatively speaking,
happy in his colossal self-deception, and has no idea what a rascal he
really is.
I think I have told you everything now; anything else verbally when we
meet. Until then, good-bye. I hope you are in good health and spirits.
Your friend,
OLLE MONTANUS.
P.S. I must not forget to tell you the result of the antiquarian
research. The end of it all was that old Jan, an inmate of the
almshouses, remembered having seen the figures when he was a child. He
said there had been three: Faith, Hope, and Love; and as Love was the
greatest of these, it had stood above the altar. In the first decade of
this century a flash of lightning had struck Love and Faith. The
figures had been the work of his father who was a carver of
figure-heads in the naval port Karlskrona.
O. M.
When Falk had read the letters, he sat down at his writing-table,
examined his lamp to see whether there was plenty of oil in it, lit his
pipe, took a manuscript from his table-drawer, and began to write.
CHAPTER XIX
FROM CHURCHYARD TO PUBLIC-HOUSE
The September afternoon lay grey and warm and still over the capital as
Falk climbed the hills in the south. When he had arrived at the
churchyard of St. Catherine's he sat down to rest; he noticed with a
feeling of genuine pleasure that the maples had turned colour during
the recent cold nights, and he welcomed autumn with its darkness, its
grey clouds, and falling leaves.
Not a breath stirred; it was as if Nature were resting, tired after the
work of the short summer. Everything was asleep; the dead were lying
beneath the sod, calm and peaceful, as if they had never been alive; he
wished that he had all men there, and that he, himself, was with them.
The clock on the tower chimed the hour, and he rose and continued his
walk. He went down Garden Street, turned into New Street--which looked
as if it had been new a hundred years ago at least--crossed the New
Market, and came to the White Mountains.
He stood still before the spotted house, listening to the children's
chatter, for, as usual, there were children playing about the street;
they talked loudly and unreservedly while they were busy polishing
little pieces of brick, presently to be used in a game of hop-scotch.
"What did you have for dinner, Janne?"
"That's my business!"
"Your business? Did you say it was your business? Mind what you're
about or you'll get a hiding."
"Don't brag! You with your eyes!"
"Who shoved you into the lake the other day?"
"Oh! shut up!"
Janne received a thrashing, and peace was restored.
"I say! You stole cress in the churchyard the other day, didn't you,
Janne?"
"That cripple Olee split on me!"
"And you were nabbed by the police, weren't you?"
"Who cares for the police? I don't!"
"Don't you? Come along of us to-night then; we're going to pinch some
pears."
"There's a savage dog behind the fence!"
"Garn! Chimney-sweep's Peter'll climb over and a kick'll do for the
dog."
The polishing was interrupted by a maid-servant who came out of the
house and began to scatter pine branches on the grass-grown street.
"Who's going to be buried?"
"The deputy's wife's baby!"
"He's a proper old Satan, the deputy, isn't he?"
Instead of replying, the other began whistling an unknown and very
peculiar tune.
"Let's thrash his red-haired cubs when they come home from school! I
say! Doesn't his old woman fancy herself? The old she-devil locked us
out in the snow the other night because we couldn't pay the rent, and
we had to spend the night in the barn."
The conversation flickered out; the last item of conversation had not
made the smallest impression on Janne's friend.
After this introduction to the status of the tenants by the two
urchins, Falk entered the house not with the pleasantest of sensations.
He was received at the door by Struve, who looked distressed, and took
Falk's arm as if he were going to confide a secret to him, or suppress
a tear--he had to do something, so he embraced him.
Falk found himself in a big room with a dining-table, a sideboard, six
chairs, and a coffin. White sheets were hanging before the windows
through which the daylight filtered and broke at the red glow of the
tallow candles; on the table stood a tray with green wine glasses, and
a soup tureen filled with dahlias, stocks, and white asters.
Struve seized Falk's hand and led him to the coffin where the baby lay
bedded on shavings, covered with tulle, and strewn with fuchsias.
"There!" he said, "there!"
Falk felt nothing but the quite commonplace emotion the living always
feel in the presence of the dead; he could think of nothing suitable to
say, and therefore he confined himself to pressing the father's hand.
"Thank you, thank you," stammered Struve, and disappeared in an
adjoining room.
Falk was left alone; he could hear excited whispering behind the door
through which Struve had vanished; then it grew still for a while; but
presently a murmur from the other end of the room penetrated the
matchboard wall. A strident treble seemed to be reciting long verses
with incredible volubility.
"Babebibobubybäbö--Babebibobubybäbö--Babebibobubybäbö," it sounded.
An angry man's voice answered to the accompaniment of a plane which
said hwitcho--hwitcho--hwitch--hwitch--hitch--hitch.
And a long-drawn, rumbling mum-mum-mum-mum-mum-mum-mum-_m_um replied,
seemingly anxious to calm the storm. But the plane spat and sneezed
again its hwitch--hwitch, and immediately after a storm of
Babili--bebili--bibili--bobili--bubili--bybili--bäbili--bö--broke out
with fresh fury.
Falk guessed the subject under discussion, and a certain intonation
gave him the idea that the dead baby was involved in the argument.
The whispering, occasionally interrupted by loud sobs, began again
behind the door through which Struve had disappeared; finally it was
pushed open and Struve appeared leading by the hand a woman who looked
like a laundress; she was dressed in black, and her eyelids were red
and swollen with weeping. Struve introduced her with all the dignity of
a father of a family:
"My wife, Mr. Falk, my old friend."
Falk clasped a hand, hard as a beetle, and received a vinegary smile.
He cast about for a few platitudes containing the words "wife" and
"grief," and as he was fairly successful, he was rewarded by Struve
with an embrace.
Mrs. Struve, anxious not to be left out in the cold, began brushing the
back of her husband's coat.
"It's dreadful how you seem to pick up every bit of dirt, Christian,"
she said; "your back's always dusty. Don't you think that my husband
always looks like a pig, Mr. Falk?"
There was no need for poor Falk to reply to this tender remark; behind
the mother's back now appeared two heads, regarding the visitor with a
grin. The mother patted them affectionately.
"Have you ever seen plainer boys before, Mr. Falk?" she asked. "Don't
they look exactly like young foxes?"
This statement was so undeniably accurate that Falk felt compelled to
deny it eagerly.
The opening of the hall door and the entrance of two men stopped all
further civilities. The first of the new-comers was a man of thirty,
broad-shouldered, with a square head, the front of which was supposed
to represent the face; the skin looked like the half-rotten plank of a
bridge in which worms have ploughed their labyrinths; the wide mouth,
always slightly open, showed the four shining eye-teeth; whenever he
smiled his face seemed to split into two parts; his mouth opened as far
back as the fourth back tooth; not a single hair grew in the barren
soil; the nose was so badly put on that one could see through it far
into the head; on the upper part of the skull grew something which
looked like cocoa-nut matting.
Struve, who possessed the faculty of ennobling his environment,
introduced Candidate Borg as Dr. Borg. The latter, without a sign of
either pleasure or annoyance, held out his arm to his companion, who
pulled off the coat and hung it on the hinge of the front door, an act
which drew from Mrs. Struve the remark that the old house was in such
bad repair that there was not even a hall-stand.
The man who had helped Borg off with his overcoat was introduced as Mr.
Levi. He was a tall, overgrown youth; the skull seemed but a backward
development of the nasal bone, and the trunk which reached to the
knees, looked as if it had been drawn through a wire plate, in the way
in which wire is drawn; the shoulders slanted like eaves; there was no
trace of hips, the shanks ran up into the thighs; the feet were worn
out of shape like a pair of old shoes; the instep had given way. The
legs curved outward and downward, like the legs of a working man who
has carried heavy loads, or stood for the greater part of his life. He
was a pure slave-type.
The candidate had remained at the door; he had taken off his gloves,
put down his stick, blown his nose, and put back the handkerchief into
his pocket without taking the least notice of Struve's repeated
attempts to introduce him; he believed that he was still in the
entrance hall; but now he took his hat, scraped the floor with his foot
and made a step into the room.
"Good morning, Jenny! How are you?" he said, seizing Mrs. Struve's hand
with as much eagerness as if it were a matter of life and death. He
bowed, hardly perceptibly, to Falk, with the snarl of a dog who sees a
strange dog in its yard.
Young Mr. Levi followed at the heels of the candidate, responding to
his smiles, applauding his sarcasms, and generally kow-towing to his
superiority.
Mrs. Struve opened a bottle of hock and filled the glasses. Struve
raised his glass and welcomed his guests. The candidate opened his
mouth, made a canal of his tongue, poured the contents of the glass on
it, grinned as if it were physic and swallowed it.
"It's awfully sour and nasty," said Mrs. Struve; "would you prefer a
glass of punch, Henrik?"
"Yes, it _is_ very nasty," agreed the candidate, and Levi eagerly
seconded him.
The punch was brought in. Borg's face brightened; he looked for a
chair, and immediately Levi brought him one.
The party sat down round the dining-table. The strong scent of the
stocks mingled with the smell of the wine; the candles were reflected
in the glasses, the conversation became lively, and soon a column of
smoke stood above the candidate's chair. Mrs. Struve glanced uneasily
at the little sleeper near the window, but nobody saw her look.
Presently a coach stopped in the street outside the house. Everybody
rose except the candidate. Struve coughed, and in a low voice, as if he
had something unpleasant to say, he whispered:
"Shall we get ready now?"
Mrs. Struve went to the coffin and stooped over it, weeping bitterly;
when, in drawing back, she saw her husband standing behind her with the
coffin lid, she burst into loud sobs.
"There, there, compose yourself," said Struve, hastening to screw down
the lid as if he wanted to hide something. Borg, looking like a yawning
horse, gulped down another glass of punch. Mr. Levi helped Struve to
screw down the lid, displaying quite extraordinary skill; he seemed to
be packing a bale of goods.
The men shook hands with Mrs. Struve, put on their overcoats and went;
the woman warned them to be careful in going downstairs; the stairs
were old and rotten.
Struve marched in front, carrying the coffin; when he stepped into the
street and became aware of the little crowd which had collected before
the house, he felt flattered, and the devil of pride took possession
of him. He scolded the driver who had omitted to open the door and let
down the steps; to heighten the effect of his words, he spoke with
contemptuous familiarity to the tall man in livery who, hat in hand,
hastened to carry out his commands.
From the centre of the crowd, where the boy Janne was standing, came a
short, scornful cough; but when the boy saw that he was attracting
universal attention, he raised his eyes towards the chimneys, and
seemed to be eagerly looking for the sweep.
The door of the coach slammed behind the four men; a lively
conversation broke out between some of the younger members of the
mass-meeting, who now felt more at their ease.
"I say, what a swell coffin! Did you see it?"
"Yes! But did you see that there was no name on it?"
"Wasn't there?"
"No! Didn't you see it? It was quite plain."
"Why was that, then?"
"Don't you know? Because he was a bastard...."
The whip cracked, and the coach rumbled off. Falk's eyes strayed to the
window; he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Struve, who had already removed
some of the sheets, blowing out the candles; and he saw the two cubs
standing by the side of her, each with a glass of wine in his hand.
The coach rattled along, through street after street; nobody attempted
to speak. Struve, sitting with the coffin on his knees, looked
embarrassed; it was still daylight; he longed to make himself
invisible.
It was a long journey to the churchyard, but it finally came to an end.
They arrived.
A row of coaches stood before the gate. They bought wreaths and the
gravedigger took possession of the coffin. After a lengthy walk, the
small procession stopped quite at the back on the north side of the
churchyard, close to a new sandfield.
The gravedigger placed the coffin in position.
Borg commanded:
"Hold tight! Ease off! Let go!"
And the little nameless child was lowered three yards into the ground.
There was a pause; all heads were bowed and all eyes looking into the
grave, as if they were waiting for something.
A leaden sky gloomed dismally over the large, deserted sandfield, the
white poles of which looked like the shadows of little children who had
lost their way. The dark wood might have been the background in a magic
lantern show; the wind was hushed.
All of a sudden a voice rose, tremulous at first, but growing in
clearness and intensity, as if it were speaking from an inner
conviction. Levi was standing on the pall, bare-headed:
"In the safe keeping of the Most High, resting in the shadow of His
omnipotence, I say to the Eternal: Oh, Thou my stronghold, my defence
in all eternity, my God in whom I trust--Kaddisch. Lord, Almighty God,
let Thy holy name be worshipped and sanctified in the whole world. Thou
wilt, in Thy own time, renew the world. Thou wilt awaken the dead and
call them to a new life. Everlasting peace reigns in Thy kingdom. Give
us and all Israel Thy peace. Amen.
"Sleep soundly, little one, to whom no name had been given. He who
knoweth His own will give you a name; sleep soundly in the autumn
night, no evil spirits will trouble you, although you never received
the holy water; rejoice that you are spared the battle of life; you can
dispense with its pleasures. Count yourself happy that you were
permitted to go, before you knew the world; pure and stainless your
soul left its delicate tenement; therefore we will not throw earth on
your coffin, for earth is an emblem of dissolution; we will bed you in
flowers, for as a flower pierces the soil, so your soul shall rise from
the dark grave to the light; from spirit you came, to spirit you will
return."
He dropped his wreath into the little grave and covered his head.
Struve took a few steps towards him, seized his hand, and shook it
warmly; tears rolled down his cheeks, and he begged Levi for the loan
of his handkerchief. Borg, after throwing his wreath into the grave,
turned to go, and the others followed slowly.
Falk stood gazing into the open grave, plunged in deep thought. At
first he saw only a square of darkness; but gradually a bright spot
appeared which grew and took shape; it looked like a disc and shone
with the whiteness of a mirror--it was the blank shield on which the
life of the child should have been recorded. It gleamed brightly in the
darkness, reflecting the unbroken daylight. He dropped his wreath.
There was a faint, dull thud, and the light went out. He turned and
followed the others.
Arrived at the coach, there was a brief discussion. Borg cut it short.
"To the Restaurant Norrbacka!" he said, briefly.
* * * * *
A few minutes later the party was standing in the large room on the
first floor; they were received by a girl whom Borg embraced and
kissed; this done, he pushed his hat underneath the sofa, commanded
Levi to help him off with his overcoat, and ordered a quart of punch,
twenty-five cigars, half a pint of brandy, and a sugar-loaf. Finally he
took off his coat and sat down in shirt sleeves on the only sofa in the
room.
Struve's face beamed when he saw the preparations for an orgy, and he
shouted for music. Levi went to the piano and strummed a waltz, while
Struve put his arm into Falk's and walked with him up and down the
room. He touched lightly on life in general, on grief and joy, the
inconstant nature of man, and so on, all of which went to prove that it
was a sin to mourn what the gods--he said gods, because he had already
said sin and did not wish to be taken for a pietist--had given and
taken.
This reflexion was apparently made by way of an introduction to the
waltz which he immediately after danced with the girl who brought the
bowl.
Borg filled the glasses, called Levi, nodded towards a glass, and said:
"Let's drink to our brotherly love now; later on we can be as rude as
we like."
Levi expressed his appreciation of the honour.
"Your health, Isaac!" said Borg.
"My name's not Isaac!"
"What the dickens do I care what your name is? I call you Isaac, my
Isaac."
"You're a jolly devil...."
"Devil! Shame on you, Jew!"
"We were going to be as rude as we liked...."
"We? I was, as far as you are concerned!"
Struve thought he had better interfere.
"Thank you, brother Levi, for your beautiful words," he said. "What
prayer was that?"
"Our funeral prayer!"
"It was beautiful!"
"Nothing but empty words," interposed Borg. "The infidel dog prayed
only for Israel; therefore the prayer couldn't have been meant for the
child."
"All those who are not baptized are looked upon as belonging to
Israel," replied Levi.
"And then you attacked baptism," continued Borg. "I don't allow anybody
to attack baptism--we can do that ourselves. And furthermore you
attacked the doctrine of justification by faith. Leave it alone in
future; I don't permit any outsiders to attack our religion."
"Borg's right there," said Struve; "we should draw the line at
attacking either baptism or any other of the sacred truths; and I must
beg of you not to indulge in any frivolous discussion of these things
to-night."
"You must beg of us?" sneered Borg. "Must you really? All right! I'll
forgive you if you'll hold your tongue. Play something, Isaac! Music!
Why is music mute at Cæsar's feast? Music! But none of your old
chestnuts! Play something new!"
Levi went to the piano, and played the overture to "The Mute."
"Now, let's talk," said Borg. "You are looking depressed, Mr. Falk;
have a glass with me."
Falk, who felt a certain embarrassment in Borg's company, accepted the
offer with mental reservations. But conversation languished, everybody
seemed to dread a collision.
Struve fluttered about like a moth in search of pleasure, but unable to
find it he again and again returned to the punch-table; every now and
then he danced a few steps, to keep up the fiction that the meeting was
merry and festive; but this was not the case by any means.
Levi see-sawed between piano and punch. He attempted to sing a cheerful
song, but it was so stale that nobody would listen to it.
Borg talked at the top of his voice, "in order to raise his spirits,"
as he said, but the party grew more and more silent, one might almost
have said uneasy.
Falk paced up and down the room, taciturn, portentous like a
thundercloud.
At Borg's order a tremendous supper, a "sexa" was served. The convives
took their seats amidst ominous silence. Struve and Borg drank
immoderate quantities of brandy; in the face of the latter red spots
appeared here and there, and the white of the eyes looked yellow. But
Struve resembled a varnished Edam cheese; he was uniformly red and
greasy. Beside them Falk and Levi looked like children, eating their
last supper in the society of giants.
Borg looked at Levi. "Hand the salmon to the scandal-monger," he
commanded, in order to break the monotonous silence.
Levi handed the dish to Struve. The latter pushed his spectacles on to
his forehead and spat venom.
"Shame on you, Jew," he foamed, throwing his dinner-napkin in Levi's
face.
Borg laid a heavy hand on Struve's bald pate.
"Silence, you blackguard!" he said.
"What dreadful company to be mixed up with! Let me tell you, gentlemen,
I'm too old to be treated like a schoolboy," said Struve, tremulously,
forgetting his usual _bonhomie_.
Borg, who had had enough to eat, rose from the table.
"Ugh!" he said, "what a beastly crowd you are! Pay, Isaac, I'll pay you
back later on; I'm going."
He put on his overcoat, put his hat on his head, filled a tumbler with
punch, added brandy to it, emptied it at one gulp, blew out some of the
candles in passing, smashed a few of the glasses, pocketed a handful of
cigars and a box of matches, and staggered out of the room.
"What a pity that such a genius should drink like that," said Levi
solemnly.
A moment later Borg re-entered the room, went to the dining-table, took
the candelabrum, lighted his cigar, blew the smoke into Struve's face,
put out his tongue, showed his back teeth, extinguished the lights, and
departed again. Levi rolled on the floor screaming with laughter.
"To what scum have you introduced me?" asked Falk gravely.
"Oh, my dear fellow, he's intoxicated to-night, but he's the son of
Professor Dr...."
"I didn't ask who his father was, I asked who he was," said Falk,
cutting him short, "I understand now why you allow such a dog to bully
you; but can you tell me why he associates with you?"
"I reserve my reply to all these futilities," answered Struve stiffly.
"Do reserve it, but reserve it for yourself!"
"What's the matter with you, brother Levi?" asked Struve officiously;
"you look so grave."
"It's a great pity that a genius like Borg should drink so much,"
replied Levi.
"How and when does he show his genius?" asked Falk.
"A man can be a genius without writing verse," said Struve pointedly.
"I dare say; writing verse does not pre-suppose genius, nor is a man a
genius if he behaves like a brute," said Falk.
"Hadn't we better pay and go?" remarked Struve, hurrying towards the
door.
Falk and Levi paid. When they stepped into the street it rained and the
sky was black; only the reflexion of the gas-lit town faintly
illuminated the sky. The coach had driven away; there was nothing left
for them but to turn up their collars and walk.
They had gone as far as the skittle-alley, when they were startled by
terrible yells above their heads.
"Curse you!" screamed a voice, and looking up they saw Borg rocking
himself on one of the highest branches of a lime tree. The branch
nearly touched the ground, but at the next moment it described a
tremendous curve upwards.
"Oh! Isn't it colossal!" screamed Levi. "Colossal!"
"What a madman," smiled Struve, proud of his protégé.
"Come along, Isaac!" bellowed Borg, high up in the air, "come along,
Jew, let's borrow money from each other!"
"How much do you want?" asked Levi, waving his pocket book.
"I never borrow less than fifty!"
At the next moment Borg had slid to the ground and pocketed the note.
Then he took off his overcoat.
"Put it on again immediately!" commanded Struve.
"What do you say? I'm to put it on again? Who are you to order me
about? What? Do you want a fight?"
He smashed his hat against the tree, took off coat and waistcoat, and
let the rain beat on his shirt.
"Come here, you rascal! Let's have a fight!"
He seized Struve round the waist, and, staggering backwards, both of
them fell into the ditch.
