"'To Him who cares to Read.
"'I have a right to take my life, all the more so because not only does my act not interfere with the interests of a fellow-creature, but rather it contributes to the happiness, as it is called, of at leastone person; a place and four hundred cubic feet of air will become vacant.
"'My motive is not despair, for an intelligent individual never despairs, but I take this step with a fairly calm conscience; that an act of this kind throws one's mind into a certain state of excitement will be easily understood by everybody; to postpone it from fear of what might come hereafter is only worthy of a slave clutching at any excuse, so that he might stay in a world where he cannot have suffered much. At the thought of going, a burden seems to fall from my shoulders; I cannot fare worse, I might fare better. If there is no life beyond the grave, death must be happiness; as great a happiness at least as sleep in a soft bed after hard physical labour. Nobody who has ever observed how sleep relaxes every muscle, and how the soul gradually steals away, can fear death.
"'Why does humanity make so much ado about death? Because it has burrowed so deeply into the earth, that a tearing away from it is bound to be painful. I put off from the shore long ago; I have no family bonds, no social, national, or legal ties which could hold me back, and I'm going simply because life has no longer any attraction for me.
"'I do not want to encourage those who are well content to follow my example; they have no reason to do so, and therefore they cannot judge my act. I have not considered the point whether it is cowardly or not—to that aspect of the question I am indifferent; moreover, it is a private matter; I never asked to come here and therefore I have a right to go when I please.
"'My reason for going? There are so many reasons and they are so complicated that I have neither the time nor the ability to explain them. I will only mention the most obvious, those which had the greatest influence on myself and on my act.
"'My childhood and youth were one long continuation of manual labour; you who do not knowwhat it means to labour from sunrise to sunset, only to fall into a heavy sleep when the toil is over, you have escaped the curse of the fall, for it is a curse to feel one's spiritual growth arrested while one's body sinks deeper and deeper into the earth. A man who walks behind the ploughing cattle day in day out, and sees nothing but the grey clouds, will end by forgetting the blue sky above his head; a man who takes a spade and digs a hole while the sun scorches his skin, will feel that he is sinking into the parched ground and digging a grave for his soul. You know nothing of this, you who play all day long, and work a little only during an idle hour between luncheon and dinner; you who rest your spirit when the earth is green and enjoy nature as an ennobling and elevating spectacle. The toiler on the land never sees the spirit of Nature. To him the field is bread, the forest timber, the sea a wash-tub, the meadow cheese and milk—everything is earth, soulless earth!
"'When I saw one-half of humanity engaged in fostering their spiritual growth, while the other half had merely time to attend to their bodily needs, I thought at first that there existed two laws for two different species of man. But my intellect denied this. My spirit rebelled and I resolved that I, too, would escape the curse of the fall—I became an artist.
"'I can analyse the much-talked-of artistic instinct because I was endowed with it myself. It rests on a broad base of longing for freedom, freedom from profitable labour; for this reason a German philosopher defined Beauty as the Unprofitable; as soon as a work of art is of practical use, betrays a purpose or a tendency its beauty vanishes. Further-more the instinct rests on pride; man wants to play God in art, not that he wants to create anything new—he can't do that—but because he wants to improve, to arrange, to recreate. He does not begin by admiring his model, Nature, but by criticizing it. Everything is full of faults and he longs to correct them.
"'This pride, spurring a man on to never-ceasingeffort, and the freedom from work—the curse of the fall—beget in the artist the illusion that he is standing above his fellow creatures; to a certain extent this is true, but unless he were constantly recalling this fact he would find himself out, that is to say find the unreal in his activity and the unjustifiable in his escape from the profitable. This constant need of appreciation of his unprofitable work makes him vain, restless, and often deeply unhappy; as soon as he comes to a clear understanding of himself he becomes unproductive and goes under, for only the religious mind can return to slavery after having once tasted freedom.
