The Red Room E-Book

August Strindberg

• Herausgeber: E-BOOKARAMA
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

"The Red Room", written in 1879  by August Strindberg, is one of the biggest classics of Swedish literature.

A funny, satirical look at 19th century bourgeois attitudes, "The Red Room" presents a loosely-connected group of counter-cultural artistic types and has them confront their counter-cultural and progressive ideals with those of conservative, mainstream society. Most of them are poor (well, poor bourgeois types), making ends meet by pawning each other’s possessions and taking on hack work that’s beneath their dignity. Their goal is to be recognised as master-level artists by the stodgy mainstream, without having to give up their anti-mainstream ideals.

Strindberg wrote funny observations of people and attitudes, and the situations he throws at his characters are frequently entertainingly absurd.

Leseprobe

August Strindberg

The Red Room

Table of contents

THE RED ROOM

Chapter 1. A Bird's-Eye View Of Stockholm

Chapter 2. Between Brothers

Chapter 3. The Artists' Colony

Chapter 4. Master And Dogs

Chapter 5. At The Publisher's

Chapter 6. The Red Room

Chapter 7. The Imitation Of Christ

Chapter 8. Poor Mother Country

Chapter 9. Bills Of Exchange

Chapter 10. The Newspaper Syndicate "Grey Bonnet"

Chapter 11. Happy People

Chapter 12. Marine Insurance Society "Triton"

Chapter 13. Divine Ordinance

Chapter 14. Absinth

Chapter 15. The Theatrical Company "Phoenix"

Chapter 16. In The White Mountains

Chapter 17. Natura....

Chapter 18. Nihilism

Chapter 19. From Churchyard To Public-House

Chapter 20. On The Altar

Chapter 21. A Soul Overboard

Chapter 22. Hard Times

Chapter 23. Audiences

Chapter 24. On Sweden

Chapter 25. Checkmate

Chapter 26. Correspondence

Chapter 27. Recovery

Chapter 28. From Beyond The Grave

Chapter 29. Revue

Chapter 30. Epilogue

THE RED ROOM

August Strindberg

Chapter 1. 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. "1

"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 2. 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 3. 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 water cart, 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?"