Falk hurried away as fast as he could. And for a long time he could
hear behind him outbursts of laughter and shouts of bravo. He could
distinguish Levi's voice yelling: "It's divine, it's colossal--it's
colossal!" And Borg's: "Traitor! Traitor!"
CHAPTER XX
ON THE ALTAR
The clock in the Town-hall Vaults of X-köping thundered the seventh
hour of an October evening as the manager of the Municipal Theatre came
in. He beamed as a toad may beam after a good meal; he looked happy,
but his facial muscles, not accustomed to express such emotions, drew
the skin into worried folds and disfigured him still more than usual.
He nodded patronizingly to the little shrivelled head-waiter who was
standing behind the bar counting the guests.
"Well, and how's the world treating you?" screamed the manager in
German--he had dropped the habit of speaking long ago.
"Thank you!" replied the head-waiter in the same language, and as this
was all the German the two gentlemen knew, the conversation was
continued in Swedish.
"Well, what do you think of the lad Gustav? Wasn't his Don Diego
excellent? Don't you admit that I can make actors? What?"
"There's no denying that! Fancy, that boy! It's quite true what you
said, sir. It's easier to do something with a man who hasn't been
ruined by book-learning."
"Books are the ruin of a good many people. Nobody knows that better
than I do. However, do you know anything about books? I do! You will
see queer things when young Rehnhjelm plays Horatio! I've promised him
the part, because he gave me no peace; but I've also warned him not to
look to me for any assistance. I don't want to be held responsible for
his failure; I also told him that I was allowing him to play the part
to show him how difficult it is to act when one has no talent. Oh! He
shall have such a snub that he'll never look at a part again. See if he
won't! But that isn't what I want to say to you! Have you got two
vacant rooms?"
"The two small ones?"
"Just so!"
"They're at your disposal, sir!"
"Supper for two, the best you can do! You'd better do the waiting
yourself."
He did not shout the last few words; the head-waiter bowed; he had
understood.
At this moment Falander entered the room. He took his accustomed seat
without as much as a look at the manager. The latter rose immediately.
"At eight then," he whispered, as he passed the bar and went out.
The head-waiter brought Falander a bottle of absinth, and all the usual
trimmings. As the actor seemed disinclined to enter into conversation,
the head-waiter wiped the table with his napkin; when that was no good,
he refilled the match-stand, and said:
"Supper to-night, the small rooms! Hm!"
"Of whom and of what are you talking?"
"Of him who's just gone out."
"I see! But that's unusual, he's generally so mean. Supper for one?"
"For two," replied the head-waiter, winking. "In the small rooms, hm!"
Falander pricked up his ears, but at the same time he felt ashamed to
be listening to gossip and dropped the subject; but that was not what
the head-waiter wanted.
"I wonder who it is? His wife is ill, and...."
"What does it matter to us? Let the monster sup with whom he likes!
Have you an evening paper?"
The head-waiter was saved a reply. Rehnhjelm was approaching the table,
radiant, like a man who sees a ray of light on his path.
"Leave the absinth alone to-night," he said, "and be my guest. I am
happy, I could cry."
"What has happened?" asked Falander uneasily. "Surely, he hasn't given
you a part?"
"He has, you pessimist! I'm to play Horatio...."
Falander's face clouded.
"And she'll play Ophelia."
"How do you know?"
"I feel it."
"You and your premonitions! But after all, it wasn't so difficult to
guess. Don't you think she deserves it? Have they a better Ophelia in
the whole company?"
"No, I admit that! Do you like your part?"
"Oh! It's splendid!"
"It's extraordinary how opinions differ."
"What do _you_ think?"
"I think that he is the greatest rascal at the whole court; he says Yes
to everything: 'Yes, my prince; yes, my good prince.' If he were really
Hamlet's friend, he would sometimes say No, and not always agree with
him like any other sycophant."
"Are you going to overthrow another of my ideals?"
"I will overthrow all your false idols! How can you--as long as you
look upon all paltry creations of man as great and splendid--strive
after the eternal? If you see perfection and excellence in everything
here below, how can you yearn for the really perfect? Believe me,
pessimism is the truest idealism! It is a Christian doctrine too, if
that will salve your conscience, for Christianity teaches us that the
world is a vale of tears from which death will deliver us!"
"Can't you let me believe that the world is beautiful? Can't you let me
be grateful to Him who is the giver of all good things, and rejoice in
the happiness life has to offer?"
"Yes, yes, my boy, rejoice, rejoice and believe and hope! As all men
strive for the same thing--happiness--you will have the 1,439,134,300th
part of a chance of winning it, seeing that the denominator of this
fraction represents the number of people on this earth. Is the
happiness which has come to you to-day worth the torture and
humiliations of the last few months? And moreover--what is this great
piece of luck? You have been given a part to play, a part in which you
cannot make a success--by which I don't mean that you necessarily need
be a failure. Are you sure that...."
He paused for breath.
"That Agnes will have a success in the part of Ophelia? She may make
good use of the rare chance and get as much out of the part as most
actresses do. I am sorry I made you feel sad; don't believe what I
said; after all, who knows whether I am right or wrong?"
"If I didn't know you better, I might believe you that you're jealous."
"No, my boy; nothing would please me more than to see yours and all
men's wishes speedily fulfilled; then the thoughts of men might turn to
higher things. Perhaps that is the meaning of life."
"You can afford to say that so calmly; you have had success long ago."
"Isn't this a state of mind much to be desired? We do not yearn for
happiness so much, as for the faculty of being able to smile at our
ardent efforts. I say _ardent_ advisedly."
Eight strokes thundered through the room. Falander rose hastily as if
he were going to leave, brushed his hand across his forehead and sat
down again.
"Has Agnes gone to see Aunt Beata to-night?" he asked casually.
"What makes you think so?"
"I'm merely supposing it because you are sitting here so quietly. She
told you she would read her part to her, as the time is so short,
didn't she?"
"Yes; have you seen her to-night?"
"No! On my word of honour, I haven't! Only I can't think of anything
else which would prevent her from spending a free evening with you."
"You guessed correctly. She urged me to go out and spend the evening
with friends; she thinks I'm too much at home. The dear girl! She has
such a tender and loving little heart."
"Yes, very tender!"
"I only once waited for her in vain; her aunt had kept her till late
and forgotten to send me word. I thought I was going mad and couldn't
sleep all night."
"You are referring to the evening of the sixth of July, I suppose?"
"You startle me! Are you watching us?"
"Why should I? I know of your engagement and aid you in every way I
can. And why shouldn't I know that it was Tuesday the sixth of July?
You've told me about it more than once."
"That's true!"
Neither of them spoke for a while.
"It's extraordinary," said Rehnhjelm, suddenly breaking the silence,
"that happiness can make one feel melancholy; I feel uneasy to-night,
and would much rather have spent the evening with Agnes. Let's go to
the small rooms and send for her. She could say that friends had
arrived from the country."
"She wouldn't do that; she couldn't tell a lie."
"Oh, nonsense! The woman who can't isn't born yet!"
Falander stared at Rehnhjelm with so peculiar an expression, that the
latter felt puzzled.
"I'll go and see whether the little rooms are vacant," he said after a
short pause; "we can send her a message, if they are."
"Come along then!"
Rehnhjelm made ready to follow him, but Falander kept him back.
"I'll be back in two minutes!"
He returned with a very white face, but perfectly calm.
"They are engaged," he said quietly.
"What a nuisance!"
"Let's keep each other company and be as jolly as we can!"
And they kept each other company, ate and drank and talked of life and
love and human malice; and when they had eaten and drunk and talked
enough, they went home and to bed.
CHAPTER XXI
A SOUL OVERBOARD
Rehnhjelm awoke on the following morning at four o'clock; somebody had
called his name. He sat up in bed and listened--there was not a sound.
He drew up the blind and looked out on a grey autumn morning, windy and
rainy. He went back to bed and tried to sleep, but in vain. There were
strange voices in the wind; they moaned and warned and wept and
whimpered. He tried to think of something pleasant: of his happiness.
He took his part and began to learn it; it seemed to be nothing but
_yes_, _my prince_; he thought of Falander's words and could not help
admitting that he was to some extent right. He tried to picture himself
on the stage as Horatio; he tried to picture Agnes in the part of
Ophelia, and could see in her nothing but a hypocritical schemer,
spreading nets for Hamlet at Polonius's advice. He attempted to drive
away the thought, and instead of Agnes he saw the coquettish Miss
Jacquette, who had been the last to play the part at the Municipal
Theatre.
He tried in vain to drive away these disagreeable fancies; they
followed him like gnats. At last, exhausted with the strain, he fell
asleep, but only to suffer the same torment in his dream; he roused
himself with an effort, but soon dropped off to sleep again, and
immediately the same visions disturbed him. About nine o'clock he awoke
with a scream, and jumped out of bed as if he were fleeing from evil
spirits. When he looked into the glass he saw that his eyes were red
with weeping. He dressed hastily and as he picked up his boot, a big
spider ran across the floor. The sight pleased him for he believed in
the superstition that a spider is a harbinger of happiness; his
good-humour was restored and he came to the conclusion that if a man
wanted an undisturbed night's rest, he should avoid crabs for supper.
He drank his coffee and smoked a pipe and smiled at the rain-showers
and the wind. A knock at the door aroused him from his reverie; he
started, for he was afraid of news, he could not tell why; but he
thought of the spider and calmly opened the door.
A servant handed him a letter from Falander, begging him to come to his
rooms at ten, on very important business.
Again he was assailed by the indescribable feeling of fear which had
troubled his morning slumber; he tried to while away the time until
ten. It was impossible; he dressed and went to Falander's house.
The latter had risen early; his room had been put straight and he was
ready to receive his friend. He greeted Rehnhjelm cordially, but with
unusual gravity. Rehnhjelm overwhelmed him with questions, but Falander
refused to reply before ten o'clock. Rehnhjelm's anxiety grew and he
wanted to know whether there was unpleasant news; Falander replied that
nothing on earth was unpleasant as long as one looked at things in the
right light. And he declared that many so-called unbearable situations
could be borne quite easily if only one did not exaggerate their
importance.
The time passed slowly, but at last it struck ten. A gentle double-rap
at the door relieved the tension. Falander opened at once and admitted
Agnes. Without a look at those present she drew the key from the lock,
and locked the door from the inside. A momentary embarrassment seized
her when, on turning round, she was confronted by two men instead of
only one, but her embarrassment gave way to pleasant surprise when she
recognized Rehnhjelm. Throwing off her water-proof, she ran towards
him; he took her in his arms and passionately pressed her to his heart,
as if he had not seen her for a year.
"You've been away a long time, Agnes!"
"A long time? What do you mean?"
"I feel as if I hadn't seen you for a life-time. How splendid you are
looking! Did you sleep well?"
"Do you think I look better than usual?"
"Yes! You are flushed and there are little dimples in your cheeks!
Won't you say good morning to Falander?"
The latter stood quietly listening to the conversation, but his face
was deadly white and he seemed to be absorbed in thought.
"How worn you are looking," said Agnes, crossing the room with the
graceful movements of a kitten, as Rehnhjelm released her from his
arms.
Falander made no reply. Agnes looked at him more keenly, and all at
once became aware of his thoughts. A fleeting expression of trouble
passed across her face, as the surface of a pond is rippled by the
breeze; but she immediately regained her usual serenity, glanced at
Rehnhjelm, realized the situation, and was prepared for anything.
"May we be told what important business has brought us together here,
at this early hour?" she asked gaily, putting her hand on Falander's
shoulder.
"Certainly," said the latter, with such firm resolution that her face
paled; but at the same moment he threw back his head, as if he wanted
to force his thoughts into another groove, "it's my birthday, and I
want you to have breakfast with me."
Agnes, who had seen the train rushing straight at her, felt relieved;
she burst into merry laughter and embraced Falander.
"But as breakfast has been ordered for eleven, we'll have to wait a
while. Won't you sit down?"
There was an ominous silence.
"An angel is passing through the room," said Agnes.
"You!" said Rehnhjelm, respectfully and ardently kissing her hand.
Falander looked as if he had been thrown out of his saddle, and was
making violent efforts to regain it.
"I saw a spider this morning," said Rehnhjelm, "that predicts
happiness."
"_Araignée matin: chagrin_," said Falander. "Have you never heard
that?"
"What does that mean?" asked Agnes.
"A spider on the morrow: grief and sorrow."
"Hm!"
Again they grew silent. The only sound which disturbed the stillness
was the sound of the rain beating in gusts against the windows.
"I read an awfully tragic book last night," presently remarked
Falander. "I hardly slept a wink."
"What book was that?" asked Rehnhjelm, without betraying very much
interest.
"Its title was 'Pierre Clément,' and its subject the usual woman's
game. But it was told so well that it made a great impression on me."
"May I ask what the usual woman's game is?" said Agnes.
"Faithlessness and treachery!"
"And this Pierre Clément?"
"He was, of course, betrayed. He was a young artist, in love with
another man's mistress...."
"I remember the book; I liked it very much. Wasn't she later on engaged
to a man whom she really loved? Yes, that was it, and during all the
time she kept up her old _liaison_. The author wanted to show that a
woman can love in two ways; a man only in one. That's true enough,
isn't it?"
"Certainly! But the day came when her fiancé was going to compete with
a picture. To cut my tale short, she gave herself to the president, and
Pierre Clément was happy and could be married."
"And by this the author wanted to show that a woman will sacrifice
everything to the man she loves--a man, on the other hand...."
"That is the most infamous statement I ever heard!" burst out Falander.
He rose, went to his writing-desk, threw open the flap and took out a
black box.
"Here," he said, handing it to Agnes; "go home and rid the world of a
monster."
"What's that?" laughed Agnes, opening the box and taking out a
six-barrelled revolver. "I say, what a sweet thing! Didn't you use this
as Carl Moor? I believe it is loaded."
She raised the revolver and fired up the chimney.
"Lock it up," she said, "this is no toy, my friends."
Rehnhjelm had watched the scene speechlessly. He understood the meaning
well enough, but he was unable to say a word; and he was so much under
the girl's spell, that he could not even feel angry with her. He
realized that he had been stabbed, but he had as yet not had time to
feel the pain.
The girl's impudence disconcerted Falander; he wanted time to recover;
his moral execution had been a complete failure, and his _coup de
théâtre_ had been disastrous to himself.
"Hadn't we better go now?" asked Agnes, straightening her hat before
the glass.
Falander opened the door.
"Go and be damned to you!" he said. "You have ruined an honest man's
peace of mind."
"What are you talking about? Shut the door! It's none too warm here."
"I see, I have to speak more plainly. Where were you last night?"
"Hjalmar knows, and it's no business of yours."
"You were not at your aunt's! You had supper with the manager!"
"It's a lie!"
"I saw you at nine in the vaults of the Town-hall."
"I say it's a lie! I was at home at that time! Go and ask aunt's maid
who saw me home."
"I should never have expected this from you!"
"Hadn't we better stop talking nonsense now and be off? You shouldn't
read stupid books all night; then you wouldn't be in a bad temper on
the next day. Put on your hats and come."
Rehnhjelm put his hand to his head to feel whether it was in its
accustomed place, for everything seemed to him to be turned upside
down. When he found that it was still there, he attempted to come to a
clear understanding of the matter, but he was unable to do so.
"Where were you on the sixth of July?" asked Falander, with the
sternness of a judge.
"What an idiotic question to ask! How can I remember what happened
three months ago?"
"You were with me, but you told Hjalmar you were with your aunt."
"Don't listen to him," said Agnes, going up to Rehnhjelm and caressing
him. "He's talking nonsense."
Rehnhjelm's hand shot out; he seized her by the throat and flung her on
her back behind the stove, where she fell on a little pile of wood and
remained lying still and motionless.
He put on his hat, but Falander had to help him with his coat, for he
trembled violently.
"Come along, let's be off," he said, spitting on the hearthstone.
Falander hesitated for a moment, felt Agnes' pulse and then followed
Rehnhjelm with whom he caught up in the lower hall.
"I admire you!" he said; "the matter was really beyond discussion."
"Then let it for ever remain so! We haven't much time to enjoy each
other's company. I am leaving for home by the next train, to work and
to forget! Let's go to the vaults now."
They went to the vaults and engaged a private room, where breakfast was
served to them.
"Has my hair turned grey?" asked Rehnhjelm, passing his hand over his
hair which was damp and clung closely to his skull.
"No, old man, that doesn't often happen; even I'm not grey."
"Is she hurt?"
"No!"
"It was in this room--I met her for the first time."
He rose from the table, staggered to the sofa, and threw himself on his
knees by the side of it. Burying his head in the cushions, he burst
into tears like a child crying in his mother's lap.
Falander took his head in both his hands, and Rehnhjelm felt something
hot and scalding dropping on his neck.
"Where's your philosophy now, old fellow? Out with it! I'm drowning!
Give me a straw to clutch at!"
"Poor boy! poor old boy!"
"I must see her! I must ask her forgiveness! I love her in spite of it!
In spite of it! Are you sure she isn't hurt? Oh! my God, that one can
be so unhappy and yet not die!"
* * * * *
At three o'clock in the afternoon Rehnhjelm left for Stockholm.
Falander slammed the carriage door behind him and turned the handle.
CHAPTER XXII
HARD TIMES
To Sellén also the autumn had brought great changes. His powerful
patron had died, and all memory of him was to be blotted out; even the
memories of his kind actions were not to survive him. That Sellén's
stipend was stopped went without saying, especially as the artist could
not bring himself to petition for its continuance. He did not believe
that he required further assistance, after having been given a helping
hand once, and, moreover, there were so many younger members of his
profession in greater need of it.
But he was made to realize that not only was the sun extinguished but
that the smaller planets, too, suffered from total eclipse. He had
worked strenuously during the summer and had made great progress in his
art, but nevertheless the president declared that it had deteriorated,
and that his success in the spring had been nothing more than a stroke
of luck; the professor of landscape-painting had told him as a friend
that he would never be a great artist, and the academician had seized
the opportunity to rehabilitate himself, and clung to his first
opinion. In addition to this the public taste in pictures had changed;
the ignorant wealthy handful of people who were in the habit of buying
pictures and therefore set the fashion, did not want landscapes, but
portraits of the watering-places and summer resorts they knew; and it
was difficult to sell even these; the only demand was for sentimental
genre-pictures and half-nude figures.
Therefore Sellén had fallen on evil days, for he could not bring
himself to paint against his better judgment. He was now renting a
former photographic studio on the top of a house in Government Street.
The accommodation consisted of the studio itself, with its rotten floor
and leaking roof--the latter defect was not felt at present, for it was
winter and the roof was covered with snow--and the old dark-room which
smelt of collodium, and for this reason could only be used as a wood- or
coal-shed, when circumstances permitted the purchase of fuel. The only
piece of furniture was a wooden garden seat, studded with protruding
nails. It was so short that a man using it as a bed--and it was always
used as a bed when the owner, or rather the borrower, spent the night
at home--had either to draw his knees up to his chin, or allow his legs
to dangle over the side. The bedding consisted of half a rug--the other
half was at the pawnbroker's--and a leather case, stuffed to
bursting-point with studies and sketches.
In the dark-room was a water tap and a basin with a waste pipe--the
only substitute for a dressing-table.
On a cold afternoon, a short time before Christmas, Sellén was standing
before his easel, painting for the third time a new picture on an old
canvas. He had just risen from his hard bed; no servant had come in to
light his fire--partly because he had no servant, and partly because he
had nothing with which to make a fire--no servant had brushed his
clothes or brought his coffee. And yet he was standing before his easel
whistling merrily, engaged in painting a brilliant sunset, when there
came four knocks at the door. Sellén opened without hesitation and
admitted Olle Montanus, very plainly and very lightly clad, without an
overcoat.
"Good morning, Olle! How are you? Did you sleep well?"
"Thanks."
"How's the cash-box?"
"Oh! Bad!"
"And the notes?"
"There are so few in circulation."
"I see! They won't issue any more? And the valuables?"
"There aren't any."
"Do you think it's going to be a hard winter?"
"I saw a great many chatterers this morning; that means a hard winter."
"You took a morning stroll?"
"I've walked about all night, after leaving the Red Room at midnight."
"You were at the Red Room last night?"
"Yes; and I made two new acquaintances: Dr. Borg and a man called
Levin."
"Oh! Those rascals! I know them! Why didn't you spend the night with
them?"
"They turned up their noses at me because I had no overcoat, and I felt
ashamed. But I am worn out; I'll rest for a few moments on your sofa!
I've walked through the whole town and round half of it; I must try and
get work to-day at a stone-mason's or I shall starve."
"Is it true that you are a member of the Workmen's Union 'Star of the
North'?"
"Quite true; I'm going to lecture there on Sunday next, on Sweden."
"A good subject! Plenty to say!"
"If I should fall asleep on your sofa, don't waken me; I'm dead-beat."
"All right, old chap! Go to sleep!"
A few moments later Olle was fast asleep and snoring loudly. His head
was hanging over one of the side-railings which supported his thick
neck, and his legs over the other.