"'To differentiate between genius and talent, to look upon genius as a separate quality, is nonsense, and argues a faith in special manifestation. The great artist is endowed with a certain amount of ability to acquire some kind of technical skill. Without practice his ability dies. Somebody has said: genius is the infinite capacity for taking pains. This is, like so many other things, a half-truth. If culture be added—a rare thing because knowledge makes all things clear, and the cultured man therefore rarely becomes an artist—and a sound intellect, the result is genius, the natural product of a combination of favourable circumstances.
"'I soon lost faith in the sublime character of my hobby—heaven forbid that I should call it my profession—for my art was incapable of expressing a single idea; at the most it could represent the body in a position expressing an emotion accompanying a thought—or, in other words, express a thought at third hand. It is like signalling, meaningless to all who cannot read the signals. I only see a red flag, but the soldier sees the word of command: Advance! After all, even Plato, who was a fine intellectualist and an idealist into the bargain, realized the futility of art, calling it but the semblance of a semblance (-reality); wherefore he excluded the artist from his ideal state. He was in earnest!
"'I tried to find my way back into slavery, but I could not. I tried to find in it my most sacred duty; I tried to resign myself, but I did not succeed. My soul was taking harm, and I was on the way to becoming a beast; there were times when I fancied that all this toil was a positive sin, in as far as it checked the greater aim of spiritual development; at such times I played truant for a day, and fled to nature, absorbed in unspeakably blissful meditations. But then again this bliss appeared to me in the light of a selfish pleasure as great, greater even, than the pleasure I used to feel in my artistic work; conscience, the sense of duty, overtook me like a fury and drove me back to my yoke, which then seemed beautiful—for a day.
"'To escape from this unbearable state of mind, and win light and peace, I go to face the Unknown. You who behold my dead body, say—do I look unhappy in death?
"'Notes made while Walking:
"'The plan of the world is the deliverance of the idea from the form; art, on the other hand, attempts to imprison the idea in a sensuous form, so as to make it visible. Therefore....
"'Everything corrects itself. When artistic traffic in Florence surpassed all bounds Savonarola came—the profound thinker! and spoke his "All this is futile." And the artists—and what artists they were! made a pyre of their masterpieces—Oh! Savonarola!
"'What was the object of the iconoclasts in Constantinople? What did the baptists and breakers of images want in the Netherlands? I dare not state it for fear of being branded.
"'The great striving of our time: division of labour benefits the species but sentences the individual to death. What is the species? The conception of the whole; the philosophers call it the idea and the individuals believe what they say and lay down their lives for the idea!
"'It is a strange thing that the will of the princesand the will of the people always clashes. Isn't there a very simple and easy remedy?
"'When, at a riper age, I again read through my school-books, I was astonished to find that we human beings are so little removed from the beasts in the fields. I reread Luther's Catechism in those days; I made a few annotations, and drafted a plan for a new Catechism. (Not to be sent in to the Commissioners; what I am going to say now is all that I have written.)
"'The first Commandment destroys the doctrine of one God, for it assumes other gods, an assumption granted by Christianity.
"'Note. Monotheism which is so highly extolled has had an adverse influence on humanity; it has robbed it of the love and respect for the One and True God, by leaving Evil unexplained.
"'The second and third Commandments are blasphemous; the author puts petty and stupid commands in the mouth of the Lord; commands which are an insult to His omniscience; if the author were living in our days, a charge of blasphemy would be brought against him.
"'The fifth Commandment should read as follows: "Your inbred feeling of respect for your parents shall not induce you to admire their faults; you shall not honour them beyond their deserts; under no circumstances do you owe your parents any gratitude; they have not done you a service by bringing you into this world; selfishness and the civil code of laws compel them to clothe and feed you. The parents who expect gratitude from their children (there are some who even demand it) are like usurers; they are willing to risk the capital as long as the interest is being paid."'"
"'Note 1. The reason why parents (more especially fathers) hate their children so much more frequently than they love them arises from the fact that the presence of children has an adverse influence on the financial position of the parents. There areparents who treat their children as if they were shares in a joint stock company, from which they expect constant dividends.
