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 wasinfra 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.
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.
"Youmusthave 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 sixFrench 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 atête-à-têteconversation.
"I wish I knew where to get a model from! Idon'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 willbecome 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 oneverything; "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 itscivilizing part in the life of Stockholm by putting an end to the unhealthycafé-chantantslife 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 littlefarce 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 thePeople's Flagon 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 ofthe 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 openedhis 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.
"TheTorch of Reconciliationis 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 "Howdid 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 thethings? Olle had replied that he had not stolen them; then the inspector drew his attention to the fact that he had not been askedwhetherhe had stolen them, butwherehe 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 hadappearedto 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 refugein 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 thelight 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.
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 theGrey Bonnetthat you are going to edit theTorch 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 theTorch 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, firstfloor. 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 SteamerZululu, 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 1s.6d.a pound obtainable from the porter. Black dress-coats for confirmation candidates let out. Unfermented wine (Mat. xix. 32) at 9½d.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 anorgan 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.
"TheTorch 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: TheTorch 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'sCreation,' 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! MyLast Judgmentwas 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 theTorch of Reconciliation, and resigned himself to starve.
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 minutespast 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, whatisto 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 hadtime 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 thoughthimself 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 wasà prioriright; 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."