"Poor devil!" muttered Sellén, covering him up with his rug.
There was another knock, but as it was unfamiliar Sellén judged it wise
to take no notice of it; thereupon the clamour became so furious that
it dissipated his apprehensions and he opened the door to Dr. Borg and
Levin. Borg was the first to speak.
"Is Falk here?"
"No!"
"Who is that sack of wood over there?" continued Borg, pointing at Olle
with his snow-boot.
"Olle Montanus."
"Oh! That extraordinary fellow who was with Falk last night! Is he
asleep?"
"Yes."
"Did he spend the night here?"
"Yes."
"Why haven't you a fire? It's beastly cold."
"Because I have no wood."
"Send for some then! Where's the servant? I'll make her trot."
"Gone to early service."
"Wake up that sleeping ox over there and send him!"
"No, let him sleep," objected Sellén, covering up Olle, who was still
snoring loudly.
"Then I must show you another way. What's the floor-packing? Earth or
rubbish?"
"I don't understand these matters," replied Sellén, carefully stepping
on some sheets of cardboard which were lying on the floor.
"Have you got another piece of cardboard?"
"What are you driving at?" asked Sellén, colouring up to the roots of
his hair.
"I want it, and a pair of fire-tongs."
Sellén gave him the required articles, took his sketching stool and sat
down on the pieces of cardboard as if he were guarding a treasure.
Borg took off his coat, and with the help of the fire-tongs loosened a
board in the floor, rotted by rain and acids.
"Confound you! What are you doing?" exclaimed Sellén.
"I used to do this in my college days at Upsala," said Borg.
"But you can't do that sort of thing at Stockholm!"
"Hang it all, I'm cold! I must have a fire."
"But there's no necessity to break up the floor in the middle of the
room! It shows too much!"
"What does that matter to me! I don't live here. But this is too hard."
Meanwhile he had approached Sellén, and all of a sudden he pushed him
and the stool over; in falling the artist dragged the pieces of
cardboard with him, exposing the bare floor-packing underneath.
"Miscreant! To have a perfect timber-yard and not to say a word about
it!"
"The rain's done it!"
"I don't care who's done it! Let's light a fire!"
He wrenched off a few pieces of wood with his strong hands and soon a
fire was blazing in the grate.
Levin had watched the scene, quiet, neutral, and polite. Borg sat down
before the fire and made the tongs red-hot.
Again there was a knock: three short raps and a longer one.
"That's Falk," said Sellén, opening the door.
Falk entered, looking a little hectic.
"Do you want money?" said Borg to the newcomer, laying his hand on his
breast-pocket.
"What a question to ask," said Falk, looking at him doubtfully.
"How much do you want? I can let you have it."
"Are you serious?" asked Falk, and his face cleared.
"Serious? Hm! How much? The figure! The amount!"
"I could do with, say, sixty crowns."
"Good Lord, how modest you are," remarked Borg, and turned to Levin.
"Yes, it _is_ very little," said the latter. "Take as much as you can
get Falk while the purse is open."
"I'd rather not! Sixty crowns is all I want, and I can't afford to take
up a bigger loan. But how is it to be paid back?"
"Twelve crowns every sixth month, twenty-four crowns per annum, in two
instalments," said Levin promptly and firmly.
"Those are easy terms," replied Falk. "Where do you get money on those
terms?"
"From the Wheelwrights' Bank. Give me paper and a pen, Levin!"
Quick as lightning Levin produced a promissory note, a pen, and a
pocket inkstand. The note had already been filled up by the others.
When Falk saw the figure eight hundred he hesitated for a moment.
"Eight hundred crowns?" he asked.
"You can have more if you are not satisfied."
"No, I won't; it's all the same who takes the money as long as it is
paid up all right. But can you raise money on a bill of this sort,
without security?"
"Without security? You are forgetting that we are guaranteeing it,"
replied Levin, with contemptuous familiarity.
"I don't want to depreciate it," observed Falk. "I'm grateful for your
guarantees, but I don't believe that the bill will be accepted."
"Oh, won't it! It's accepted already," said Borg, bringing out a _bill
of acceptance_, as he called it. "Go on, Falk, sign!"
Falk signed his name.
Borg and Levin were watching him, looking over his shoulders like
policemen.
"Assessor," dictated Borg.
"No, I'm a journalist," objected Falk.
"That's no good; you are registered as assessor, and as such you still
figure in the directory."
"Did you look it up?"
"One should be correct in matters of form," said Borg gravely.
Falk signed.
"Come here, Sellén, and witness," commanded Borg.
"I don't know whether I ought to," replied Sellén, "I've seen at home,
in the country, so much misery arising from such signatures...."
"You are not in the country now, and you are not dealing with peasants.
There's no reason why you shouldn't witness that Falk's signature is
genuine."
Sellén signed, shaking his head.
"And now rouse that draught-ox over there and make him, too, witness
the signature."
When all shaking was in vain Borg took the tongs, which were now
red-hot, and held them under the sleeper's nostrils.
"Wake up, you dog, and you shall have something to eat!"
Olle jumped up and rubbed his eyes.
"You are to witness Falk's signature. Do you understand?"
Olle took the pen and wrote his name in obedience to the two
guarantors' dictation. When he had done so, he turned to the bench to
lie down again but Borg prevented him.
"Wait a minute," he said, "Falk must first sign a counter-guarantee."
"Don't do it, Falk," said Olle; "it'll end badly, there'll be trouble."
"Silence, you dog," bellowed Borg. "Come here, Falk! We've just
guaranteed your bill, as you know; all we want now from you is a
counter-guarantee in place of Struve's, against whom an action has been
brought."
"What do you mean by a counter-guarantee?"
"It's only a matter of form; the loan was for eight hundred crowns on
the Painters' Bank; the first payment has been made, but now that
Struve has been proceeded against, we must find a substitute. It's a
safe old loan and there are no risks; the money was due a year ago."
Falk signed and the other two witnessed.
Borg carefully folded the bills and gave them to Levin who immediately
turned to go.
"I'll give you an hour," said Borg. "If you are not back with the money
by then, I'll set the police on your track."
And satisfied with his morning's work, he stretched himself out on the
seat on which Olle had been lying.
The latter staggered to the fire, lay down on the floor and curled
himself up like a dog.
For a little while nobody spoke.
"I say, Olle," said Sellén presently, breaking the silence, "supposing
we signed a bill of this sort...."
"You would be sent to Rindö," said Borg.
"What is Rindö?" asked Sellén.
"A convict prison in the Skerries; but in case the gentlemen should
prefer the Lake of Mälar, there's a prison there called Longholm."
"But seriously," said Falk, "what happens if one can't pay on the day
when the money falls due?"
"One takes up a fresh loan at the Tailors' Bank, for instance," replied
Borg.
"Why don't you go to the Imperial Bank?" questioned Falk.
"Because it's rotten!" answered Borg.
"Can you make head or tail out of all this?" said Sellén to Olle.
"I don't understand a word of it," answered the latter.
"You will, when you are members of the Academy, and your names appear
in the Directory."
CHAPTER XXIII
AUDIENCES
Nicholas Falk was sitting in his office; it was the morning of the day
before Christmas Eve. He was a little changed; time had thinned his
fair hair, and the passions had delved little channels in his face, for
the acids which the parched soil distilled. He was stooping over a
little book of the shape and size of the Catechism, and his busy pen
seemed to prick out designs.
There was a knock at the door; immediately the book disappeared beneath
the flap of his writing-desk, and was replaced by the morning paper.
Falk was absorbed in its perusal when his wife entered.
"Take a seat," he said, politely.
"No, thank you; I'm in a hurry. Have you read the morning paper?"
"No!"
"But you are reading it at this very minute!"
"I've only just taken it up."
"Have you seen the review of Arvid's poems?"
"Yes."
"Well? They were much praised."
"He wrote the review himself."
"You said the same thing last night when you were reading the _Grey
Bonnet_."
"What have you come here for?"
"I've just met the admiral's wife; she's accepted our invitation and
said she would be delighted to meet the young poet."
"Did she really?"
"She did, indeed."
"Hm! Of course it's possible to make a mistake, although I don't admit
that I made one. I suppose you're again wanting money?"
"Again? How long ago is it since you gave me any?"
"Here you are, then! But now go, and don't bother me again before
Christmas; you know it's been a bad year."
"Indeed! I don't know that at all! Everybody says it's been a splendid
year."
"For the agriculturist yes, but not for the insurance societies. Run
away now!"
Mrs. Falk went, making way for Fritz Levin, who entered cautiously, as
if he were afraid of a trap.
"What have you come for?" asked Falk.
"Oh, I just wanted to wish you a good morning in passing."
"A good idea! I've been wanting to see you."
"Have you really?"
"You know young Levi?"
"Of course I do!"
"Read this paper, aloud, please!"
Levin read, in a loud voice: "Magnificent bequest: With a generosity
which is not now infrequently met with among the merchant class, the
wholesale merchant Mr. Charles Nicholas Falk, in order to commemorate
the anniversary of a happy marriage, has bequeathed to the crèche
'Bethlehem' the sum of twenty thousand crowns, one half of it to be
paid at once, and the other half after the death of the generous donor.
The bequest is all the more significant as Mrs. Falk is one of the
founders of the philanthropic institution."
"Will that do?" asked Falk.
"Splendidly! The new year will bring you the order of Vasa!"
"I want you to take the deed of gift and the money to the
Administrative Committee of the crèche, that is to say, to my wife, and
then go and find young Levi. Do you understand?"
"Quite."
Falk gave him the deed of gift, written on parchment, and the amount.
"Count the money to see whether it is right."
Levin opened a packet of papers and stared, wide-eyed, at fifty sheets
covered with lithographic designs, in all possible colours.
"Is that money?" he asked.
"These are securities," answered Falk; "fifty shares at two hundred
crowns each in the 'Triton,' which I bequeath to the crèche Bethlehem."
"Haha! It's all over with the 'Triton,' then, and the rats are leaving
the sinking ship!"
"I didn't say that," replied Falk, laughing maliciously.
"But if it should be the case, the crèche will be bankrupt."
"That doesn't concern me, and it concerns you even less. But there is
something else I want you to do. You must--you know what I mean when I
say you must...."
"I know, I know, bailiffs, promissory notes--go on!"
"You must induce Arvid to come here to dinner on Bank Holiday...."
"It will be about as easy as bringing you three hairs out of the
giant's beard. Now do you admit that I was wise when I refused to give
him your message of last spring? Haven't I always predicted this?"
"Did you? Well, never mind, hold your tongue and do as you are told! So
much for that! There's another thing! I have noticed symptoms of
remorse in my wife. She must have met her mother, or one of her
sisters. Christmas is a sentimental season. Go to my mother-in-law and
stir up a little strife!"
"A very unpleasant commission!"
"Off you go! Next man...."
Levin went. The next visitor was schoolmaster Nyström, who was admitted
by a secret door in the background. At his entrance the morning paper
was dropped, and the long, narrow book reappeared.
Nyström had gone to pieces. His body was reduced to a third of its
former size, and his clothes were extremely shabby. He remained humbly
standing at the door, took a much-used pocket-book out of his pocket
and waited.
"Ready?" asked Falk, keeping the place in the book with his first
finger.
"Ready," replied Nyström, opening the pocket-book.
"No. 26. Lieutenant Kling, 1500 crowns. Paid?"
"Not paid."
"Prolong, with extra interest and commission. Call at his private
address."
"Never receives at home."
"Threaten him by post with a visit at the barracks."
"No. 27. Judge Dahlberg, 800 crowns. Let's see. Son of the wholesale
merchant Dahlberg, estimated at 35,000. Grant a respite at present, but
see that he pays the interest. Keep an eye on him."
"He never pays the interest."
"Send him a postcard to his office."
"No. 28. Captain Stjernborst, 4000. Good for nothing fellow, that!
Paid?"
"Not paid."
"Good. Instructions: Call on him at noon at the guards room. Dress--you
that is--compromisingly. Your red overcoat with the yellow seams, you
know what I mean."
"No use! I've called on him at the guards room in the depth of the
winter without any overcoat."
"Then go to his guarantors!"
"I've been and they told me to go to hell. They said that a guarantee
was only a matter of form."
"Then call on him on a Wednesday afternoon at one o'clock at the
offices of the 'Triton'; take Andersson with you, then there'll be two
of you."
"Been done already."
"Has it? How did the directors take it?" asked Falk, rising.
"They were embarrassed."
"Really? Much embarrassed?"
"Much embarrassed."
"And he himself?"
"He took us into the corridor and promised to pay if we never called on
him there again."
"Indeed! He spends two hours a week there, and receives six thousand
crowns, because his name is Stjernborst. Let's see! It's Saturday
to-day. Be at the 'Triton' punctually at half-past twelve; if you
should see me there, which I expect you will, not a flicker of an
eyelid. Do you understand? Right! Any fresh business?"
"Thirty-five new requests."
"Yes, yes, it's Christmas Eve to-morrow."
Falk turned over a bundle of promissory notes; every now and then he
smiled, or muttered a word.
"Good Heavens! Has he come to that? And this one--and that one--who was
looked upon as such a steady fellow! Yes, yes--hard times are in store
for all of us. Oh! He, too, wants money? Then I shall buy his
house...."
Another knock at the door. The desk was closed, papers and catechism
vanished into thin air, and Nyström disappeared through the secret
door.
"At half-past twelve," whispered Falk, as he went. "One thing more!
Have you finished the poem?"
"Yes," replied a muffled voice.
"Right! Keep Levin's promissory note in readiness, so that it can be
submitted to his head office at any time. Some day I shall smash him.
The rascal's deceitful."
He arranged his tie, pulled out his cuffs and opened the door leading
to a little waiting-room.
"Ah! Good morning, Mr. Lundell! Very glad to see you! Please come in!
How are you? I had locked my door for a few moments."
It really was Lundell; Lundell dressed in the height of fashion like a
shop assistant; he wore a watch-chain, rings, gloves and overshoes.
"I am not calling at an inconvenient time, I hope?"
"Not at all! Do you think, Mr. Lundell, that you will be able to finish
it by to-morrow?"
"Must it be finished by to-morrow?"
"It absolutely must! It will be a red-letter day for the crèche
to-morrow; Mrs. Falk will publicly present my portrait to the
institution, to be hung in the dining-room."
"Then we must not let any obstacles stand in our way," replied Lundell,
taking an easel and an almost finished canvas from a cupboard. "If you
will sit to me for a few moments, sir, I will give the picture the
finishing touches."
"With all the pleasure in the world."
Falk sat down in a chair, crossed his legs, threw himself into the
attitude of a statesman and tried to look aristocratic.
"Won't you talk, sir? Although your face is an exceedingly interesting
one when at rest, yet the more characteristics I can bring out, the
better."
Falk smirked; a glimmer of pleasure and gratification lit up his coarse
features.
"I hope you'll be able to dine with us on bank holiday, Mr. Lundell?"
"Thank you...."
"You'll be able to study the faces of many men of distinction, then,
men whose features deserve being fixed on canvas far more than mine
do."
"Perhaps I may have the honour of painting them?"
"You will, if I recommend you."
"Oh, do you really think so?"
"Certainly I do!"
"I just caught a new expression in your face. Try and keep it for a few
moments. There! This is excellent! I'm afraid I shall have to work at
this portrait all day long. There are so many details which one only
discovers gradually. Your face is rich in interesting features."
"In that case we had better dine together! We must see a good deal of
each other, Mr. Lundell, so that you may have an opportunity of
studying my face for a second edition, which it is always well to have.
Really, I must say, there are few people to whom I felt so strongly
drawn from the first moment, as I did to you, Mr. Lundell."
"Oh, my dear sir!"
"And let me tell you that my eyes are keen and well able to distinguish
truth from flattery."
"I knew that from the first," answered Lundell unscrupulously. "My
profession has given me an insight into human character."
"You are a very keen observer indeed. Not everybody understands me. My
wife, for instance...."
"Oh! Women cannot be expected...."
"No, that wasn't altogether what I meant. But may I offer you a glass
of good old port?"
"Thank you, sir; I never drink when I'm working, on principle...."
"Quite right! I respect this principle--I always respect
principles--all the more because I share it."
"But when I'm not at work, I enjoy a glass."
"Just as I do."
It struck half-past twelve. Falk rose.
"Excuse me, I must leave you for a short time, on business. I shall be
back almost immediately."
"Certainly, business first."
Falk put on his hat and coat and went. Lundell was left alone.
He lit a cigar and studied the portrait. No observer, however keen,
could have guessed his thoughts; he had acquired sufficient knowledge
of the art of life to hide his opinions even when he was alone; nay,
more than that, he was afraid of coming to a clear understanding with
himself.
CHAPTER XXIV
ON SWEDEN
They had arrived at the dessert. The champagne sparkled in the glasses
which reflected the rays of light from the chandelier in Nicholas
Falk's dining-room. Arvid was greeted on all sides with friendly
hand-shakes, compliments and congratulations, warnings and advice;
everybody wanted to be present and share in his triumph, for he had had
a decided success.
"Assessor Falk! I'm delighted!" said the President of the Board of
Payment of Employés' Salaries, nodding to him across the table. "I
fully appreciate your talent."
Arvid tranquilly pocketed the insulting compliment.
"Why are your poems so melancholy?" asked a young beauty on the poet's
right. "One might almost think you were suffering from an unhappy
love-affair."
"Assessor Falk, allow me to drink your health," said the chief editor
of the _Grey Bonnet_, from the left, stroking his long, blond beard.
"Why don't you write for my paper?"
"I shouldn't think you would print my articles," replied Arvid.
"I don't see why we shouldn't."
"Our opinions differ so very widely...."
"Oh! That isn't half as bad as you think. One compromises. We have no
opinions."
"Your health, Falk!" shouted the excited Lundell, from the other side
of the table. "Your health!"
Levi and Borg had to hold him, otherwise he would have risen and made
a speech. It was for the first time that Lundell was invited to a
dinner of this sort, and the brilliant assembly and luxurious food and
drink intoxicated him; but as all the guests were more or less merry,
he fortunately excited no unpleasant attention.
Arvid Falk's heart beat faster at the sight of all these people who had
readmitted him to their circle without asking for explanations or
apologies. It gave him a sense of security to sit on those old chairs,
which had been a part of the home of his childhood. With a feeling of
melancholy he recognized the tall table-centre which in the old times
had only seen daylight once a year. But the number of new people
distracted him; their friendly faces did not deceive him; certainly
they did not wish him evil, but their friendship depended on a
combination of circumstances.
Moreover, he saw the whole entertainment in the light of a masquerade.
What mutual interest could possibly form a bond between his uncultured
brother and Professor Borg, the man with the great scientific
reputation? They were shareholders in the same company! What was the
proud Captain Gyllenborst doing here? Had he come for the sake of the
dinner? Impossible, even though a man will go a long way for the sake
of a good dinner. And the President? The Admiral? There must have been
invisible ties, strong, unbreakable ties perhaps.
The mirth increased, but the laughter was too shrill; the lips were
overflowing with wit, but the wit was biting. Falk felt ill at ease; it
seemed to him that his father's eyes were looking angrily at the
assembly from the painted canvas which hung over the piano.
Nicholas Falk beamed with satisfaction; he neither saw nor heard any
unpleasantness, but he avoided meeting his brother's eyes as much as
possible. They had not spoken to each other yet, for Arvid, in
compliance with Levin's instructions, had not arrived until after all
the guests had been assembled.
The dinner was approaching its end. Nicholas made a speech on "the
stamina and firm resolution" which are necessary to accomplish a man's
purpose: the achievement of financial independence and a good social
position. "These two qualities," said the speaker, "raise a man's
self-respect and endow him with that firmness without which his efforts
are unavailing, at any rate as far as the general good is concerned.
And the general welfare, gentlemen, must always be our highest
endeavour; I have no doubt that--if the truth were known--it is the
ambition of every one here present. I drink the health of all those who
have this day honoured my house, and I hope that I may often--in the
future--enjoy the same privilege."
Captain Gyllenborst, who was slightly intoxicated, replied in a
lengthy, facetious speech which, delivered at a different house, before
people in a different mood, would have been called scandalous.
He abused the commercial spirit which was spreading, and declared that
he had plenty of self-respect, although he was by no means financially
independent; he had been obliged, this very morning, to settle some
business of a most disagreeable nature--but in spite of this he had
sufficient strength of character to be present at the banquet; and as
far as his social position was concerned, it was second to none--he
felt sure that this was everybody's opinion, for otherwise he would not
be sitting at this table, the guest of so charming a host.
When he had concluded, the party drew a breath of relief. "It was as if
a thundercloud had passed over our heads," remarked the beauty, and
Arvid Falk heartily agreed.