"'Note 2. This Commandment has resulted in the most terrible of all forms of government, in the tyranny of the family, from which no revolution can deliver us. There is more need for the foundation of societies for the protection of children than for societies for the protection of animals.
"'To be continued.
"'Sweden is a colony which has passed her prime, the period when she was a great power, and like Greece, Italy, and Spain, she is now sinking into eternal sleep.
"'The terrible reaction which set in after 1865, the year of the death of all hope, has had a demoralising effect on the new generation. History has not witnessed for a long time a greater indifference to the general welfare, a greater selfishness, a greater irreligiousness.
"'In the world outside the nations are bellowing with fury against oppression; but in Sweden all we do is to celebrate jubilees.
"'Pietism is the sole sign of spiritual life of the sleeping nation; it is the discontent which has thrown itself into the arms of resignation to avoid despair and impotent fury.
"'Pietists and pessimists start from the same principle, the misery of the world, and have the same aim: to die to the world and live to God.
"'The greatest sin man can commit is to be a Conservative from selfish motives. It is an attempt against the plan of the world for the sake of a few shillings; the Conservative tries to stem evolution; he plants his back against the rolling earth and says: "Stand still!" There is but one excuse: stupidity. Poor circumstances are no excuse, merely an explanation.
"'I wonder whether Norway is not going to provea new patch on an old garment, as far as we are concerned?'"
"Well, what do you think of it?" asked Borg laying down the papers and drinking a small brandy.
"Not bad," said Sellén, "it might have been expressed more wittily."
"What do you think, Falk?"
"The usual cry—nothing more. Shall we go now?"
Borg looked at him, wondering whether he was speaking ironically, but he saw no danger-signal in Falk's face.
"And so Olle has gone to happier hunting-grounds," said Sellén. "He's well off, need no longer trouble about his dinner. I wonder what the head-waiter at the 'Brass-Button' will say to it? Olle owed him a little money."
"What heartlessness! What brutality! Shame on you!" burst out Falk, throwing a few coins on the table, and putting on his overcoat.
"Are you sentimental?" scoffed Sellén.
"Yes, I am! Good night."
And he had gone.
Licentiate BorgatStockholmto theLandscape Painter SellénatParis
Dear Sellén,—You have waited a whole year for a letter from me; now I have news to tell you. If I were acting on my principles, I should begin with myself; but as I had better conform to the rules of politeness laid down by civilized society—seeing that I am about to go out into the world to earn my own living—I will begin with you.
I heartily congratulate you on the success of your recently exhibited picture. Isaac took the notice to theGrey Bonnet, and it was printed without the knowledge of the editor, who was furious when he read it; he had firmly made up his mind that you should be a failure. But now that your genius has been acknowledged abroad, you are famous at home too, and I need no longer be ashamed of you.
In order to forget nothing, and to be as brief as possible—for I am lazy as well as tired after a day's work at the hospital—I will write my letter in the shape of a report and the style of theGrey Bonnet; this will have the additional advantage that you can more easily skip those parts which do not interest you.
The political situation is becoming more and more interesting; all parties have corrupted one another by presents and counter-presents, and now all of them are grey. This reaction will probably end in Socialism. There is a talk of increasing the number of the districts to forty-eight, and the Ministerial career is the one which offers the best chances ofpromotion, more especially as a man need not even have passed the examination of an elementary school-teacher. I met a school-friend the other day who is already a pensioned Cabinet Minister; he told me that it was far easier to become a Minister than a secretary of one of the departments; they say the work is very much like the work of a man who signs guarantees—it is only a matter of a signature now and then! It doesn't matter so much about the payment, there is always a second guarantor.
The Press—well, you know the Press. Roughly speaking it is just business, that is to say, it always adopts the opinion of the majority, and the majority, or, in other words, the greater number of subscribers, is reactionary. One day I asked a Liberal journalist how it was that he wrote in such laudatory terms about you, of whom he knew nothing. He said it was because public opinion, i.e. the largest number of subscribers, was on your side.
"But supposing public opinion turned against him?" I asked.
"Then, of course," he said, "I shall turn against him too."
You will understand that under these circumstances the whole generation which grew up after 1865, and which is not represented in Parliament, is in despair; and therefore they are either Nihilists—in other words, they don't care a d—— for anything—or they find their advantage in turning Conservative. To be a Liberal in these days is the devil's own job.
The financial position is depressed. The supply of bills, mine at least, reduced; no bank will look at the safest bills, even if they are signed by two doctors.
The "Triton" went into liquidation, as you know. Directors and liquidators took over the printed shares, but the shareholders and depositors received a number of lithographed ones from the well-known society at Norrköping, which alone managed to weather this period of frauds and swindles. I met a widow whohad a handful of papers connected with a marble quarry; they were large, beautiful sheets, printed in red and blue, on which 1000 Cr., 1000 Cr., was engraved; and below the figures, just as if they were standing security, appeared the names of well-known persons; three of them, at least, are knights of the Order of the Seraphim.
Nicholas Falk, the friend and brother, sick of his private money-lending business, because it detracted from the full value of his civic authority, which is far from being the case when the business is a public one, decided to combine with a few experts(?) and found a bank. The novel feature of the undertaking was expressed as follows:
"As experience—truly a melancholy experience" (Levin is the author, as you may guess) "has proved that deposit receipts are not in themselves a sufficient guarantee for the return of deposits—that is deposited money—we, the undersigned, actuated by unselfish zeal for the welfare of home industry, and desirous of giving greater security to the well-to-do public, have founded a bank, under the title of 'Deposit Guarantee Society Limited.' The novel and safe feature of the enterprise—and not everything new is safe—consists in the fact that the depositors instead of receiving deposit receipts, are given securities to the full value of the deposited sums, etc. etc."
They do a brisk business, and you may imagine what sort of securities they issue instead of deposit receipts.
Levin. Falk, with his keen eye for business, recognized at once the great advantage to be reaped from the services of a man with Levin's experience and colossal knowledge of people, acquired through his money-lending business. But to train him for all eventualities, and make him familiar with all the by-ways of the business, he felled him to the ground with his promissory note, and forced him into bankruptcy. Having done so, he appeared in the rôle of his saviour and made him his confidential clerk withthe title of secretary. And now Levin is installed in a little private office; but on no account is he permitted to show his face in the bank.
Isaac Levi is employed in the same bank as cashier. He passed his examinations (with Latin, Greek and Hebrew) first class in all subjects. TheGrey Bonnet, of course, reported his achievements. Now he is reading for the law, and doing a little business on his own account. He is like the eel; he has nine lives and lives on nothing. He takes no alcohol; he does not smoke; I don't know whether he has any vices, but he is formidable. He has an ironmongers shop at Hernösand, a tobacconists at Helsingförs, and a fancy goods shop at Södertelje; in addition he owns a few cottages at Stockholm, S. People say he is the coming man; I say the man has come.
After the winding-up of the "Triton," his brother retired with a considerable fortune, I am told, and is now doing business privately. I heard that he proposed buying the forest monastery near Upsala, and rebuilding it in a new style invented by his uncle of the Academy of Arts. But his offer was refused. Levi, very much offended, sent a notice to theGrey Bonnetunder the heading: "Persecution of the Jews in the Nineteenth Century." It won him the lively sympathy of the whole cultured public; the affair would win him a seat in Parliament if he cared for that distinction. A vote of thanks was presented to him by his co-religionists—(as if Levi had any religion) which was printed in theGrey Bonnet. They thanked him for standing up for the rights of the Jews (to buy the forest monastery). The address was handed to him at a banquet, to which also a great many Swedes (I always refer the Jewish question to its rightful domain, the ethnographical one) had been bidden, to feast on bad salmon and uncorked wine. The deeply moved hero of the day (videGrey Bonnet) received on the same occasion a present of 20,000 crowns (in shares) for the foundation of a Home for Fallen Boys of the Evangelical Denomination.