There was so much humbug, so much deceit in the atmosphere that Arvid
longed to take his leave. These people, who appeared so honest and
respectable, seemed to be held by an invisible chain at which they tore
every now and then with suppressed fury. Captain Gyllenborst treated
his host with open, though facetious contempt. He smoked a cigar in
the drawing-room, generally behaved like a boor, and took no notice
whatever of the ladies. He spat in the fire-place, mercilessly
criticized the oleographs on the walls, and loudly expressed his
contempt for the mahogany furniture. The other gentlemen were
indifferent; they gave Falk the impression that they were on duty.
Irritated and upset, he left the party unnoticed.
In the street below stood Olle waiting for him.
"I really didn't think you would come," said Olle. "It's so beautifully
light up there."
"What a reason! I wish you'd been there!"
"How is Lundell getting on in smart society?"
"Don't envy him. He won't have an easy time if he's going to make his
way as a portrait-painter. But let's talk of something else. I have
been longing for this evening, so as to study the working man at close
quarters. It will be like a breath of fresh air after these deadly
fumes; I feel as if I were allowed to take a stroll in the wood, after
having long been laid up in a hospital. I wonder whether I shall be
disillusioned."
"The working man is suspicious; you will have to be careful."
"Is he generous? Free from pettiness? Or has the pressure which has
lain on him for so long spoiled him?"
"You'll be able to see for yourself. Most things in this world differ
from our expectations."
"That's true, unfortunately."
Half an hour later they had arrived in the great hall of the working
men's union "Star of the North." The place was already crowded. Arvid's
black dress-coat did not create a good impression; he caught many an
unfriendly glance from angry eyes.
Olle introduced Arvid to a tall, gaunt man with a face full of passion,
who seemed to be troubled with an incessant cough.
"Joiner Eriksson!"
"That's me," said the latter, "and is this one of those gentlemen who
want to put up for election? He doesn't look big enough for that."
"No, no," said Olle, "he's here for the newspaper."
"Which newspaper? There are so many different sorts. Perhaps he's come
to make fun of us?"
"No, no, nothing of the sort," said Olle. "He's a friend, and he'll do
all he can for you."
"I see! That alters the matter. But I don't trust those gentlemen; one
of them lived with us, that is to say, we lived in the same house, in
the White Mountains; he was the landlord's agent--Struve was the
rascal's name."
There was a rap with the hammer. The chair was taken by an elderly man,
Wheelwright Löfgren, alderman and holder of the medal _Litteris et
artibus_. He had held many offices and acquired a great deal of
dramatic routine. A certain venerability, capable of quelling storms
and silencing noisy meetings, characterized him. His broad face,
ornamented by side-whiskers and a pair of spectacles, was framed by a
judge's wig.
The secretary who sat at his side was one of the supernumeraries of the
great Board of Functionaries; he wore eye-glasses and expressed with a
peasant's grin his dissatisfaction with everything that was said.
The front bench was filled by the most aristocratic members of the
Union: officers, Government officials, wholesale merchants; they
supported all loyal resolutions, and with their superior parliamentary
skill voted against every attempt at reform.
The secretary read the minutes, which the front bench approved.
Next the first item of the agenda was read:
"The Preparatory Committee would suggest that the working men's union
'Star of the North' should express the dissatisfaction which every
right-thinking citizen must feel in regard to the unlawful movements
which under the name of strikes are spreading nearly all over Europe."
"Is this the pleasure of the Union?"
"Yes, yes!" shouted the front bench.
"Mr. President!" called out the joiner from the White Mountains.
"Who is making so much noise at the back?" asked the chairman, looking
over his spectacles with a face which suggested that he would presently
have recourse to the cane.
"Nobody is making any noise; I am asking for permission to speak."
"Who is I?"
"Master-joiner Eriksson."
"Are you a master? Since when?"
"I am a journeyman out of my time; I have never had the means to be
made free of the city, but I am every bit as skilful as any other
master and I work on my own account."
"I request the journeyman-joiner Eriksson to sit down and stop
interfering. Is it the pleasure of the Union to reply to the question
in the affirmative?"
"Mr. Chairman!"
"What is the matter?"
"I ask permission to speak! Let me speak!" bellowed Eriksson.
There was a murmur on the back benches: "Eriksson's turn to speak."
"Journeyman Eriksson--do you spell your name with an x or a z?" asked
the chairman, prompted by the secretary.
The front bench shook with laughter.
"I don't spell, gentlemen, I discuss," said the joiner with blazing
eyes. "I discuss, I say. If I had the gift of making speeches, I should
show you that the strikers are right; for if masters and principals
grow fat because they have nothing to do but to fawn and cringe at
levees, and similar ceremonies, the working man must pay the piper with
his sweat. We know why you won't pay us just wages; it's because we
should get the Parliamentary vote, and that's what you are afraid
of...."
"Mr. Chairman!"
"Captain von Sporn!"
"Mr. Chairman, gentlemen! It is much to be regretted that at a meeting
of this Union, which has a reputation for dignified conduct (last
displayed at the Royal wedding), people without the smallest trace of
Parliamentary tact should be permitted to compromise a respectable
society by a shameless and reckless contempt of all seemliness. Believe
me, gentlemen, such a thing could never have happened in a country
where from early youth military discipline...."
"Conscription," said Eriksson to Olle.
"... had been the rule; where the habit of controlling oneself and
others had been acquired! I believe I am expressing the general feeling
of the meeting when I say that I hope that such a distressing scene may
never again occur amongst us. I say us--for I, too, am a working
man--we all are in the sight of the Eternal--and I say it as a member
of this Union. The day would be a day of mourning when I should find
myself compelled to withdraw the words which I recently uttered at
another meeting (it was at the meeting of the National League of
Promoters of Conscription), the words: 'I have a high opinion of the
Swedish working man.'"
"Hear, hear! Hear, hear!"
"Does the meeting accept the suggestion of the Preparatory Committee?"
"Yes! Yes!"
"Second item: At the instigation of several members of the Union, the
Preparatory Committee submit to the meeting the proposal to collect a
sum, not exceeding three thousand crowns, as a testimonial to the Duke
of Dalsland at his forthcoming confirmation. The gift is to be an
expression of the gratitude of the working man to the Royal Family and,
more especially, of his disapproval of those working men's
disturbances which under the name of 'Commune' devastated the French
capital."
"Mr. Chairman!"
"Doctor Haberfeld!"
"No, it's I, Eriksson; I ask permission to say a few words."
"Oh! Well! Eriksson has permission to speak."
"I merely want to point out that not the working men, but officials,
lawyers, officers--conscripts--and journalists were to blame for the
Commune at Paris. If I had the gift of making speeches, I should ask
those gentlemen to express their ideas in an album of confessions."
"Does the meeting agree to the proposal?"
"Yes, yes!"
And the clerks began to write and to check and to chatter, exactly as
they had done at the Parliamentary meetings.
"Are things always managed in this way?" asked Falk.
"Don't you think it amusing, sir?" said Eriksson. "It's enough to turn
one's hair grey. I call it corruption and treachery. Nothing but
meanness and selfishness. There isn't a man amongst them who has the
cause really at heart. And therefore the things which must happen will
happen."
"What things?"
"We'll see!" said the joiner, taking Olle's hand. "Are you ready? Hold
your own ground, you'll be sharply criticized."
Olle nodded slyly.
"Stonemason, journeyman, Olle Montanus has announced a lecture on
Sweden; the subject is a big one. But if he will promise not to exceed
half an hour, we will hear what he has got to say. What do you say,
gentlemen?"
"Hear! Hear!"
"If you please, Mr. Montanus."
Olle shook himself like a dog about to jump, and threaded his way
through the assembly, who examined him with curious eyes.
The chairman began a brief conversation with the front bench, and the
secretary yawned before taking up a newspaper, to show the meeting that
he, for one, was not going to listen.
Olle stepped on the platform, lowered his heavy eyelids and moved his
jaws, pretending to be speaking; when the room had grown really silent,
so silent that everybody could hear what the chairman said to the
captain, he began:
"On Sweden. Some points of view."
And after a pause:
"Gentlemen! It might be more than an unfounded supposition to say that
the most productive idea and the most vigorous striving of our times is
the suppression of short-sighted patriotism, which divides nations and
pits them against one another as foes; we have seen the means used to
gain this object, namely, international exhibitions and their results:
honorary diplomas."
The audience looked puzzled. "What's he driving at?" said Eriksson.
"It's rather unexpected, but it sounds all right."
"Now, as in the past, Sweden marches at the head of civilization; she
has more than any other nation spread the cosmopolitan ideal, and if
one may rely on statistics, she has attained a great deal.
Exceptionally favourable circumstances have contributed to this result.
I will examine them shortly, and then pass on to lighter subjects such
as the form of government, the ground-tax, and so on."
"It's going to be rather long," said Eriksson, nudging Arvid, "but he's
an amusing chap."
"Sweden, as everybody knows, was originally a German colony, and the
Swedish language, which has been preserved fairly pure to our days, is
neither more nor less than Low-German and its twelve dialects. This
circumstance--I mean the difficulty of communicating with one another,
experienced by the provinces--has been a powerful factor in
counteracting the development of that unhealthy national feeling. Other
fortunate facts have opposed a one-sided German influence which had
reached its pinnacle when Sweden became a German province under
Albrecht of Mecklenburg. The foremost of these facts is the conquest of
the Danish provinces: Scania, Halland, Bleking, Bohuslän, and Dalsland;
Sweden's richest provinces are inhabited by Danes who still speak the
language of their country and refuse to acknowledge the Swedish rule."
"What in the name of fortune is he getting at? Is he mad?"
"The inhabitants of Scania, for instance, to this day look upon
Copenhagen as their capital, and constitute the opposition in
Parliament. The same thing applies to the Danish Göteborg, which does
not acknowledge Stockholm as the capital of the realm. An English
settlement has sprung up there and English influence is predominant.
These people, the English people, fish in the waters near the coast,
and during the winter very nearly all the wholesale trade is in their
hands; they return to their own country in the summer and enjoy their
winter profits in their villas in the Scotch Highlands. Very excellent
people, though! They have even their own newspaper, in which they
commend their own actions, without, it must be admitted, blaming those
of others.
"Immigration is another factor of the utmost importance. We have the
Fins in the Finnish forests, but we also have them in the capital,
where they took refuge when the political situation drove them out of
their own country. In all our more important iron-works you will find a
fair number of Walloons; they came over in the seventeenth century and
to this day speak their broken French. You all know that we owe the new
Swedish constitution to a Walloon. Capable people, these Walloons, and
very honest!"
"What in the name of heaven does it all mean?"
"In the reign of King Gustavus Adolphus a whole cargo of Scotch scum
landed on our coast and took service in the army; they eventually
forced their way into the House of Knights. At the East coast there are
many families who cherish traditions of their immigration from Livland
and other Slavonic provinces, and so it is not surprising that we
frequently meet here pure Tartar types.
"I maintain that the Swedish nation is fast becoming denationalized.
Open a book on heraldry and count the Swedish names! If they exceed 25
per cent. you may cut off my nose, gentlemen! Open the directory at
random! I counted the letter G, and of four hundred names two hundred
were foreign.
"What is the cause of this? There are many causes, but the principal
ones are the foreign dynasties and the wars of conquest. If one thinks
of all the scum that has sat on the Swedish throne at one time or
another, one cannot help marvelling that the nation is so loyal to the
king. The constitutional law that the kings of Sweden shall be
foreigners is bound to be of the greatest assistance in the work of
denationalization; this has been proved to be a fact.
"I am convinced that the country will gain by its alliance with foreign
nations; it cannot lose anything--because it has nothing to lose. The
country has no nationality; Tegnér discovered that in 1811, and
short-sightedly bemoaned the fact. But his discovery came too late, for
the race had already been ruined by the constant recruiting for the
foolish wars of conquest. Of the one million men which inhabited the
country in the days of Gustavus Adolphus, seventy thousand enlisted and
were killed in the wars. I do not know for how many Charles X, Charles
XI, and Charles XII were responsible; but it is easy to picture the
offspring of those who remained behind, the men whom the crown had
rejected as unfit for service.
"I repeat my statement that Sweden has no nationality. Can anybody tell
me of anything Swedish in Sweden except her firs, pine trees, and
iron-mines? And the latter will soon disappear from the market. What is
our folk-lore but bad translations of French, English, and German
ballads? What are the national costumes, the disappearance of which we
so keenly regret, other than fragments and tatters of the aristocratic
mediæval costumes? In the days of Gustavus I the dalesmen demanded that
all those who wore low-cut or many-coloured dresses should be punished.
Probably the gay court-dress from Burgundy had not yet filtered down to
the daleswomen. But since then the fashion has changed many times.
"Tell me of a Swedish poem, a work of art, a piece of music, so
specifically Swedish that it differs from all other not-Swedish ones!
Show me a Swedish building! There isn't one, and if there were, it
would either be bad architecture or built in a foreign style.
"I don't think I'm exaggerating when I maintain that the Swedish nation
is a stupid, conceited, slavish, envious, and uncouth nation. And for
this reason it is approaching its end, and approaching it with giant
strides."
A tumult arose in the hall, but shouts of Charles XII could be heard
above the turmoil.
"Gentlemen, Charles XII is dead; let him sleep until his next jubilee.
To no one are we more indebted for our denationalisation than to him,
and therefore, gentlemen, I call for three cheers for Charles XII!
Gentlemen, long live Charles XII!"
"I call the meeting to order!" shouted the chairman.
"Is it possible to imagine that a nation can be guilty of a greater
piece of folly than to go to foreign nations in order to learn to write
poetry?
"What unsurpassable oxen they must have been to walk for sixteen
hundred years behind the plough and never conceive the idea of
inventing a song!
"Then a jolly fellow of the court of Charles XII came along and
destroyed the whole work of denationalization. The literary language,
which up to now had been German, was henceforth to be Swedish: Down
with the dog Stjernhjelm!
"What was his name? Edward Stjernström!"
The chairman's hammer came down on the table with a bang. The
disturbance grew. "Stop him! Down with the traitor! He's laughing at
us!"
"The Swedish nation can scream and brawl, I am aware of that! They can
do nothing else! And as you will not allow me to continue my lecture
and discuss the Government and the royal copyholds, I will conclude by
saying that the servile louts whom I have heard to-night are ripe for
the autocracy which they are sure to get. Believe my words: You will
have an absolute monarchy before very long!"
A push from the back jerked the words of the speaker out of his throat.
He clung to the table:
"And an ungrateful race who will not listen to the truth...."
"Kick him out! Tear him to pieces!"
Olle was dragged from the platform; but to the last moment, while
knocks and blows rained down on him, he yelled like a madman: "Long
live Charles XII! Down with George Stjernhjelm!"
At last Olle and Arvid were standing in the street.
"Whatever were you thinking of?" asked Falk. "You must have taken leave
of your senses!"
"I believe I had! I had learnt my speech by heart for the last six
weeks; I knew to a word what I was going to say; but when I stood on
the platform and saw all those eyes gazing at me, it all went to
pieces; my artificial arguments broke down like a scaffolding; the
floor underneath my feet gave way, and my thoughts became confusion.
Was it very crazy?"
"Yes, it was bad, and the papers will pull you to pieces."
"That's a pity, I admit. I thought I was making it all so clear. But it
_was_ fun to give it them for once."
"You only injured your cause; they'll never let you speak again."
Olle sighed.
"Why in the name of fortune couldn't you leave Charles XII alone? That
was your worst mistake."
"Don't ask me! I don't know!"
"Do you still love the working man?" asked Falk.
"I pity him for allowing himself to be humbugged by adventurers, and I
shall never abandon his cause, for his cause is the burning question of
the near future, and all your politics aren't worth a penny in
comparison."
The two friends were making their way back to old Stockholm, and
finally entered a café.
It was between nine and ten and the room was almost empty. A single
customer was sitting near the counter. He was reading from a book to a
girl who sat beside him doing needlework. It was a pretty, domestic
scene, but it seemed to make a strong impression on Falk, who started
violently and changed colour.
"Sellén! You here? Good evening, Beda!" he said, with artificial
cordiality which sat strangely on him, shaking hands with the girl.
"Hallo! Falk, old chap!" said Sellén. "So you are in the habit of
coming here too? I might have guessed it, you are hardly ever at the
Red Room now."
Arvid and Beda exchanged glances. The young girl looked too
distinguished for her position; she had a delicate, intelligent face,
which betrayed a secret sorrow; and a slender figure. Her movements
were full of self-confidence and modesty; her eyes were set in her face
at a slightly upward angle; they seemed to be peering skyward as if
they were anticipating evil to drop down from the clouds; with this
exception they looked as if they were ready to play all the games which
the whim of the moment might dictate.
"How grave you are," she said to Arvid, and her gaze dropped to her
sewing.
"I've been to a grave meeting," said Arvid, blushing like a girl. "What
were you reading?"
"I was reading the Dedication from Faust," said Sellén, stretching out
his hand and playing with Beda's needlework.
A cloud darkened Arvid's face. The conversation became forced and
restrained. Olle sat plunged in meditations, the subject of which must
have been suicide.
Arvid asked for a paper and was given the _Incorruptible_. He
remembered that he had forgotten to look for the review of his poems.
He hastily opened the paper and on page three he found what he sought.
His eyes met neither compliments nor abuse; the article was dictated by
genuine and deep interest. The reviewer found Arvid's poetry neither
better nor worse than the average, but just as selfish and meaningless;
he said that it treated only of the poet's private affairs, of illicit
relations, real or fictitious; that it coquetted with little sins, but
did not mourn over great ones; that it was no better than the English
fashion-paper poetry, and he suggested that the author's portrait
should have preceded the title-page; then the poems would have been
illustrated.
These simple truths made a great impression on Arvid; he had only read
the advertisement in the _Grey Bonnet_, written by Struve, and the
review in the _Red Cap_, coloured by personal friendship. He rose with
a brief good-night.
"Are you going already?" asked Beda.
"Yes; are we going to meet to-morrow?"
"Yes, as usual. Good-night."
Sellén and Olle followed him.
"She's a rare child," said Sellén, after they had proceeded a little
way in silence.
"I should thank you to be a little more restrained in your criticism."
"I see. You're in love with her!"
"Yes. I hope you don't mind."
"Not in the least. I shan't get into your way!"
"And I beg you not to believe any evil of her...."
"Of course I won't! She's been on the stage...."
"How do you know? She never told me that!"
"No, but she told me; one can never trust these little devils too far."
"Oh well! there's no harm in that! I shall take her away from her
surroundings as soon as I possibly can. Our relations are limited to
meeting in the Haga Park at eight in the morning and drinking the water
from the well."
"How sweet and simple! Do you never take her out to supper?"
"I never thought of making such an improper suggestion; she would
refuse it with scorn. You are laughing! Laugh if you like! I still have
faith in a woman who loves whatever class she may belong to, and
whatever her past may have been. She told me that her life had not been
above reproach, but I have promised never to ask her about her past."
"Is it serious then?"
"Yes, it is serious."
"That's another thing; Good-night, Falk! Are you coming with me, Olle?"
"Good night."
"Poor Falk!" said Sellén to Olle. "Now it's his turn to go through the
mill. But there's no help for it; it's like changing one's teeth; a man
is not grown up until he has had his experience."
"What about the girl?" asked Olle, merely in order to show a polite
interest, for his thoughts were elsewhere.
"She's all right in her way, but Falk takes the matter seriously; she
does too, apparently, as long as she sees any prospect of winning him;
but unless Falk's quick about it, she will grow tired of waiting, and
who knows whether she won't amuse herself meanwhile with somebody else?
No, you don't understand these things; a man shouldn't hesitate in a
love-affair, but grab with both hands; otherwise somebody else will
step in and spoil the game. Have you ever been in love, Olle?"
"I had an affair with one of our servants at home; there were
consequences, and my father turned me out of the house. Since then I
haven't looked at a woman."
"That was nothing very complicated. But to be betrayed, as it is
called, that's what hurts, I can tell you! One must have nerves like
the strings of a violin to play that game. We shall see what sort of a
fight Falk will make; with some men it goes very deep, and that's a
pity.
"The door is open, come in Olle! I hope the beds are properly made, so
that you will lie softly; but you must excuse my old bed-maker, she
cannot shake up the feather-beds; her fingers are weak, don't you see,
and the pillow, I'm afraid, may be hard and lumpy."
They had climbed the stairs and were entering the studio.
"It smells damp, as if the servant had aired the room or scrubbed it."
"You are laughing at yourself! There can be no more scrubbing, you have
no longer a floor."
"Haven't I? Ah! That makes a difference! But what has become of it? Has
it been used for fuel? There's nothing for it then, but to lie down on
our mother earth, or rubbish, or whatever it may be."
They lay down in their clothes on the floor-packing, having made a kind
of bed for themselves of pieces of canvas and old newspapers, and
pushed cases filled with sketches underneath their heads. Olle struck a
match, produced a tallow candle from his trousers pocket and put it on
the floor beside him. A faint gleam flickered through the huge, bare
studio, passionately resisting the volumes of darkness which tried to
pour in through the colossal windows.
"It's cold to-night," said Olle, opening a greasy book.
"Cold! Oh no! There are only twenty degrees of frost outside, and
thirty in here because we are so high up. What's the time, I wonder?"
"I believe St. John's just struck one."
"St. John's? They have no clock! They are so poor that they had to pawn
it."
There was a long pause which was finally broken by Sellén.
"What are you reading, Olle?"
"Never mind!"
"Never mind? Hadn't you better be more civil, seeing that you are my
guest?"
"An old cookery book which I borrowed from Ygberg."
"The deuce you did! Do let's read it; I've only had a cup of coffee and
three glasses of water to-day."
"What would you like?" asked Olle, turning over the leaves. "Would you
like some fish? Do you know what a mayonnaise is?"
"Mayonnaise? No! Read it! It sounds good!"
"Well, listen! No. 139. Mayonnaise: Take some butter, flour, and a
pinch of English mustard, and make it into a smooth paste. Beat it up
with good stock, and when boiling add the yolks of a few eggs; beat
well and let it stand to cool."
"No, thank you; that's not filling enough...."
"Oh, but that's not all. Then take a few spoonfuls of fine salad oil,
vinegar, a spoonful of cream, some white pepper--oh, yes, I see now,
it's no good. Do you want something more substantial?"
"Try and find toad-in-the-hole. It's my favourite dish."
"I can't go on reading."
"Do!"
"No, leave me alone!"
They were silent. The candle went out and it was quite dark.
"Good-night, Olle; wrap yourself well up, or you'll be cold."
"What with?"
"I don't know. Aren't we having a jolly time?"
"I wonder why one doesn't kill oneself when one is so cold."
"Because it would be wrong. I find it quite interesting to live, if
only to see what will come of it all in the end."
"Are your parents alive, Sellén?"
"No; I'm illegitimate. Yours?"
"Yes; but it comes to the same thing."
"You should be more grateful to Providence, Olle; one should always be
grateful to Providence--I don't quite know why. But I suppose one
should."
Again there was silence. The next time it was Olle who broke it.
"Are you asleep?"
"No; I'm thinking of the statue of Gustavus Adolphus; would you believe
me when I...."
"Aren't you cold?"
"Cold? It's quite warm here."
"My right foot is frozen."
"Pull the paint box over you, and tuck the brushes round your sides,
then you'll be warmer."
"Do you think anybody in the world is as badly off as we are?"
"Badly off? Do you call us badly off when we have a roof over our
heads? Some of the professors at the Academy, men who wear
three-cornered hats and swords now, were much worse off than we are.
Professor Lundström slept during nearly the whole of April in the
theatre in the Hop garden. There was style in that! He had the whole of
the left stage-box, and he maintains that after one o'clock there
wasn't a single stall vacant; there was always a good house in the
winter and a bad one in the summer. Good night, I'm going to sleep
now."
Sellén snored. But Olle rose and paced the room, up and down, until the
dawn broke in the east; then day took pity on him and gave him the
peace which night had denied him.
CHAPTER XXV
CHECKMATE
The winter passed; slowly for the sufferers, more quickly for those who
were less unhappy. Spring came with its disappointed hopes of sun and
verdure, and in its turn made room for the summer which was but a short
introduction to the autumn.
On a May morning Arvid Falk, now a member of the permanent staff of the
_Workman's Flag_, was strolling along the quay, watching the vessels
loading and discharging their cargoes. He looked less well-groomed than
in days gone by; his black hair was longer than fashion decreed, and he
wore a beard à la Henri IV, which gave his thin face an almost savage
expression. An ominous fire burned in his eyes, a fire denoting the
fanatic or the drunkard.
He seemed to be endeavouring to make a choice among the vessels, but
was unable to come to a decision. After hesitating for a considerable
time, he accosted one of the sailors, who was wheeling a barrow full of
goods on to a brig. He courteously raised his hat.
"Can you tell me the destination of this ship?" he asked timidly,
imagining that he was speaking in a bold voice.
"Ship? I see no ship?"
The bystanders laughed.
"But if you want to know where this brig's bound for, go and read that
bill over there!"
Falk was disconcerted, but he forced himself to say, angrily:
"Can't you give a civil reply to a civil question?"
"Go to hell, and don't stand there swearing at a fellow!--'tention!"
The conversation broke off, and Falk made up his mind. He retraced his
footsteps, passed through a narrow street, crossed a market-place, and
turned the first corner. Before the door of a dirty-looking house he
stopped. Again he hesitated; he could never overcome his besetting sin
of indecision.
A small, ragged boy with a squint came running along, his hands full of
proofs in long strips; as he was going to pass Falk, the latter stopped
him.
"Is the editor upstairs?" he asked.
"Yes, he's been here since seven," replied the boy, breathlessly.
"Has he asked for me?"
"Yes, more than once."
"Is he in a bad temper?"
"He always is."
The boy shot upstairs like an arrow. Falk, following on his heels,
entered the editorial office. It was a hole with two windows looking on
a dark street; before each of the windows stood a plain deal table,
covered with paper, pens, newspapers, scissors and a gum bottle.
One of the tables was occupied by his old friend Ygberg, dressed in a
ragged black coat, engaged in reading proofs. At the other table, which
was Falk's, sat a man in shirt sleeves, his head covered by a black
silk cap of the kind affected by the communards. His face was covered
by a red beard, and his thick-set figure with its clumsy outlines
betrayed the man of the people.
As Falk entered, the communard's legs kicked the table violently: he
turned up his shirt-sleeves, displaying blue tattoo marks representing
an anchor and an Anglo-Saxon R, seized a pair of scissors, savagely
stabbed the front page of a morning paper, cut out a paragraph, and
said, rudely, with his back to Falk:
"Where have you been?"
"I've been ill," replied Falk, defiantly, as he thought, but humbly as
Ygberg told him afterwards.
"It's a lie! You've been drinking! I saw you at a café last night...."
"Surely I can go where I please."
"You can do what you like; but you've got to be here at the stroke of
the clock, according to our agreement. It's a quarter past eight. I am
well aware that gentlemen who have been to college, where they imagine
they learn a lot, have no idea of method and manners. Don't you call it
ill-bred to be late at your work? Aren't you behaving like a boor when
you compel your employer to do your work? What? It's the world turned
upside down! The employé treats the master--the employer, if you
like--as if he were a dog, and capital is oppressed."
"When did you come to these conclusions?"
"When? Just now, sir! just now! And I trust these conclusions are worth
considering, in spite of that. But I discovered something else; you are
an ignoramus; you can't spell! Look at this! What's written here? Read
it! 'We hope that all those who will have to go through their drill
next year....' Is it possible? '_Who ... next year...._'"
"Well, that's quite right," said Falk.
"Right? How dare you say it's right? It's customary to say _who in the
next year_, and consequently it should also be written in this form."
"That's right, too; definitions of time govern either the accusative
or...."
"None of your learned palaver! Don't talk nonsense to me! Besides this
you spell ex-ercise with an x only, although it should be spelt
_ex-sercise_. Don't make excuses--is it ex-ercise or ex-sercise?"
"Of course people say...."
"People say--therefore ex-sercise is right; the customary pronunciation
must be correct. Perhaps, all things considered, I'm a fool? Perhaps I
can't spell correctly? But enough, now! Get to work and another time
pay a little more attention to the clock."
He jumped up from his chair with a yell, and boxed the ears of the
printer's boy.
"Are you sleeping in bright daylight, you young scamp? I'll teach you
to keep awake. You are not yet too old for a thrashing."
He seized the victim by the braces, threw him on a pile of unsold
papers, and beat him with his belt.
"I wasn't asleep! I wasn't asleep! I was only closing my eyes a
little," howled the boy.
"What, you dare to deny it? You've learned to lie, but I will teach you
to speak the truth! Were you asleep or were you not asleep? Tell the
truth or you'll be sorry for it."
"I wasn't asleep," whimpered the boy, too young and inexperienced to
get over his difficulty by telling a lie.
"I see, you mean to stand by your lie, you hardened little devil! You
insolent liar!"
He was going to continue the thrashing when Falk rose, approached the
editor, and said firmly:
"Don't touch him! I saw that he was not asleep!"
"By jove! Listen to him! Who the dickens are you? Don't touch him! Who
said those words? I must have heard a gnat buzzing. Or perhaps my ears
deceived me. I hope so! I do hope so! Mr. Ygberg! You are a decent
fellow. You haven't been to college. Did you happen to see whether this
boy, whom I'm holding by the braces like a fish, was asleep or not?"
"If he wasn't asleep," replied Ygberg, phlegmatically and obligingly,
"he was just on the point of dropping off."
"Well answered! Would you mind holding him, Mr. Ygberg, while I give
him a lesson with my cane in telling the truth?"
"You've no right to beat him," said Falk. "If you dare to touch him, I
shall open the window and call for the police."
"I am master in my own house and I always thrash my apprentices. He is
an apprentice and will be employed in the editorial office later on.
That's what's going to be done, although there are people who imagine
that a paper can only be properly edited by a man who has been to
college. Speak up, Gustav, are you learning newspaper work? Answer, but
tell the truth, or...."
Before the boy had time to reply, the door was opened and a head looked
in--a very striking head, and certainly not one that might have been
expected in such a place; but it was a well-known head; it had been
painted five times.
At the sight of it the editor strapped his belt round him, hastily put
on his coat, bowed and smiled.
The visitor asked whether the editor was disengaged? He received a
satisfactory reply, and the last remnant of the working man disappeared
when a quick movement swept the communard's cap off the editor's head.
Both men went into an inner office and the door closed behind them.
"I wonder what the Count's after?" said Ygberg, with the air of a
schoolboy, when the master had left the class-room.
"I don't wonder in the least," said Falk; "I think I know the kind of
rascal he is, and the kind of rascal the editor is. But I am surprised
to find that you have changed from a mere blockhead into an infamous
wretch, and that you lend yourself to these disgraceful acts."
"Don't lose your temper, my dear fellow! You were not at the House last
night?"
"No! In my opinion Parliament is a farce, except in so far as private
interests are concerned. What about the 'Triton'?"
"The question was put to the vote, and it was resolved that the
Government, in view of the greatness, the patriotism, which
characterized the enterprise, should take over the debentures while
the society went into liquidation, that is to say, settled the current
affairs."
"Which means that Government will prop up the house while the
foundation crumbles away, so as to give the directors time to get out
of harm's way."
"You would rather that all those small...."
"I know what you are going to say, all those small capitalists. Yes, I
would rather see them working with their small capital than idling away
their time and lending it out at interest; but, above all things, I
should like to see those sharpers in prison; it would help to put a
stop to these swindles. But they call it political economy! It's vile!
There's something else I want to say: You covet my post. You shall have
it! I hate the idea of your sitting in your corner with a heart filled
with bitterness, because you have to sweep up after me in reading
proofs. There are already too many of my unprinted articles lying on
the desk of this contemptible apostle of liberty to tempt me to go on
telling cock-and-bull stories. The _Red Cap_ was too Conservative to
please me, but the _People's Flag_ is too dirty."
"I am glad to see you relinquishing your chimeras and listening to
common sense. Go to the _Grey Bonnet_, you'll have a chance there."
"I have lost the illusion that the cause of the oppressed lies in good
hands, and I think it would be a splendid mission to enlighten the
people on the value of public opinion--especially printed public
opinion--and its origin; but I shall never abandon the cause."
The door to the inner room opened again, and the editor came out. He
stood still in the middle of the office and said, in an unnaturally
conciliatory voice, almost politely:
"I want you to look after the office for a day, Mr. Falk. I have to go
away on important business. Mr. Ygberg will assist you so far as the
daily business is concerned. His Lordship will be using my room for a
few minutes. I hope, gentlemen, you will see that he has everything
he wants."
"Oh, please don't trouble," came the Count's voice from inside the
room, where he was sitting bent over a manuscript.
The editor went and, strange to say, two minutes later the Count went
also; he had waited just long enough to avoid being seen in the company
of the editor of the _Workman's Flag_.
"Are you sure that he's gone?" asked Ygberg.
"I hope so," said Falk.
"Then I'll go and have a look at the market. By-the-by, have you seen
Beda since?"
"Since when?"
"Since she left the café and went to live in a room by herself."
"How do you know she did?"
"Do control your temper, Falk. You'll never get on in the world unless
you do."
"Yes, you're right. I must take matters more calmly, or else I'll go
out of my mind! But that girl, whom I loved so dearly! How shamefully
she has treated me! To give to that clumsy boor all she denied to me!
And then to have the face to tell me that it proved the purity of her
love for me!"
"Most excellent dialectics! And she is quite right too, for her first
proposition is correct. She does love you, doesn't she?"
"She's running after me, anyhow."
"And you?"
"I hate her with all my soul, but I am afraid to meet her."
"Which proves that you are still in love with her."
"Let's change the subject!"
"You really must control yourself, Falk! Take an example from me! But
now I'll go and sun myself; one should enjoy life as much as possible
in this dreary world. Gustav, you can go and play buttons for an hour,
if you like."
Falk was left alone. The sun threw his rays over the steep roof
opposite and warmed the room; he opened the window and put out his head
for a breath of fresh air, but he only breathed the pungent odours of
the gutter. His glance swept the street on the right and far away in
the distance he saw a part of a steamer, a few waves of the Lake of
Mälar glittering in the sunlight, and a hollow in the rocks on the
other side, which were just beginning to show a little green here and
there. He thought of the people whom that steamer would take into the
country, who would bathe in those waves and feast their eyes on the
young green. But at this moment the whitesmith below him began to
hammer a sheet of iron, so that house and window panes trembled; two or
three labourers went by with a rattling, evil-smelling cart, and an
odour of brandy, beer, sawdust, and pine-branches poured out of the inn
opposite. He shut the window and sat down at his table.
Before him lay a heap of about a hundred provincial papers, from which
it was his task to make cuttings. He took off his cuffs and began to
look through them. They smelt of oil and soot and blackened his
hands--that was their principal feature. Nothing he considered worthy
of reprinting was of any use, for he had to consider the programme of
his paper. A report to the effect that the workmen of a certain factory
had given the foreman a silver snuff-box had to be cut out; but the
notice of a manufacturer having given five hundred crowns to his
working-men's funds had to be ignored. A paragraph reporting that the
Duke of Halland had handselled a pile-driver, and Director Holzheim
celebrated the event in verses, had to be cut out and reproduced in
full "because the people liked to read this kind of thing"; if he could
add a little biting sarcasm, all the better, for then "they were sure
to hear about it."
Roughly speaking, the rule was to cut out everything said in favour of
journalists and working men and everything depreciating clergymen,
officers, wholesale merchants (not retail), the professions, and
famous writers. Moreover, at least once a week, it was his business to
attack the management of the Royal Theatre, and severely criticize the
frivolous musical comedies produced in the Little Theatre, in the name
of morality and public decency--he had noticed that the working men did
not patronize these theatres. Once a month the town councillors had to
be accused of extravagance. As often as opportunity arose the form of
government, not Government itself, had to be assailed. The editor
severely censored all attacks on certain members of Parliament and
ministers. Which? That was a mystery unknown to even the editor; it
depended on a combination of circumstances which only the secret
proprietor of the paper could deal with.
Falk worked with his scissors until one of his hands was black. He had
frequent recourse to the gum-bottle, but the gum smelt sour and the
heat in the room was stifling. The poor aloe, capable of enduring
thirst like a camel, and patiently receiving countless stabs from an
irritated steel-nib, increased the terrible resemblance to a desert. It
had been stabbed until it was covered with black wounds; its leaves
shot, like a bundle of donkeys' ears out of the parched mould. Falk
probably had a vague consciousness of something of this sort, as he
sat, plunged in thought, for before he could realize what he was doing,
he had docked off all the ear lobes. When he perceived what he had
done, he painted the wounds with gum and watched it drying in the sun.
He vaguely wondered for a few moments how he was to get dinner, for he
had strayed on to that path which leads to destruction, so-called _poor
circumstances_. Finally he lit a pipe and watched the soothing smoke
rising and bathing, for a few seconds in the sunshine. It made him feel
more tolerant of poor Sweden, as she expressed herself in these daily,
weekly, and monthly reports, called the Press.
He put the scissors aside and threw the papers into a corner; he
shared the contents of the earthen water-bottle with the aloe; the
miserable object looked like a creature whose wings had been clipped; a
spirit standing in a bog on its head, digging for something; for
pearls, for instance, or at any rate, for empty shells.
Then despair, like a tanner, seized him again with a long hook, and
pushed him down into the vat, where he was to be prepared for the
knife, which should scrape his skin off and make him like everybody
else. And he felt no remorse, no regret at a wasted life, but only
despair at having to die in his youth, die the spiritual death, before
he had had an opportunity of being of use in the world; despair that he
was being cast into the fire as a useless reed.
The clock on the German church struck eleven, and the chimes began to
play "Oh blessed land" and "My life a wave"; as if seized by the same
idea, an Italian barrel-organ, with a flute accompaniment, began to
play "The Blue Danube." So much music put new life into the tinsmith
below, who began hammering his iron-sheet with redoubled energy.
The din and uproar prevented Falk from becoming aware of the opening of
the door and the entrance of two men. One of them had a tall, lean
figure, an aquiline nose and long hair; the other one was short, blond,
and thick set; his perspiring face much resembled the quadruped which
the Hebrews consider more unclean than any other. Their outward
appearance betrayed an occupation requiring neither much mental nor
great physical strength; it had a quality of vagueness, pointing to
irregularity of work and habits.
"Hsh!" whispered the tall man, "are you alone?"
Falk was partly pleased, partly annoyed at the sight of his visitors.
"Quite alone; the Red One's left town."
"Has he? Come along then and have some dinner."
Falk had no objection; he locked the office and went with his visitors
to the nearest public-house, where the three of them sat down in the
darkest corner.
"Here, have some brandy," said the thick-set man, whose glazed eyes
sparkled at the sight of the brandy bottle.
But Falk who had only joined his friends because he was yearning for
sympathy and comfort, paid no attention to the proffered delights.
"I haven't been as miserable as this for a long time," he said.
"Have some bread and butter and a herring," said the tall man. "We'll
have some caraway cheese. Here! Waiter!"
"Can't you advise me?" Falk began again. "I can't stand the Red One any
longer, and I must...."
"Here! Waiter! Bring some black bread! Drink, Falk, and don't talk
nonsense."
Falk was thrown out of the saddle; he made no second attempt to find
sympathy with his mental difficulties, but tried another, not unusual
way.
"Your advice is the brandy bottle?" he said. "Very well, with all my
soul, then!"
The alcohol flowed through his veins like poison, for he was not
accustomed to take strong drink in the morning; the smell of cooking,
the buzzing of the flies, the odour of the faded flowers, which stood
by the side of the dirty table-centre, induced in him a strange feeling
of well-being. And his low companions with their neglected linen, their
greasy coats, and their unwashed gaol-bird faces harmonized so well
with his own degraded position, that he felt a wild joy surging in his
heart.
"We were in the Deer Park last night and, by Jove! we did drink," said
the stout man, once more enjoying the past delights in memory.
Falk had no answer to this, and moreover, his thoughts were running in
a different groove.
"Isn't it jolly to have a morning off?" said the tall man, who seemed
to be playing the part of tempter.
"It is, indeed!" replied Falk, trying to measure his freedom, as it
were, with a glance through the window; but all he saw was a
fire-escape and a dust-bin in a yard which never received more than a
faint reflexion of the summer sky.
"Half a pint! That's it! Ah! Well and what do you say to the 'Triton'?
Hahaha!"
"Don't laugh," said Falk; "many a poor devil will suffer through it."
"Who are the poor devils? Poor capitalists? Are you sorry for those who
don't work, but live on the proceeds of their money? No, my boy, you
are still full of prejudices! There was a funny tale in the _Hornet_
about a wholesale merchant, who bequeathed to the crèche Bethlehem
twenty thousand crowns, and was given the order of Vasa for his
munificence; now it has transpired that the bequest was in 'Triton'
shares with joint liability, and so the crèche is of course bankrupt.
Isn't that lovely? The assets were twenty-five cradles and an oil
painting by an unknown master. It's too funny! The portrait was valued
at five crowns! Hahahaha!"
The subject of conversation irritated Falk, for he knew more of the
matter than the two others.
"Did you see that the _Red Cap_ unmasked that humbug Schönström who
published that volume of miserable verses at Christmas?" said the stout
man. "It really was a rare pleasure to learn the truth about the
rascal. I have more than once given him a sound slating in the
_Copper-Snake_."
"But you were rather unjust; his verses were not as bad as you said,"
remarked the tall man.
"Not as bad? They were worse than mine which the _Grey Bonnet_ tore to
shreds. Don't you remember?"
"By-the-by, Falk, have you been to the theatre in the Deer Park?" asked
the tall man.
"No!"
"What a pity! That Lundholm gang of thieves is playing there. Impudent
fellow, the director! He sent no seats to the _Copper-Snake_, and when
we arrived at the theatre last night, he turned us out. But he'll pay
for it! You give it to the dog! Here's paper and pencil. Heading:
'Theatre and Music. Deer Park Theatre.' Now, you go on!"