I was present at the banquet, and saw a sight I had never seen before—I saw Isaac the worse for drink! He shouted that he hated me, and you, and Falk, and all "Whites"; he alternately called us "whites," and "natives," androche; I had never heard the last word before, but no sooner had he uttered it than a large number of "blacks" crowded round us, looking so ominous that Isaac thought it better to take me into an adjoining room. There he poured out all his soul to me; he spoke of his sufferings as a schoolboy; of the ill-treatment to which master and school-fellows had subjected him, the daily knocks and cuffs from the street arabs. But what roused my indignation more than anything else was an incident which had happened to him during his military service; he was called up to the front at vespers and ordered to recite the Lord's Prayer. As he did not know it, he was scoffed and jeered at. His account made me change my opinion of him and his race.
Religious swindle and charitable fraud are more rampant than ever, and make life in our country very unpleasant. You will remember two imps of Satan, Mrs. Falk and Mrs. Homan, the two pettiest, vainest and most malicious creatures who ever idled away their days. You know the crèche they had founded and its end. Their latest achievement is a Home for Fallen Women, and the first inmate—received on my recommendation—was Marie! The poor girl had lent all her savings to a fellow who absconded with them. She was only too happy to find a home where she would be kept free of charge, and be able to retrieve her character. She told me that she did not mind all the religious palaver, which is, unfortunately, inseparable from an enterprise of this sort, as long as she could count on her cup of coffee in the morning.
The Rev. Skore, whom you will no doubt remember, has not been madepastor primarius, and from sheer annoyance he is begging for funds to build a new church. Printed begging-letters, signed by allthe wealthiest magnates of Sweden, are sent out to appeal to the charitable public. The church, which is to be three times the size of the church on the Blasieholm and connected with a sky-high tower, is to be built on the old site of St. Catherine's. The latter is supposed to be too small to satisfy the great spiritual needs from which the Swedish nation is suffering at the moment, and is, therefore, to be pulled down. The sum collected has already reached such dimensions that a treasurer had to be appointed (with free lodging and fuel). Who do you think is the treasurer? You would never guess! Struve!
Struve has become somewhat religious these days—I saysomewhat, because it is not much—only just enough for his position, for he is patronized by the faithful. This does, however, not interfere with his journalism and his drinking. But his heart is not soft, on the contrary, he is most bitter against all those who have not come down; between you and me, he has very much deteriorated; therefore he hates you and Falk, and he has sworn to slate you next time you are heard of. He had to submit to the marriage ceremony for the sake of the free lodging and fuel. He was married to his wife in the White Mountains. I was one of the witnesses. His wife, too, has been converted, for she is under the impression that religion is good form.
Lundell has left the religious sphere, and is painting nothing but portraits of directors; he has been made assistant at the Academy of Arts. He has also become immortal, for he has managed to smuggle a painting of his into the National Museum. It was accomplished by a very simple trick and ought to encourage imitators. Smith made a present to the National Museum of one of Lundell's genre pictures, a service which Lundell repaid by painting his portrait gratis! Splendid! Isn't it?
The end of a romance. One Sunday morning, at the hour when the Sabbath peace is not disturbed by the terrible church bells, I was sitting in my room,smoking. There was a knock at the door, and a tall, well-made man, whose face seemed familiar to me, entered—it was Rehnhjelm. We cross-examined each other. He is manager of a large factory and quite satisfied with his lot.
Presently there was another knock. It was Falk. (More of him later on.)
We revived old memories and discussed mutual friends. But by and by there was a pause, that strange silence which so frequently occurs after a lively conversation. Rehnhjelm took up a book, turned over the leaves and read out:
"A Cæsarean Operation: An academic treatise which, with the permission of the illustrious medical faculty, will be publicly discussed in the little lecture room of the University." What horrible diagrams! "Who in the world is the unfortunate being cursed thus to haunt the living after his death?"
"You will find it on page 2," I said.
He went on reading.