"But I haven't seen the company."
"What does that matter? Have you never written about anything you
hadn't seen?"
"No! I've unmasked humbugs, but I have never attacked unoffending
people, and I know nothing about this company."
"They are a miserable lot. Just scum," affirmed the stout man. "Sharpen
your pen and bruise his heel; you are splendid at it."
"Why don't you bruise him yourselves?"
"Because the printers know our handwriting and some of them walk on in
the crowds. Moreover Lundholm is a violent fellow; he will be sure to
invade the editorial office; then it will be a good thing to be able to
tell him that the criticism is a communication from the public. And
while you write up the stage, I will do the concerts. There was a
sacred concert last week. Wasn't the man's name Daubry? With a 'y'?"
"No, with an 'i,'" corrected the fat man. "Don't forget that he's a
tenor and sang the 'Stabat Mater.'"
"How do you spell it?"
"I'll tell you in a minute."
The stout editor of the _Copper-Snake_ took a packet of greasy
newspapers from the gas-meter.
"Here's the whole programme, and, I believe, a criticism as well."
Falk could not help laughing.
"How could a criticism appear simultaneously with the advertisement?"
"Why shouldn't it? But we shan't want it; I will criticize that French
mob myself. You'd better do the literature, Fatty!"
"Do the publishers send books to the _Copper-Snake_?" asked Falk.
"Are you mad?"
"Do you buy them yourselves for the sake of reviewing them?"
"Buy them? Greenhorn! Have another glass and cheer up, and I'll treat
you to a chop."
"Do you read the books which you review?"
"Who do you think has time for reading books? Isn't it enough to write
about them? It's quite sufficient to read the papers. Moreover, it's
our principle to slate everything."
"An absurd principle!"
"Not at all! It brings all the author's enemies and enviers on one's
side--and so one's in the majority. Those who are neutral would rather
see an author slated than praised. To the nobody there is something
edifying and comforting in the knowledge that the road to fame is beset
with thorns. Don't you think so?"
"You may be right. But the idea of playing with human destinies in this
way is terrible."
"Oh! It's good for young and old; I know that, for I was persistently
slated in my young days."
"But you mislead public opinion."
"The public does not want to have an opinion, it wants to satisfy its
passions. If I praise your enemy you writhe like a worm and tell me
that I have no judgment; if I praise your friend, you tell me that I
have. Take that last piece of the Dramatic Theatre, Fatty, which has
just been published in book form."
"Are you sure that it has been published?"
"I am certain of it. It's quite safe to say that there isn't enough
action in it; that's a phrase the public knows well; laugh a little at
the 'beautiful language'; that's good, old, disparaging praise; then
attack the management for having accepted such a play and point out
that the moral teaching is doubtful--a very safe thing to say about
most things. But as you haven't seen the performance, say that want of
room compels us to postpone our criticism of the acting. Do that, and
you can't make a mistake."
"Who is the unfortunate author?" asked Falk.
"Nobody knows."
"Think of his parents, his friends, who will read your possibly quite
unjust remarks."
"What's that got to do with the _Copper-Snake_? They were hoping to see
a friend slated; they know what to expect from the _Copper-Snake_."
"Have you no conscience?"
"Has the public which supports us, a conscience? Do you think we could
survive if it did not support us? Would you like to hear a paragraph
which I wrote on the present state of literature? I can assure you it
will give you plenty to think about. I have a copy with me. But let us
have some stout first. Waiter! Here! Now I'm going to give you a treat;
you can profit by it if you like."
"'We have not heard so much whining in the Swedish verse-factory for
many years; this constant puling is enough to drive a man into a
lunatic asylum. Robust rascals caterwaul like cats in March; they
imagine that anæmia and adenoids will arouse public interest now that
consumption is played out. And withal they have backs broad as brewers'
horses and faces red as tapsters. This one whimpers about the
infidelity of women, although all he has to go on is the bought loyalty
of a wanton; that one tells us that he has no gold, but that his "harp
is all he possesses in the world"--the liar! He has five thousand
crowns dividend per annum and the right to an endowed chair in the
Swedish Academy. A third is a faithless, cynical scoffer, who cannot
open his lips without breathing forth his impure spirit and babbling
blasphemies. Their verses are not a whit better than those which thirty
years ago clergymen's daughters sang to the guitar. They should write
for confectioners at a penny a line, and not waste the time of
publishers, printers, and reviewers with their rhymes. What do they
write about? About nothing at all, that is to say about themselves. It
is bad form to talk about oneself, but it is quite the right thing to
write about oneself. What are they bemoaning? Their incapacity to
achieve a success? Success? That is the word! Have they produced one
single thought, capable of benefiting their fellow-creatures; the age
in which they live? If they had but once championed the cause of the
helpless, their sins might be forgiven them; but they have not.
Therefore they are as sounding brass--nay, they are as a clanking piece
of tin and the cracked bell of a fool's cap--for they have no other
love than the love of the next edition of their books, the love of the
Academy and the love of themselves.'"
"That's sarcasm, isn't it? What?"
"It's unjust," said Falk.
"I find it very impressive," said the stout man. "You can't deny that
it is well written. Can you? He wields a pen which pierces
shoe-leather."
"Now, lads, stop talking and write; afterwards you shall have coffee
and liqueurs."
And they wrote of human merit and human unworthiness and broke hearts
as if they were breaking egg-shells.
Falk felt an indescribable longing for fresh air; he opened the window
which looked on the yard; it was dark and narrow like a tomb; all he
could see was a small square of the sky if he bent his head far back.
He fancied that he was sitting in his grave, breathing brandy fumes and
kitchen smells, eating the funeral repast at the burial of his youth,
his principles and his honour. He smelt the elder-blossoms which stood
on the table, but they reeked of decay; once more he looked out of the
window eager to find an object which would not inspire him with
loathing; but there was nothing but a newly tarred dust-bin--standing
like a coffin--with its contents of cast-off finery and broken litter.
His thoughts climbed up the fire-escape which seemed to lead from dirt,
stench, and shame right up into the blue sky; but no angels were
ascending and descending, and no love was watching from above--there
was nothing but the empty, blue void.
Falk took his pen and began to shade the letters of the headline
"Theatre," when a strong hand clutched his arm and a firm voice said:
"Come along, I want to speak to you!"
He looked up, taken back and ashamed. Borg stood beside him, apparently
determined not to let him go.
"May I introduce...." began Falk.
"No, you may not," interrupted Borg, "I don't want to know any drunken
scribblers, come along."
He drew Falk to the door.
"Where's your hat? Oh, here it is! Come along!"
They were in the street. Borg took his arm, led him to the nearest
square, marched him into a shop and bought him a pair of canvas shoes.
This done, he drew him across the lock to the harbour. A cutter lay
there, fast to her moorings, but ready to go to sea; in the cutter sat
young Levi reading a Latin grammar and munching a piece of bread and
butter.
"This," said Borg, "is the cutter _Urijah_; it's an ugly name, but she
is a good boat and she is insured in the 'Triton.' There sits her
owner, the Hebrew lad Isaac, reading a Latin grammar--the idiot wants
to go to college--and from this moment you are engaged as his tutor for
the summer--and now we'll be off for our summer residence at Nämdö. All
hands on board! No demur! Ready? Put off!"
CHAPTER XXVI
CORRESPONDENCE
CANDIDATE BORG _to_ JOURNALIST STRUVE
NÄMDÖ, _June_ 18--
OLD SCANDAL-MONGER!--As I am convinced that neither you nor Levin have
paid off your instalments of the loan made by the Shoemakers' Bank, I
am sending you herewith a promissory note, so that you may raise a new
loan from the Architects' Bank. If there is anything over after the
instalments have been paid up, we will divide it equally amongst us.
Please send me my share by steamer to Dalarö, where I will call for it.
I have now had Falk under treatment for a month, and I believe he is on
the road to recovery.
You will remember that after Olle's famous lecture he left us abruptly
and, instead of making use of his brother and his brother's connexions,
went on the staff of the _Workman's Flag_, where he was ill-treated for
fifty crowns a month. But the wind of freedom which blew there must
have had a demoralizing effect on him, for he became morose and
neglected his appearance. With the help of the girl Beda I kept my eye
on him, and when I considered him ripe for a rupture with the
communards, I went and fetched him away.
I found him in a low public-house called "The Star," in the company of
two scandal writers with whom he was drinking brandy--I believe they
were writing at the same time. He was in a melancholy condition, as you
would say.
As you know, I regard mankind with calm indifference; men are to me
geological preparations, minerals; some crystallize under one
condition, others under another; it all depends on certain laws or
circumstances which should leave us completely unmoved. I don't weep
over the lime-spar, because it is not as hard as a rock-crystal.
Therefore I cannot regard Falk's condition as melancholy; it was the
outcome of his temperament (heart you would say) plus the circumstances
which his temperament had created.
But he was certainly "down" when I found him. I took him on board our
cutter and he remained passive. But just as we had pushed off, he
turned round and saw Beda standing on the shore, beckoning to him; I
can't think how she got there. On seeing her, our man went clear out of
his mind. Put me ashore! he screamed, threatening to jump overboard. I
seized him by the arms, pushed him into the cabin and locked the door.
As we passed Vaxholm, I posted two letters; one to the editor of the
_Workman's Flag_, begging him to excuse Falk's absence, and the other
to his landlady, asking her to send him his clothes.
In the meantime he had calmed down, and when he beheld the sea and the
skerries, he became sentimental and talked a great deal of nonsense: he
had lost all hope of ever seeing God's (?) green earth again, he said,
and so on.
But presently he began to suffer from something like qualms of
conscience. He maintained that he had no right to be happy and take a
holiday when there were so many unhappy people in the world; he
imagined that he was neglecting his duty towards the scoundrel who
edits the _Workman's Flag_, and begged us to row him back. When I
talked to him of the terrible time he had just gone through, he replied
that it was the duty of all men to work and suffer for one another.
This view had almost become a religion with him, but I have cured him
of it with soda water and salt baths. He was completely broken, and I
had great difficulty in patching him up, for it was hard to say where
the physical trouble ended and the psychical began.
I must say that in a certain respect he excites my astonishment--I
won't say admiration, for I never admire anybody. He seems to suffer
from an extraordinary mania which makes him act in direct contradiction
to his own interest. He might have been in a splendid position, if he
had not thrown up his career in the Civil Service, particularly as his
brother would, in that case have helped him with a sum of money.
Instead of that he cast his reputation to the winds and slaved for a
brutal plebeian; and all for the sake of his ideals! It is most
extraordinary!
But he seems to be mending at last, more particularly after a lesson he
had here. Can you believe it, he called the fishermen "sir," and took
off his hat to them. In addition he indulged in cordial chats with the
natives, in order to find out "how these people lived." The result was
that the fishermen pricked up their ears, and one of them asked me one
day whether "this Falk" paid for his own board, or whether the doctor
(I) paid for him? I told Falk about it and it depressed him; he is
always despondent, whenever he is robbed of a delusion. A few days
later he talked to our landlord on the subject of universal suffrage;
later on our landlord asked me whether Falk was in poor circumstances.
During the first few days he ran up and down the shore like a madman.
Often he swam far out into the fjörd, as if he never meant to return
again. As I always looked upon suicide as the sacred right of every
individual, I did not interfere.
Isaac told me that Falk had opened his heart to him on the subject of
the girl Beda; she seems to have made an awful fool of him.
A propos of Isaac! He is one of the shrewdest fellows I ever met. He
has, after one month's study, mastered the Latin grammar, and he reads
his Cæsar as we read the _Grey Bonnet_; and what's more, he knows all
about it, which we never did. His brain is receptive, that is to say,
capable of assimilating knowledge, and in addition to this it is
practical; this combination has produced many a genius, in spite of
gross stupidity in many other respects. Every now and then he indulges
his business instincts; the other day he gave us a brilliant example of
his talent in that direction.
I know nothing about his financial position--for in that respect he is
very reticent--but a little while ago he had to pay a few hundred
crowns. He was very fidgety, and as he did not want to apply to his
brother (of the "Triton") with whom he is not on friendly terms, he
asked me to lend him the sum. I was not in a position to do so.
Thereupon he sat down, took a sheet of note-paper, wrote a letter and
sent it off by special messenger. For a few days nothing happened.
In front of our cottage grew a pretty little oakwood which shaded us
from the sun and sheltered us from the strong sea breezes. I don't know
much about trees and things pertaining to nature, but I love to sit in
the shade when the days are hot. One morning, on pulling up my blind, I
was dumbfounded; I was looking at the open fjörd and a yacht riding at
anchor about a cable-length from the shore. Every tree had gone, and
Isaac was sitting on a stump reading Euclid and counting the trunks as
they were being carried on board the yacht.
I wakened Falk; he was furious and had a quarrel with Isaac who made a
thousand crowns on the deal. Our landlord received two hundred, all he
had asked for. I could have killed Isaac, not because he had had the
trees cut down, but because I had not thought of it first.
Falk said it was unpatriotic, but Isaac swears that the removal of the
"rubbish" has improved the view; he declares that he will take a boat
next week and visit the neighbouring islets with the same object.
Our landlord's wife cried all day long, but her husband went to Dalarö
to buy her a new dress; he remained away for two whole days, and when
he returned at last, he was drunk; there was nothing in the boat, and
when his wife asked for the new dress, the fisherman confessed that he
had forgotten all about it.
Enough for the present. Write soon and tell me a few new scandals, and
be careful how you manipulate the loan.
Your deadly enemy and security,
H. B.
P.S. I read in the papers that a Civil Service Bank is about to be
established. Who is going to put money into it? Keep an eye on it, so
that we can place a bill there when the time comes.
Please put the following paragraph into the _Grey Bonnet_; it will
affect my medical degree.
Scientific Discovery: Cand. Med. Henrik Borg, one of our younger
distinguished medical men has, while engaged in zootomic research on
the skerries near Stockholm, discovered a new species of the family
Clypeaster, to which he has given the very pertinent name of
_maritimus_. Its characteristics may be described as follows: Cutaneous
laminæ in five porous ambulacral shields and five interambulacral
shields, with warts instead of pricks. The animal has excited much
interest in the scientific world.
* * * * *
ARVID FALK _to_ BEDA PETTERSON
NÄMDÖ, _August_ 18--
As I walk along the seashore and see the roadweed growing in sand and
pebbles, I think of you blossoming for a whole winter in an inn of old
Stockholm.
I know nothing more delightful than to lie full length on a cliff and
feel the fragments of gneiss tickling my ribs while I gaze seaward. It
makes me feel proud, and I imagine that I am Prometheus, while the
vulture--that is you--has to lie in a feather bed in Sandberg Street
and swallow mercury.
Seaweed is of no use while it grows at the bottom of the sea; but when
it decays on the shore it smells of iodine which is a cure for love,
and bromide, which is a cure for insanity.
There was no hell until Paradise was quite complete, that is to say
until woman was created (chestnut!).
Far away, by the open sea, there lives a pair of eider ducks, in an old
quarter cask. If one considers that the stretched out wings of the
eider measure two feet, it seems a miracle--and love is a miracle. The
whole world is too small for me.
* * * * *
BEDA PETTERSON _to_ MR. FALK
STOCKHOLM, _August_ 18--
DEAR FRENT,--i have just receeved your letter, but i cannot say that i
have understood it, i see you think that i am in Sandberg Street, but
that is a grate lie and i can undertand why that blackgard says i am,
it is a grate lie and i sware that i love you as much as befor, i often
long to see you but it canot be yet.
Your fathfull Beda.
P. S. Dear Arvid, if you could lent me 30 crowns till the 15th, i sware
i will pay it back on the 15th becos i shall receeve money then, i have
been so ill and i am often so sad that i wish i was dead. The barmaid
in the café was a horrid creechur who was jelous becaus of the stout
Berglund and that is why i left. All they say of me is lies i hope you
are well and dont forget your
The same.
You can send the money to Hulda in the Café then i shall get it.
* * * * *
CANDIDATE BORG _to_ JOURNALIST STRUVE
NÄMDÖ, _August_ 18--
CONSERVATIVE BLACKGUARD,--You must have embezzled the money, for
instead of receiving cash, I received a request for payment from the
Shoemakers' Bank. Do you imagine a man has a right to steal because he
has a wife and children? Render an account at once, else I shall come
up to town and make a row.
I have read the paragraph, which, of course, was not without errors. It
said zoologic instead of zootomic, and Crypeaster instead of
Clypeaster. Nevertheless, I hope it will serve its purpose.
Falk went mad after receiving a letter in a feminine handwriting a day
or two ago. One minute he was climbing trees, at the next he was diving
to the bottom of the sea. I expect it was the crisis--I'll talk to him
like a father a little later on.
Isaac has sold his yacht without asking my permission, and for this
reason we are, at the moment, enemies. He is at present reading the
second book of Livy and founding a Fishing Company.
He has bought a strömming-net, a seal-gun, twenty-five pipe stems, a
salmon line, two bass-nets, a shed for drag-nets and a--church. The
latter seems incredible, but it is quite true. I admit it was scorched
a little by the Russians in 1719, but the walls are still standing. The
parish possesses a new one which serves the ordinary purpose; the old
one was used as a parochial store-room. Isaac is thinking of making the
Academy a present of it, in the hope of receiving the order of Vasa.
The latter has been given for less. Isaac's uncle, who is an innkeeper,
received it for treating the deaf and dumb to bread and butter and beer
when they used the riding-ground in the autumn. He did it for six
years. Then he received his reward. Now he takes no more notice of the
deaf and dumb, which proves how fatal the order of Vasa may be under
certain circumstances.
Unless I drown the rascal Isaac, he won't rest until he has bought all
Sweden.
Pull yourself together and behave like an honourable man, or I shall
bear down upon you like Jehu, and then you'll be lost.
H. B.
P.S. When you write the notice relating to the distinguished strangers
at Dalarö, mention me and Falk, but ignore Isaac; his presence
irritates me--he went and sold his yacht.
Send me some blank bills (blue ones, sola-bills) when you send the
money.
* * * * *
CANDIDATE BORG _to_ JOURNALIST STRUVE
NÄMDÖ, _September_ 18--
MAN OF HONOUR!--Money arrived! Seems to have been exchanged, for the
Architects' Bank always pays in Scanian bills of fifty. However, never
mind!
Falk is well; he has passed the crisis like a man; he has regained his
self-confidence--a most important quality as far as worldly success
goes, but a quality which, according to statistics is considerably
weakened in children who lose their mothers at an early age. I gave him
a prescription which he promised to try all the more readily as the
same idea had occurred to him. He will return to his former profession,
but without accepting his brother's help--his last act of folly of
which I do not approve--re-enter society, register his name with the
rest of the cattle, become respectable, make himself a social position,
and hold his tongue until his word bears weight.
The latter is absolutely necessary, if he is to remain alive; he has a
tendency to insanity, and is bound to lose his reason unless he forgets
all about these ideas which I really cannot understand; and I don't
believe that he himself could define what it is he wants.
He has begun the cure and I am amazed at his progress. I'm sure he'll
end as a member of the Royal Household.
That is what I believed until a few days ago when he read in a paper an
account of the Commune at Paris. He at once had a relapse and took to
climbing trees again. He got over it, though, and now he does not dare
to look at a paper. But he never says a word. Beware of the man when
his apprenticeship is over.
Isaac is now learning Greek. He considers the text-books too stupid and
too long; therefore he takes them to pieces, cuts out the most
important bits and pastes them into an account book which he has
arranged like a summary for his forthcoming examinations.
Unfortunately, his increasing knowledge of the classics makes him
impudent and disagreeable. So, for instance, he dared to contradict the
pastor the other day while playing a game of draughts with him, and
maintain that the Jews had invented Christianity and that all those
baptized were really Jews. Latin and Greek have ruined him! I am afraid
that I have nursed a dragon in my hairy bosom; if this is so, then the
seed of the woman must bruise the serpent's head.
H. B.
P.S. Falk has shaved his American beard and no longer raises his hat to
the fishermen.
You'll not hear from me again from Nämdö. We are returning to town on
Monday.
CHAPTER XXVII
RECOVERY
It was autumn again. On a clear November morning Arvid Falk was walking
from his elegantly furnished rooms in Great Street to ... man's
Boarding School near Charles XII Market, where he had an appointment as
master of the Swedish language and history.
During the autumn months he had made his way back into civilized
society, a proceeding which had brought home to him the fact that he
had become a perfect savage during his wanderings. He had discarded his
disreputable hat and bought a high one which he found difficult, at
first, to keep on his head; he had bought gloves, but in his savagery
he had replied "fifteen" when the shopgirl asked for his size, and
blushed when his reply brought a smile to the face of every girl in the
shop.
The fashion had changed, since he had last bought clothes; as he was
walking through the streets, he looked upon himself as a dandy, and
every now and then examined his reflexion in the shop windows, to see
whether his garments set well.