"The pelvis which, as No. 38, is preserved in the pathological collection of the Academy...." No—that can't be it. "Agnes Rundgren, spinster...."
The man's face turned as white as chalk. He got up and drank some water.
"Did you know the woman?" I asked, in order to distract his thoughts.
"Did I know her? She was on the stage, and I knew her at X-köping; after leaving X-köping, she was engaged in a Stockholm café, under the name of Beda Petterson."
Then you should have seen Falk! It came to a scene which ended in Rehnhjelm's cursing all women, and Falk, greatly excited, replying, that there were two kinds of women, which differed from each other as much as angels and devils. He was so moved that Rehnhjelm's eyes filled with tears.
And now to Falk! I purposely left him to the last. He is engaged to be married! How did it happen? He himself says: "We just met one another!"
As you know, I have no rigid opinions, but cultivate an open mind; but from what I have seen up to now, it is undeniable that love is something of which we bachelors know nothing—what we call love is nothing but frivolity. You may laugh if you like, you old scoffer!
Only in very bad plays have I seen such a rapid development of character, as I had occasion to watch in Falk. You won't be surprised to hear that his engagement was not all plain sailing. The girl's father, an old widower, a selfish army pensioner, looked upon his daughter as an investment, hoping that she would marry well and thereby secure him a comfortable old age. (Nothing at all unusual!) He therefore bluntly refused his consent. You should have seen Falk! He called on the old man again and again; he was kicked out, and yet he called again and told the old egoist to the face that he would marry his daughter without his consent, if he continued to object. I am not sure, but I believe it actually came to fisticuffs.
One evening Falk had accompanied his sweetheart home. They had both spent the evening at the house of one of the girl's relatives to whom Falk had introduced himself. When they turned the corner of the street in which the girl lives, they saw by the light of the street lamp that her father was leaning out of the window—he lives in a small house which belongs to him. Falk knocked at the garden gate; but nobody came to open it. At last he climbed over and was on the other side attacked by a large dog; he got the better of the brute and shut it up in the dust-bin. (Imagine the nervous Falk.) Then he compelled the porter to get up and open the gate. Now they had gained the yard and stood before the front door. He hammered it with a large stone, but no reply came from within; he searched the garden and found a ladder, by means of which he reached the old man's window. Open the door, he shouted, or I'll smash the window!
"If you smash the window, you rascal," yelled the old man, "I'll shoot you!"
Falk immediately smashed the window.
For a few moments there was silence. Finally a voice came from within the fortress:
"You are my man! I consent."
"I'm not fond of smashing windows," explained Falk, "but there's nothing I would not do to win your daughter."
The matter was settled, and they became engaged.
I don't know whether you know that Parliament has carried through its reorganization of the public offices, doubling the salaries and the number of posts, so that a young man in the first division is now in a position to marry. Falk is going to be married in the autumn.
His wife will keep her post at the school. I know next to nothing of the Woman's Question—it doesn't interest me—but I believe that our generation will get rid of the last remnant of the Eastern conception which still clings to marriage. In the days to come, husband and wife will enter into a partnership where both will retain their independence; they will not try to convert each other, but will mutually respect their weaknesses, and live together in a life-long friendship which will never be strained by the demands of one of the partners for amorous demonstrations.
I look upon Mrs. Nicholas Falk, the charitable she-devil, as nothing more than afemme entretenue, and I am sure she does so herself. Most women marry for a home where they need not work—be their own mistress, as it is called. The fact that marriage is on the decline is as much the woman's fault as the man's.
But I cannot make Falk out. He is studying numismatics with an almost unnatural zeal; he told me the other day that he was engaged in writing a text-book on numismatics, which he would endeavour to introduce into the schools where this science is to be taught.
He never reads a paper; he does not know what is going on in the world, and he seems to have abandonedthe idea of writing. He lives only for his work and his fiancée, whom he worships.
But I don't trust his calm. Falk is a political fanatic, well aware that he would be consumed if he allowed the fire to burn freely; therefore he tries to stifle it with hard, monotonous work; but I don't think that he will succeed; in spite of all his restraint the day is bound to come when he will cast aside all self-control and burst out into fresh flames.
Between you and me—I believe he belongs to one of those secret societies which are responsible for the reaction and militarism on the Continent. Not very long ago, at the reading of the King's Speech in Parliament, I saw him, dressed in a purple cloak, with a feather in his hat, sitting at the foot of the throne (at the foot of the throne!) and I thought—no, it would be a sin to say what I thought. But when the Prime Minister read his Majesty's gracious propositions respecting the state of the country and its needs, I saw a look in Falk's eyes which plainly said: What on earth does his Majesty know of the condition and needs of the country?
That man, oh! that man!
I conclude my review without having forgotten anybody. Enough for to-day. You shall soon hear from me again.
H. B. 1879.
Doubtless there is not another street in Stockholm as ugly, and not another house as old, as dirty, and as gloomy. The entrance gate has the inviting appearance of a disused gallows. The rubble stones in the yard have moved more closely together in the course of time, so that a few small blades of grass have been able to shoot up. The house stands by itself, like an old hermit who has sought a solitary spot in which to collapse. There has once been an Assaying Office in the yard, and the outside walls are blackened with smoke. The chinks between the window frames and the walls are grown over, and the house looks as if it had not washed its face or eyes for a generation. The foundation has settled, and the building is stooping to the left. The leaking gutter has been weeping tears which have drawn black furrows all over the front of the building; the plastering is crumbling off here and there, and on windy nights one can hear it rattling down the walls into the street below. The house looks like an old dowager house of poverty, recklessness, carelessness, and vice.
And yet there are two people who cannot pass through the street without stopping to look at the miserable, frowning old building with emotion almost amounting to love. To them the entrance gate is a triumphal arch, the weeds and the gutter a green meadow, and a murmuring brook, the black house a charming ruin, containing lovely, rose-red memories. It is more, even, for whenever they pass it, the airvibrates with music, perfumes rise from the earth, and they see the sun shining even on the cloudiest autumn day; there have been times when they forgot themselves so far as to kiss each other; but they have always been a little mad, these good people.
Three years ago our young friend—we may call him friend since he repented of his youthful errors, apologised to society, and became a respectable individual, serving the country and wearing purple in the House of Parliament—our young friend, I say, was busy on the third floor of the ugly old house with a sheet of pins between his lips, a hammer in his coat-pocket, and a pair of pincers under his arm; he was standing on a ladder, putting up curtains in a small room, furnished only with a tiny sofa, a tiny dressing-table, a small desk, and a very small bed with white curtains.
In the dining-room the faithful Isaac, in shirt-sleeves, was engaged in spreading paste on a piece of wallpaper, stretched on an ironing-board which rested on two chairs; he was whistling and singing one unknown song after the other to quite unheard-of tunes. When he was tired of working, he prepared luncheon on an empty box standing before the window.
Outside the sun was shining into the neighbour's garden. It was a tiny garden squeezed between the walls of the houses; it had a pear tree in full bloom, and two elder bushes covered with blossoms; between the gables a piece of blue sky was visible and the mast heads of the timber barges in the harbour.
Isaac had been to the dairy; had bought sandwiches and porter; had papered the future mistress's room; had purchased oleanders and ivy, so that the landing windows with their black frames should not shock the young wife as she entered her new home; he would have liked to paint them, but he was afraid that she might object to the smell.
A cab stopped before the front door.
"It's Borg," said Isaac. "What the dickens does he want here? And that pest, Levin, is with him!"
It was a long visit, lasting ten minutes, and a disagreeable one; but Falk bore it patiently, like any other trial; he had for ever broken with the past; in one respect at least; in another he was bound, for he had been compelled during the ten minutes to sign once more.