Now he was strolling up and down the pavement before the Dramatic
Theatre and waiting for the clock on St. James' Church to strike nine;
he felt uneasy and embarrassed, as if he were a schoolboy going to
school himself; the pavement was so short, and as again and again he
retraced his footsteps he compared himself to a dog on a chain.
For a moment he had a wild thought of taking a wider range, a very much
wider range, for if he went straight on, he would come to Lill-Jans,
and he remembered the spring morning when that very pavement had led
him away from society, which he detested, into liberty, nature,
and--slavery.
It struck nine. He stood in the corridor; the schoolroom doors were
closed; in the twilight he saw a long row of children's garments
hanging against the wall: hats, boas, bonnets, wraps, gloves, and muffs
were lying on tables and window sills, and whole regiments of button
boots and overshoes stood on the floor. But there was no smell of damp
clothes and wet leather as in the halls of the Parliamentary Buildings
and in the Working-men's Union "Phoenix," or--he became conscious of a
faint odour of newly mown hay--it seemed to come from a little muff
lined with blue silk and trimmed with tassels, which looked like a
white kitten with black dots. He could not resist taking it in his hand
and smelling the perfume--new-mown hay--when the front door opened and
a little girl of about ten came in accompanied by a maid.
She looked at the master with big fearless eyes, and dropped a
coquettish little curtsey; the almost embarrassed master replied with a
bow which made the little beauty smile--and the maid, too. She was
late; but she was quite unconcerned and allowed her maid to take off
her outdoor garments and overshoes as calmly as if she had come to a
dance.
From the class-room came a sound which made his heart beat--what was
it? Ah! The organ--the old organ! a legion of children's voices were
singing "Jesus, at the day's beginning...." He felt ill at ease, and
forced himself to fix his mind on Borg and Isaac in order to control
his feelings.
But matters went from bad to worse: "Our Father, which art in
Heaven...." The old prayer--it was long ago....
The silence was so profound that he could hear the raising of all the
little heads and the rustling of collars and pinafores; the doors were
thrown open; he looked at a huge, moving flower-bed composed of little
girls between eight and fourteen. He felt self-conscious like a thief
caught in the act, when the old headmistress shook hands with him; the
flowers waved to and fro, and there was much excited whispering and
exchanging of significant glances.
He sat down at the end of a long table, surrounded by twenty fresh
faces with sparkling eyes; twenty children who had never experienced
the bitterest of all sorrows, the humiliations of poverty; they met his
glance boldly and inquisitively, but he was embarrassed and had to pull
himself together with an effort; before long, however, he was on
friendly terms with Anna and Charlotte, Georgina and Lizzy and Harry;
teaching was a pleasure. He made allowances, and let Louis XIV and
Alexander be termed great men, like all others who had been successful;
he permitted the French Revolution to be called a terrible event,
during which the noble Louis XVI and the virtuous Marie Antoinette
perished miserably, and so on.
When he entered the office of the Board of Purveyance of Hay for the
Cavalry Regiments, he felt young and refreshed. He stayed till eleven
reading the _Conservative_; then he went to the offices of the
Committee on Brandy Distilleries, lunched, and wrote two letters, one
to Borg and one to Struve.
On the stroke of one he was in the Department for Death Duties. Here he
collated an assessment of property which brought him in a hundred
crowns; he had time enough before dinner to read the proofs of the
revised edition of the Forest Laws, which he was editing.
It struck three. Anybody crossing the Riddarhus Market at that time
could have met on the bridge a young, important-looking man, with
pockets bulging with manuscripts, and hands crossed on his back; he is
strolling slowly along, accompanied by an elderly, lean, grey-haired
man of fifty, the actuary of the dead. The estate of every citizen who
dies has to be declared to him; according to the amount he takes his
percentage; some say that this is his duty; others that he represents
the Earth, and has to watch that the dead take nothing away with them,
as everything is a loan--without interest. In any case, he is a man
more interested in the dead than the living, and therefore Falk likes
his company; he, on the other hand, is attached to Falk because, like
himself, he collects coins and autographs, and because he possesses
that excellent quality, tolerance, which is rarely found in a young
man.
The two friends enter the Restaurant Rosengren, where they are fairly
certain not to meet young men and where they can discuss numismatics
and autography. They take their coffee in the Café Rydberg and look at
catalogues of coins until six. At six o'clock the official _Post_
appears, and they read the promotions.
Each enjoys the other's company, for they never quarrel. Falk is so
free from fixed opinions that he is the most amiable man in the world,
liked and appreciated by chiefs and colleagues.
Occasionally they dine in the Hamburg Exchange and take a liqueur or
two at the Opera Restaurant, and to see them walking along arm in arm,
at eleven o'clock, is really quite an edifying sight.
Moreover, Falk has become a regular guest at family dinners and suppers
in houses into which Borg's father has introduced him. The women find
him interesting, although they do not know how to take him; he is
always smiling and expert at sarcastic little pleasantries.
But when he is sick of family life and the social life, he visits the
Red Room, and there he meets the redoubtable Borg, his admirer Isaac,
his secret enemy and envier Struve, the man who never has any money,
and the sarcastic Sellén, who is gradually preparing his second
success, after all his imitators have accustomed the public to his
manner.
Lundell, who, after the completion of his altar-piece, gave up painting
sacred pictures and became a fat Epicurean, only comes to the Red Room
when he has no money to pay for his dinner; he makes a living by
portrait painting, a profession which brings him countless invitations
to dinners and suppers; Lundell maintains that these invitations are
essential for making character studies.
Olle, who is still employed by the stonemason, has become a gloomy
misanthrope after his great failure as a politician and orator. He
refuses "to impose on" his former friends and lives a solitary life.
Falk is in a boisterous, riotous mood whenever he visits the Red Room,
and Borg is of opinion that he does him credit; he is a veritable
_sappeur_ to whom nothing is sacred--except politics; this is a subject
on which he never touches. But if, while he lets off his fireworks for
the amusement of his friends, he should catch, through the dense
tobacco smoke, a glimpse of the morose Olle on the other side of the
room, his mood changes, he becomes gloomy like a night on the sea, and
swallows large quantities of strong liquor, as if he wanted to
extinguish a smouldering fire.
But Olle has not been seen for a long time.
CHAPTER XXVIII
FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE
The snow was falling lightly and silently, clothing the street in pure
white, as Falk and Sellén were walking to the infirmary in the
south-eastern suburb of Kingsholm, to call for Borg on their way to the
Red Room.
"It's strange that the first snow should create an almost solemn
impression," said Sellén. "The dirty ground is transformed to...."
"Are you sentimental?" scoffed Falk.
"Oh, no! I was merely talking from the point of view of a landscape
painter."
They continued their way in silence, wading through the whirling snow.
"The Kingsholm with its infirmaries always strikes me as uncanny,"
remarked Falk, after a pause.
"Are you sentimental?" scoffed Sellén.
"Not at all, but this part of the town always makes that impression on
me."
"Nonsense! It doesn't make any impression at all; you imagine it does.
Here we are, and Borg's windows are lit up. Perhaps he's got some nice
corpses to-night."
They were standing before the door of the institute. The huge building
with its many dark windows glared at them as if it were inquiring what
they wanted at that hour of the night. They passed the round flower
bed, and entered the small building on the right.
At the very back of the room Borg was sitting alone in the lamplight,
working at the mutilated body of a man who had hanged himself.
"Good evening," said Borg, laying aside his knife. "Would you like to
see an old friend?"
He did not wait for the answer--which was not forthcoming--but lighted
a lantern, took his overcoat and a bunch of keys.
"I didn't know that we had any friends here," said Sellén, desperately
clinging to a flippant mood.
"Come along!" said Borg.
They crossed the yard and entered the large building; the creaking door
closed behind them, and the little piece of candle, a remnant from the
last card party, threw its red, feeble glimmer on the white walls. The
two strangers tried to read Borg's face, wondering whether he was up to
some trick, but the face was inscrutable.
They turned to the left and went along a passage which echoed to their
footsteps in a way which suggested that they were being followed. Falk
kept close behind Borg and tried to keep Sellén at his back.
"Over there!" said Borg, standing still in the middle of the passage.
Nobody could see anything but walls. But they heard a low trickling
sound, like the falling of a gentle rain and became aware of a strange
odour, resembling the smell of a damp flower-bed or a pine-wood in
October.
"To the right!" said Borg.
The right wall was made of glass, and behind it, on their backs, lay
three white bodies.
Borg selected a key, opened the glass door, and entered.
"Here!" he said, standing still before the second of the three.
It was Olle. He lay there as quietly, with his hands folded across his
chest, as if he were taking an afternoon nap. His drawn-up lips created
the impression that he was smiling. He was well-preserved.
"Drowned?" asked Sellén, who was the first to regain his
self-possession.
"Drowned," echoed Borg. "Can either of you identify his clothes?"
Three miserable suits were hanging against the wall. Sellén at once
picked out the right one; a blue jacket with sporting buttons, and a
pair of black trousers, rubbed white at the knees.
"Are you certain?"
"Ought to know my own coat--which I borrowed from Falk."
Sellén drew a pocket-book from the breast pocket of the jacket, it was
saturated with water and covered with green algæ, which Borg called
enteromorph. He opened it by the light of the lantern and examined its
contents--two or three overdue pawn-tickets and a bundle of papers tied
together, on which was written: To him who cares to read.
"Have you seen enough?" asked Borg. "Then let's go and have a drink."
The three mourners (friend was a word only used by Levin and Lundell
when they wanted to borrow money) went to the nearest public-house as
representatives of the Red Room.
Beside a blazing fire and behind a battery of bottles, Borg began the
perusal of the papers which Olle had left behind, but more than once he
had to have recourse to Falk's skill as an "autographer," for the water
had washed away the words here and there; it looked as if the writer's
tears had fallen on the sheets, as Sellén facetiously remarked.
"Stop talking now," said Borg, emptying his glass of grog with a
grimace which exhibited all his back teeth; "I am going to read, and I
beg of you not to interrupt me."
* * * * *
"'TO HIM WHO CARES TO READ.
"'I have a right to take my life, all the more so because not only does
my act not interfere with the interests of a fellow-creature, but
rather it contributes to the happiness, as it is called, of at least
one person; a place and four hundred cubic feet of air will become
vacant.
"'My motive is not despair, for an intelligent individual never
despairs, but I take this step with a fairly calm conscience; that an
act of this kind throws one's mind into a certain state of excitement
will be easily understood by everybody; to postpone it from fear of
what might come hereafter is only worthy of a slave clutching at any
excuse, so that he might stay in a world where he cannot have suffered
much. At the thought of going, a burden seems to fall from my
shoulders; I cannot fare worse, I might fare better. If there is no
life beyond the grave, death must be happiness; as great a happiness at
least as sleep in a soft bed after hard physical labour. Nobody who has
ever observed how sleep relaxes every muscle, and how the soul
gradually steals away, can fear death.
"'Why does humanity make so much ado about death? Because it has
burrowed so deeply into the earth, that a tearing away from it is bound
to be painful. I put off from the shore long ago; I have no family
bonds, no social, national, or legal ties which could hold me back, and
I'm going simply because life has no longer any attraction for me.
"'I do not want to encourage those who are well content to follow my
example; they have no reason to do so, and therefore they cannot judge
my act. I have not considered the point whether it is cowardly or
not--to that aspect of the question I am indifferent; moreover, it is a
private matter; I never asked to come here and therefore I have a right
to go when I please.
"'My reason for going? There are so many reasons and they are so
complicated that I have neither the time nor the ability to explain
them. I will only mention the most obvious, those which had the
greatest influence on myself and on my act.
"'My childhood and youth were one long continuation of manual labour;
you who do not know what it means to labour from sunrise to sunset,
only to fall into a heavy sleep when the toil is over, you have escaped
the curse of the fall, for it is a curse to feel one's spiritual growth
arrested while one's body sinks deeper and deeper into the earth. A man
who walks behind the ploughing cattle day in day out, and sees nothing
but the grey clouds, will end by forgetting the blue sky above his
head; a man who takes a spade and digs a hole while the sun scorches
his skin, will feel that he is sinking into the parched ground and
digging a grave for his soul. You know nothing of this, you who play
all day long, and work a little only during an idle hour between
luncheon and dinner; you who rest your spirit when the earth is green
and enjoy nature as an ennobling and elevating spectacle. The toiler on
the land never sees the spirit of Nature. To him the field is bread,
the forest timber, the sea a wash-tub, the meadow cheese and
milk--everything is earth, soulless earth!
"'When I saw one-half of humanity engaged in fostering their spiritual
growth, while the other half had merely time to attend to their bodily
needs, I thought at first that there existed two laws for two different
species of man. But my intellect denied this. My spirit rebelled and I
resolved that I, too, would escape the curse of the fall--I became an
artist.
"'I can analyse the much-talked-of artistic instinct because I was
endowed with it myself. It rests on a broad base of longing for
freedom, freedom from profitable labour; for this reason a German
philosopher defined Beauty as the Unprofitable; as soon as a work of
art is of practical use, betrays a purpose or a tendency its beauty
vanishes. Further-more the instinct rests on pride; man wants to play
God in art, not that he wants to create anything new--he can't do
that--but because he wants to improve, to arrange, to recreate. He does
not begin by admiring his model, Nature, but by criticizing it.
Everything is full of faults and he longs to correct them.
"'This pride, spurring a man on to never-ceasing effort, and the
freedom from work--the curse of the fall--beget in the artist the
illusion that he is standing above his fellow creatures; to a certain
extent this is true, but unless he were constantly recalling this fact
he would find himself out, that is to say find the unreal in his
activity and the unjustifiable in his escape from the profitable. This
constant need of appreciation of his unprofitable work makes him vain,
restless, and often deeply unhappy; as soon as he comes to a clear
understanding of himself he becomes unproductive and goes under, for
only the religious mind can return to slavery after having once tasted
freedom.
"'To differentiate between genius and talent, to look upon genius as a
separate quality, is nonsense, and argues a faith in special
manifestation. The great artist is endowed with a certain amount of
ability to acquire some kind of technical skill. Without practice his
ability dies. Somebody has said: genius is the infinite capacity for
taking pains. This is, like so many other things, a half-truth. If
culture be added--a rare thing because knowledge makes all things
clear, and the cultured man therefore rarely becomes an artist--and a
sound intellect, the result is genius, the natural product of a
combination of favourable circumstances.
"'I soon lost faith in the sublime character of my hobby--heaven forbid
that I should call it my profession--for my art was incapable of
expressing a single idea; at the most it could represent the body in a
position expressing an emotion accompanying a thought--or, in other
words, express a thought at third hand. It is like signalling,
meaningless to all who cannot read the signals. I only see a red flag,
but the soldier sees the word of command: Advance! After all, even
Plato, who was a fine intellectualist and an idealist into the bargain,
realized the futility of art, calling it but the semblance of a
semblance (-reality); wherefore he excluded the artist from his ideal
state. He was in earnest!
"'I tried to find my way back into slavery, but I could not. I tried to
find in it my most sacred duty; I tried to resign myself, but I did not
succeed. My soul was taking harm, and I was on the way to becoming a
beast; there were times when I fancied that all this toil was a
positive sin, in as far as it checked the greater aim of spiritual
development; at such times I played truant for a day, and fled to
nature, absorbed in unspeakably blissful meditations. But then again
this bliss appeared to me in the light of a selfish pleasure as great,
greater even, than the pleasure I used to feel in my artistic work;
conscience, the sense of duty, overtook me like a fury and drove me
back to my yoke, which then seemed beautiful--for a day.
"'To escape from this unbearable state of mind, and win light and
peace, I go to face the Unknown. You who behold my dead body, say--do I
look unhappy in death?"
* * * * *
"'NOTES MADE WHILE WALKING:
"'The plan of the world is the deliverance of the idea from the form;
art, on the other hand, attempts to imprison the idea in a sensuous
form, so as to make it visible. Therefore....
"'Everything corrects itself. When artistic traffic in Florence
surpassed all bounds Savonarola came--the profound thinker! and spoke
his "All this is futile." And the artists--and what artists they were!
made a pyre of their masterpieces--Oh! Savonarola!
"'What was the object of the iconoclasts in Constantinople? What did
the baptists and breakers of images want in the Netherlands? I dare not
state it for fear of being branded.
"'The great striving of our time: division of labour benefits the
species but sentences the individual to death. What is the species? The
conception of the whole; the philosophers call it the idea and the
individuals believe what they say and lay down their lives for the
idea!
"'It is a strange thing that the will of the princes and the will of
the people always clashes. Isn't there a very simple and easy remedy?
"'When, at a riper age, I again read through my school-books, I was
astonished to find that we human beings are so little removed from the
beasts in the fields. I reread Luther's Catechism in those days; I made
a few annotations, and drafted a plan for a new Catechism. (Not to be
sent in to the Commissioners; what I am going to say now is all that I
have written.)
"'The first Commandment destroys the doctrine of one God, for it
assumes other gods, an assumption granted by Christianity.
"'Note. Monotheism which is so highly extolled has had an adverse
influence on humanity; it has robbed it of the love and respect for the
One and True God, by leaving Evil unexplained.
"'The second and third Commandments are blasphemous; the author puts
petty and stupid commands in the mouth of the Lord; commands which are
an insult to His omniscience; if the author were living in our days, a
charge of blasphemy would be brought against him.
"'The fifth Commandment should read as follows: "Your inbred feeling of
respect for your parents shall not induce you to admire their faults;
you shall not honour them beyond their deserts; under no circumstances
do you owe your parents any gratitude; they have not done you a service
by bringing you into this world; selfishness and the civil code of laws
compel them to clothe and feed you. The parents who expect gratitude
from their children (there are some who even demand it) are like
usurers; they are willing to risk the capital as long as the interest
is being paid."'"
"'Note 1. The reason why parents (more especially fathers) hate their
children so much more frequently than they love them arises from the
fact that the presence of children has an adverse influence on the
financial position of the parents. There are parents who treat their
children as if they were shares in a joint stock company, from which
they expect constant dividends.
"'Note 2. This Commandment has resulted in the most terrible of all
forms of government, in the tyranny of the family, from which no
revolution can deliver us. There is more need for the foundation of
societies for the protection of children than for societies for the
protection of animals.
"'To be continued.
* * * * *
"'Sweden is a colony which has passed her prime, the period when she
was a great power, and like Greece, Italy, and Spain, she is now
sinking into eternal sleep.
"'The terrible reaction which set in after 1865, the year of the death
of all hope, has had a demoralising effect on the new generation.
History has not witnessed for a long time a greater indifference to the
general welfare, a greater selfishness, a greater irreligiousness.
"'In the world outside the nations are bellowing with fury against
oppression; but in Sweden all we do is to celebrate jubilees.
"'Pietism is the sole sign of spiritual life of the sleeping nation; it
is the discontent which has thrown itself into the arms of resignation
to avoid despair and impotent fury.
"'Pietists and pessimists start from the same principle, the misery of
the world, and have the same aim: to die to the world and live to God.
"'The greatest sin man can commit is to be a Conservative from selfish
motives. It is an attempt against the plan of the world for the sake of
a few shillings; the Conservative tries to stem evolution; he plants
his back against the rolling earth and says: "Stand still!" There is
but one excuse: stupidity. Poor circumstances are no excuse, merely an
explanation.
"'I wonder whether Norway is not going to prove a new patch on an old
garment, as far as we are concerned?'"
* * * * *
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked Borg laying down the papers and
drinking a small brandy.
"Not bad," said Sellén, "it might have been expressed more wittily."
"What do you think, Falk?"
"The usual cry--nothing more. Shall we go now?"
Borg looked at him, wondering whether he was speaking ironically, but
he saw no danger-signal in Falk's face.
"And so Olle has gone to happier hunting-grounds," said Sellén. "He's
well off, need no longer trouble about his dinner. I wonder what the
head-waiter at the 'Brass-Button' will say to it? Olle owed him a
little money."
"What heartlessness! What brutality! Shame on you!" burst out Falk,
throwing a few coins on the table, and putting on his overcoat.
"Are you sentimental?" scoffed Sellén.
"Yes, I am! Good night."
And he had gone.
CHAPTER XXIX
REVUE
LICENTIATE BORG at STOCKHOLM _to the_ LANDSCAPE PAINTER SELLÉN at PARIS
DEAR SELLÉN,--You have waited a whole year for a letter from me; now I
have news to tell you. If I were acting on my principles, I should
begin with myself; but as I had better conform to the rules of
politeness laid down by civilized society--seeing that I am about to go
out into the world to earn my own living--I will begin with you.
I heartily congratulate you on the success of your recently exhibited
picture. Isaac took the notice to the _Grey Bonnet_, and it was printed
without the knowledge of the editor, who was furious when he read it;
he had firmly made up his mind that you should be a failure. But now
that your genius has been acknowledged abroad, you are famous at home
too, and I need no longer be ashamed of you.
In order to forget nothing, and to be as brief as possible--for I am
lazy as well as tired after a day's work at the hospital--I will write
my letter in the shape of a report and the style of the GREY BONNET;
this will have the additional advantage that you can more easily skip
those parts which do not interest you.
The political situation is becoming more and more interesting; all
parties have corrupted one another by presents and counter-presents,
and now all of them are grey. This reaction will probably end in
Socialism. There is a talk of increasing the number of the districts to
forty-eight, and the Ministerial career is the one which offers the
best chances of promotion, more especially as a man need not even have
passed the examination of an elementary school-teacher. I met a
school-friend the other day who is already a pensioned Cabinet
Minister; he told me that it was far easier to become a Minister than a
secretary of one of the departments; they say the work is very much
like the work of a man who signs guarantees--it is only a matter of a
signature now and then! It doesn't matter so much about the payment,
there is always a second guarantor.
The Press--well, you know the Press. Roughly speaking it is just
business, that is to say, it always adopts the opinion of the majority,
and the majority, or, in other words, the greater number of
subscribers, is reactionary. One day I asked a Liberal journalist how
it was that he wrote in such laudatory terms about you, of whom he knew
nothing. He said it was because public opinion, i.e. the largest number
of subscribers, was on your side.
"But supposing public opinion turned against him?" I asked.
"Then, of course," he said, "I shall turn against him too."
You will understand that under these circumstances the whole generation
which grew up after 1865, and which is not represented in Parliament,
is in despair; and therefore they are either Nihilists--in other words,
they don't care a d---- for anything--or they find their advantage in
turning Conservative. To be a Liberal in these days is the devil's own
job.
The financial position is depressed. The supply of bills, mine at
least, reduced; no bank will look at the safest bills, even if they are
signed by two doctors.
The "Triton" went into liquidation, as you know. Directors and
liquidators took over the printed shares, but the shareholders and
depositors received a number of lithographed ones from the well-known
society at Norrköping, which alone managed to weather this period of
frauds and swindles. I met a widow who had a handful of papers
connected with a marble quarry; they were large, beautiful sheets,
printed in red and blue, on which 1000 Cr., 1000 Cr., was engraved; and
below the figures, just as if they were standing security, appeared the
names of well-known persons; three of them, at least, are knights of
the Order of the Seraphim.
Nicholas Falk, the friend and brother, sick of his private
money-lending business, because it detracted from the full value of his
civic authority, which is far from being the case when the business is
a public one, decided to combine with a few experts(?) and found a
bank. The novel feature of the undertaking was expressed as follows:
"As experience--truly a melancholy experience" (Levin is the author, as
you may guess) "has proved that deposit receipts are not in themselves
a sufficient guarantee for the return of deposits--that is deposited
money--we, the undersigned, actuated by unselfish zeal for the welfare
of home industry, and desirous of giving greater security to the
well-to-do public, have founded a bank, under the title of 'Deposit
Guarantee Society Limited.' The novel and safe feature of the
enterprise--and not everything new is safe--consists in the fact that
the depositors instead of receiving deposit receipts, are given
securities to the full value of the deposited sums, etc. etc."
They do a brisk business, and you may imagine what sort of securities
they issue instead of deposit receipts.
Levin. Falk, with his keen eye for business, recognized at once the
great advantage to be reaped from the services of a man with Levin's
experience and colossal knowledge of people, acquired through his
money-lending business. But to train him for all eventualities, and
make him familiar with all the by-ways of the business, he felled him
to the ground with his promissory note, and forced him into bankruptcy.
Having done so, he appeared in the rôle of his saviour and made him his
confidential clerk with the title of secretary. And now Levin is
installed in a little private office; but on no account is he permitted
to show his face in the bank.
Isaac Levi is employed in the same bank as cashier. He passed his
examinations (with Latin, Greek and Hebrew) first class in all
subjects. The _Grey Bonnet_, of course, reported his achievements. Now
he is reading for the law, and doing a little business on his own
account. He is like the eel; he has nine lives and lives on nothing. He
takes no alcohol; he does not smoke; I don't know whether he has any
vices, but he is formidable. He has an ironmongers shop at Hernösand, a
tobacconists at Helsingförs, and a fancy goods shop at Södertelje; in
addition he owns a few cottages at Stockholm, S. People say he is the
coming man; I say the man has come.
After the winding-up of the "Triton," his brother retired with a
considerable fortune, I am told, and is now doing business privately. I
heard that he proposed buying the forest monastery near Upsala, and
rebuilding it in a new style invented by his uncle of the Academy of
Arts. But his offer was refused. Levi, very much offended, sent a
notice to the _Grey Bonnet_ under the heading: "Persecution of the Jews
in the Nineteenth Century." It won him the lively sympathy of the whole
cultured public; the affair would win him a seat in Parliament if he
cared for that distinction. A vote of thanks was presented to him by
his co-religionists--(as if Levi had any religion) which was printed in
the _Grey Bonnet_. They thanked him for standing up for the rights of
the Jews (to buy the forest monastery). The address was handed to him
at a banquet, to which also a great many Swedes (I always refer the
Jewish question to its rightful domain, the ethnographical one) had
been bidden, to feast on bad salmon and uncorked wine. The deeply moved
hero of the day (vide _Grey Bonnet_) received on the same occasion a
present of 20,000 crowns (in shares) for the foundation of a Home for
Fallen Boys of the Evangelical Denomination.
I was present at the banquet, and saw a sight I had never seen
before--I saw Isaac the worse for drink! He shouted that he hated me,
and you, and Falk, and all "Whites"; he alternately called us "whites,"
and "natives," and _roche_; I had never heard the last word before, but
no sooner had he uttered it than a large number of "blacks" crowded
round us, looking so ominous that Isaac thought it better to take me
into an adjoining room. There he poured out all his soul to me; he
spoke of his sufferings as a schoolboy; of the ill-treatment to which
master and school-fellows had subjected him, the daily knocks and cuffs
from the street arabs. But what roused my indignation more than
anything else was an incident which had happened to him during his
military service; he was called up to the front at vespers and ordered
to recite the Lord's Prayer. As he did not know it, he was scoffed and
jeered at. His account made me change my opinion of him and his race.
Religious swindle and charitable fraud are more rampant than ever, and
make life in our country very unpleasant. You will remember two imps of
Satan, Mrs. Falk and Mrs. Homan, the two pettiest, vainest and most
malicious creatures who ever idled away their days. You know the crèche
they had founded and its end. Their latest achievement is a Home for
Fallen Women, and the first inmate--received on my recommendation--was
Marie! The poor girl had lent all her savings to a fellow who absconded
with them. She was only too happy to find a home where she would be
kept free of charge, and be able to retrieve her character. She told me
that she did not mind all the religious palaver, which is,
unfortunately, inseparable from an enterprise of this sort, as long as
she could count on her cup of coffee in the morning.
The Rev. Skore, whom you will no doubt remember, has not been made
_pastor primarius_, and from sheer annoyance he is begging for funds to
build a new church. Printed begging-letters, signed by all the
wealthiest magnates of Sweden, are sent out to appeal to the charitable
public. The church, which is to be three times the size of the church
on the Blasieholm and connected with a sky-high tower, is to be built
on the old site of St. Catherine's. The latter is supposed to be too
small to satisfy the great spiritual needs from which the Swedish
nation is suffering at the moment, and is, therefore, to be pulled
down. The sum collected has already reached such dimensions that a
treasurer had to be appointed (with free lodging and fuel). Who do you
think is the treasurer? You would never guess! Struve!
Struve has become somewhat religious these days--I say _somewhat_,
because it is not much--only just enough for his position, for he is
patronized by the faithful. This does, however, not interfere with his
journalism and his drinking. But his heart is not soft, on the
contrary, he is most bitter against all those who have not come down;
between you and me, he has very much deteriorated; therefore he hates
you and Falk, and he has sworn to slate you next time you are heard of.
He had to submit to the marriage ceremony for the sake of the free
lodging and fuel. He was married to his wife in the White Mountains. I
was one of the witnesses. His wife, too, has been converted, for she is
under the impression that religion is good form.
Lundell has left the religious sphere, and is painting nothing but
portraits of directors; he has been made assistant at the Academy of
Arts. He has also become immortal, for he has managed to smuggle a
painting of his into the National Museum. It was accomplished by a very
simple trick and ought to encourage imitators. Smith made a present to
the National Museum of one of Lundell's genre pictures, a service which
Lundell repaid by painting his portrait gratis! Splendid! Isn't it?
The end of a romance. One Sunday morning, at the hour when the Sabbath
peace is not disturbed by the terrible church bells, I was sitting in
my room, smoking. There was a knock at the door, and a tall, well-made
man, whose face seemed familiar to me, entered--it was Rehnhjelm. We
cross-examined each other. He is manager of a large factory and quite
satisfied with his lot.
Presently there was another knock. It was Falk. (More of him later on.)
We revived old memories and discussed mutual friends. But by and by
there was a pause, that strange silence which so frequently occurs
after a lively conversation. Rehnhjelm took up a book, turned over the
leaves and read out:
"A Cæsarean Operation: An academic treatise which, with the permission
of the illustrious medical faculty, will be publicly discussed in the
little lecture room of the University." What horrible diagrams! "Who in
the world is the unfortunate being cursed thus to haunt the living
after his death?"
"You will find it on page 2," I said.
He went on reading.
"The pelvis which, as No. 38, is preserved in the pathological
collection of the Academy...." No--that can't be it. "Agnes Rundgren,
spinster...."
The man's face turned as white as chalk. He got up and drank some
water.
"Did you know the woman?" I asked, in order to distract his thoughts.
"Did I know her? She was on the stage, and I knew her at X-köping;
after leaving X-köping, she was engaged in a Stockholm café, under the
name of Beda Petterson."
Then you should have seen Falk! It came to a scene which ended in
Rehnhjelm's cursing all women, and Falk, greatly excited, replying,
that there were two kinds of women, which differed from each other as
much as angels and devils. He was so moved that Rehnhjelm's eyes filled
with tears.
And now to Falk! I purposely left him to the last. He is engaged to be
married! How did it happen? He himself says: "We just met one
another!"
As you know, I have no rigid opinions, but cultivate an open mind; but
from what I have seen up to now, it is undeniable that love is
something of which we bachelors know nothing--what we call love is
nothing but frivolity. You may laugh if you like, you old scoffer!
Only in very bad plays have I seen such a rapid development of
character, as I had occasion to watch in Falk. You won't be surprised
to hear that his engagement was not all plain sailing. The girl's
father, an old widower, a selfish army pensioner, looked upon his
daughter as an investment, hoping that she would marry well and thereby
secure him a comfortable old age. (Nothing at all unusual!) He
therefore bluntly refused his consent. You should have seen Falk! He
called on the old man again and again; he was kicked out, and yet he
called again and told the old egoist to the face that he would marry
his daughter without his consent, if he continued to object. I am not
sure, but I believe it actually came to fisticuffs.
One evening Falk had accompanied his sweetheart home. They had both
spent the evening at the house of one of the girl's relatives to whom
Falk had introduced himself. When they turned the corner of the street
in which the girl lives, they saw by the light of the street lamp that
her father was leaning out of the window--he lives in a small house
which belongs to him. Falk knocked at the garden gate; but nobody came
to open it. At last he climbed over and was on the other side attacked
by a large dog; he got the better of the brute and shut it up in the
dust-bin. (Imagine the nervous Falk.) Then he compelled the porter to
get up and open the gate. Now they had gained the yard and stood before
the front door. He hammered it with a large stone, but no reply came
from within; he searched the garden and found a ladder, by means of
which he reached the old man's window. Open the door, he shouted, or
I'll smash the window!
"If you smash the window, you rascal," yelled the old man, "I'll shoot
you!"
Falk immediately smashed the window.
For a few moments there was silence. Finally a voice came from within
the fortress:
"You are my man! I consent."
"I'm not fond of smashing windows," explained Falk, "but there's
nothing I would not do to win your daughter."
The matter was settled, and they became engaged.
I don't know whether you know that Parliament has carried through its
reorganization of the public offices, doubling the salaries and the
number of posts, so that a young man in the first division is now in a
position to marry. Falk is going to be married in the autumn.
His wife will keep her post at the school. I know next to nothing of
the Woman's Question--it doesn't interest me--but I believe that our
generation will get rid of the last remnant of the Eastern conception
which still clings to marriage. In the days to come, husband and wife
will enter into a partnership where both will retain their
independence; they will not try to convert each other, but will
mutually respect their weaknesses, and live together in a life-long
friendship which will never be strained by the demands of one of the
partners for amorous demonstrations.
I look upon Mrs. Nicholas Falk, the charitable she-devil, as nothing
more than a _femme entretenue_, and I am sure she does so herself. Most
women marry for a home where they need not work--be their own mistress,
as it is called. The fact that marriage is on the decline is as much
the woman's fault as the man's.
But I cannot make Falk out. He is studying numismatics with an almost
unnatural zeal; he told me the other day that he was engaged in writing
a text-book on numismatics, which he would endeavour to introduce into
the schools where this science is to be taught.
He never reads a paper; he does not know what is going on in the world,
and he seems to have abandoned the idea of writing. He lives only for
his work and his fiancée, whom he worships.
But I don't trust his calm. Falk is a political fanatic, well aware
that he would be consumed if he allowed the fire to burn freely;
therefore he tries to stifle it with hard, monotonous work; but I don't
think that he will succeed; in spite of all his restraint the day is
bound to come when he will cast aside all self-control and burst out
into fresh flames.
Between you and me--I believe he belongs to one of those secret
societies which are responsible for the reaction and militarism on the
Continent. Not very long ago, at the reading of the King's Speech in
Parliament, I saw him, dressed in a purple cloak, with a feather in his
hat, sitting at the foot of the throne (at the foot of the throne!) and
I thought--no, it would be a sin to say what I thought. But when the
Prime Minister read his Majesty's gracious propositions respecting the
state of the country and its needs, I saw a look in Falk's eyes which
plainly said: What on earth does his Majesty know of the condition and
needs of the country?
That man, oh! that man!
I conclude my review without having forgotten anybody. Enough for
to-day. You shall soon hear from me again.
H. B. 1879.
CHAPTER XXX
EPILOGUE
Doubtless there is not another street in Stockholm as ugly, and not
another house as old, as dirty, and as gloomy. The entrance gate has
the inviting appearance of a disused gallows. The rubble stones in the
yard have moved more closely together in the course of time, so that a
few small blades of grass have been able to shoot up. The house stands
by itself, like an old hermit who has sought a solitary spot in which
to collapse. There has once been an Assaying Office in the yard, and
the outside walls are blackened with smoke. The chinks between the
window frames and the walls are grown over, and the house looks as if
it had not washed its face or eyes for a generation. The foundation has
settled, and the building is stooping to the left. The leaking gutter
has been weeping tears which have drawn black furrows all over the
front of the building; the plastering is crumbling off here and there,
and on windy nights one can hear it rattling down the walls into the
street below. The house looks like an old dowager house of poverty,
recklessness, carelessness, and vice.
And yet there are two people who cannot pass through the street without
stopping to look at the miserable, frowning old building with emotion
almost amounting to love. To them the entrance gate is a triumphal
arch, the weeds and the gutter a green meadow, and a murmuring brook,
the black house a charming ruin, containing lovely, rose-red memories.
It is more, even, for whenever they pass it, the air vibrates with
music, perfumes rise from the earth, and they see the sun shining even
on the cloudiest autumn day; there have been times when they forgot
themselves so far as to kiss each other; but they have always been a
little mad, these good people.
Three years ago our young friend--we may call him friend since he
repented of his youthful errors, apologised to society, and became a
respectable individual, serving the country and wearing purple in the
House of Parliament--our young friend, I say, was busy on the third
floor of the ugly old house with a sheet of pins between his lips, a
hammer in his coat-pocket, and a pair of pincers under his arm; he was
standing on a ladder, putting up curtains in a small room, furnished
only with a tiny sofa, a tiny dressing-table, a small desk, and a very
small bed with white curtains.
In the dining-room the faithful Isaac, in shirt-sleeves, was engaged in
spreading paste on a piece of wallpaper, stretched on an ironing-board
which rested on two chairs; he was whistling and singing one unknown
song after the other to quite unheard-of tunes. When he was tired of
working, he prepared luncheon on an empty box standing before the
window.
Outside the sun was shining into the neighbour's garden. It was a tiny
garden squeezed between the walls of the houses; it had a pear tree in
full bloom, and two elder bushes covered with blossoms; between the
gables a piece of blue sky was visible and the mast heads of the timber
barges in the harbour.
Isaac had been to the dairy; had bought sandwiches and porter; had
papered the future mistress's room; had purchased oleanders and ivy, so
that the landing windows with their black frames should not shock the
young wife as she entered her new home; he would have liked to paint
them, but he was afraid that she might object to the smell.
A cab stopped before the front door.
"It's Borg," said Isaac. "What the dickens does he want here? And that
pest, Levin, is with him!"
It was a long visit, lasting ten minutes, and a disagreeable one; but
Falk bore it patiently, like any other trial; he had for ever broken
with the past; in one respect at least; in another he was bound, for he
had been compelled during the ten minutes to sign once more.
The next visitors were the sister-in-law, Mrs. Falk, and Mrs. Homan.
They found the paper in the dining-room too dark, and the paper in the
young wife's room too light. They thought the curtains in the husband's
room were not wide enough, the carpet a bad match to the furniture, the
clock old-fashioned, and the chandelier too dear for its plainness. One
piece of furniture in the young wife's room especially roused their
critical faculty, and gave rise to a long, whispered conversation. They
called the kitchen black, the landing dirty, the entrance terrible; but
otherwise they said everything was quite nice, much nicer than the
yard, where there was not even a porter, led one to expect.
This was the second plague, and it passed like everything else in this
world.
But Isaac had lost some of his gaiety after the criticism of his
wallpapers, and Falk realized for a moment that it was a miserable
hole. He opened the windows to let out the evil spirits which had
invaded his pleasure garden. Isaac declared that during the wedding
days he would have the two women shut up in the debtors' prison, so as
to keep them safely away.
And then--then she came. He was standing at the window, and he saw her
when she was still too far off to be seen; he expected to be believed
when he maintained that she radiated light and that the street through
which she was walking was bathed in sunshine. Of course he could have
told endless stories of her kindness, sweetness, and beauty; but not
even she believed them, and it is not worth while repeating them.
She entered her future home and found everything charming. Isaac went
into the kitchen to split some wood and light the kitchen fire. Nobody
missed him until he returned with a tray bearing some cups of
chocolate. It amused him; he knew that lovers never miss anybody in the
wide world, and he found the terrible selfishness, which is called
love, a very amiable quality; moreover, everybody admits that it is
justified.
"What people said about it?" They said:
"Well, and so Falk is married?"
"Is he? Whom did he marry?"
"A schoolmistress!"
"Ugh! A woman with blue spectacles and short hair!"
And the questioner had all the information he wanted.
If the answer had been: "He's married old Kochstrom's daughter," the
second question would have been: "Did he get any money with her?"
The world asks no further questions, and everything would be all
right--if this were all. But the world demands that a couple which has
three times given the clergyman the trouble to read the banns and the
community to listen to them; which has forced its fellow-creatures to
engage in genealogical research and send a reporter to the wedding--the
world demands that such a couple shall be happy--woe to it if it is
not!
Supposing that on coming home from school, tired with her work, angry
at a slight, depressed because some of her efforts have proved a
failure, she should meet a friend in the street who takes her hand and
says: "You don't look too happy, Elizabeth," then woe to him!
Supposing that on leaving his office, in despair because he has been
overlooked instead of promoted, he should meet a friend who finds him
looking depressed, then woe to her!
Unhappy people, if you dare to be anything but happy!
* * * * *
It was a winter evening two or three years later; she was bending over
her writing desk, correcting copybooks, he was sitting in his room
computing assessments of property. The pens were scribbling, the clock
was ticking, and the tea-kettle singing. Whenever he looked up from his
documents at her sweet face, she raised her eyes, their glances met,
and they nodded to each other as if they had been parted for a long
time. And they continued working.
But finally he grew tired of his work.
"Talk to me a little," he pleaded.
And she eagerly complied with his request.
"But what do they talk about?"
The scoffer Borg once asked that question, when he declared matrimony
to be an impossibility from the point of view of natural science.
He laid down the proposition that the moment must come when every
subject had been discussed, when each partner knew every thought and
opinion of the other, and when absolute silence was bound to reign.
The fool!
THE END
* * * * *
PRINTED BY
BALLANTYNE & COMPANY
LONDON LTD
* * * * *
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Punctuation has been normalized.
The following lists the misprints that have been corrected:
Page 10: listening to the plashing [splashing] of the waves;
Page 38; their mutal [mutual] acquaintance.
Page 50; took if [it] off.
Page 94; calm foosteps [footsteps].
Page 105; were of [the] opinion.
Page 112; the promotor [promoter] of the Bill.
Page 189; the woman [in] question.
Page 213; Struve had diasppeared [disappeared].
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