The next visitors were the sister-in-law, Mrs. Falk, and Mrs. Homan. They found the paper in the dining-room too dark, and the paper in the young wife's room too light. They thought the curtains in the husband's room were not wide enough, the carpet a bad match to the furniture, the clock old-fashioned, and the chandelier too dear for its plainness. One piece of furniture in the young wife's room especially roused their critical faculty, and gave rise to a long, whispered conversation. They called the kitchen black, the landing dirty, the entrance terrible; but otherwise they said everything was quite nice, much nicer than the yard, where there was not even a porter, led one to expect.
This was the second plague, and it passed like everything else in this world.
But Isaac had lost some of his gaiety after the criticism of his wallpapers, and Falk realized for a moment that it was a miserable hole. He opened the windows to let out the evil spirits which had invaded his pleasure garden. Isaac declared that during the wedding days he would have the two women shut up in the debtors' prison, so as to keep them safely away.
And then—then she came. He was standing at the window, and he saw her when she was still too far off to be seen; he expected to be believed when he maintained that she radiated light and that the street through which she was walking was bathed in sunshine. Of course he could have told endlessstories of her kindness, sweetness, and beauty; but not even she believed them, and it is not worth while repeating them.
She entered her future home and found everything charming. Isaac went into the kitchen to split some wood and light the kitchen fire. Nobody missed him until he returned with a tray bearing some cups of chocolate. It amused him; he knew that lovers never miss anybody in the wide world, and he found the terrible selfishness, which is called love, a very amiable quality; moreover, everybody admits that it is justified.
"What people said about it?" They said:
"Well, and so Falk is married?"
"Is he? Whom did he marry?"
"A schoolmistress!"
"Ugh! A woman with blue spectacles and short hair!"
And the questioner had all the information he wanted.
If the answer had been: "He's married old Kochstrom's daughter," the second question would have been: "Did he get any money with her?"
The world asks no further questions, and everything would be all right—if this were all. But the world demands that a couple which has three times given the clergyman the trouble to read the banns and the community to listen to them; which has forced its fellow-creatures to engage in genealogical research and send a reporter to the wedding—the world demands that such a couple shall be happy—woe to it if it is not!
Supposing that on coming home from school, tired with her work, angry at a slight, depressed because some of her efforts have proved a failure, she should meet a friend in the street who takes her hand and says: "You don't look too happy, Elizabeth," then woe to him!
Supposing that on leaving his office, in despair because he has been overlooked instead of promoted,he should meet a friend who finds him looking depressed, then woe to her!
Unhappy people, if you dare to be anything but happy!
It was a winter evening two or three years later; she was bending over her writing desk, correcting copybooks, he was sitting in his room computing assessments of property. The pens were scribbling, the clock was ticking, and the tea-kettle singing. Whenever he looked up from his documents at her sweet face, she raised her eyes, their glances met, and they nodded to each other as if they had been parted for a long time. And they continued working.
But finally he grew tired of his work.
"Talk to me a little," he pleaded.
And she eagerly complied with his request.
"But what do they talk about?"
The scoffer Borg once asked that question, when he declared matrimony to be an impossibility from the point of view of natural science.
He laid down the proposition that the moment must come when every subject had been discussed, when each partner knew every thought and opinion of the other, and when absolute silence was bound to reign.
The fool!
Printed byBallantyne & CompanyLondon ltd
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTESPunctuation has been normalized. And the following misprints have been corrected:Page10; listening to the plashing [splashing] of the waves;Page38; their mutal [mutual] acquaintance.Page50; took if [it] off.Page94; calm foosteps [footsteps].Page105; were of [the ]opinion.Page112; the promotor [promoter] of the Bill.Page189; the woman [in] question.Page213; Struve had diasppeared [disappeared].
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Punctuation has been normalized. And the following misprints have been corrected:Page10; listening to the plashing [splashing] of the waves;Page38; their mutal [mutual] acquaintance.Page50; took if [it] off.Page94; calm foosteps [footsteps].Page105; were of [the ]opinion.Page112; the promotor [promoter] of the Bill.Page189; the woman [in] question.Page213; Struve had diasppeared [disappeared].