Roughly speaking, the rule was to cut out everything said in favour of journalists and working men and everything depreciating clergymen, officers, wholesale merchants (not retail), the professions, andfamous writers. Moreover, at least once a week, it was his business to attack the management of the Royal Theatre, and severely criticize the frivolous musical comedies produced in the Little Theatre, in the name of morality and public decency—he had noticed that the working men did not patronize these theatres. Once a month the town councillors had to be accused of extravagance. As often as opportunity arose the form of government, not Government itself, had to be assailed. The editor severely censored all attacks on certain members of Parliament and ministers. Which? That was a mystery unknown to even the editor; it depended on a combination of circumstances which only the secret proprietor of the paper could deal with.
Falk worked with his scissors until one of his hands was black. He had frequent recourse to the gum-bottle, but the gum smelt sour and the heat in the room was stifling. The poor aloe, capable of enduring thirst like a camel, and patiently receiving countless stabs from an irritated steel-nib, increased the terrible resemblance to a desert. It had been stabbed until it was covered with black wounds; its leaves shot, like a bundle of donkeys' ears out of the parched mould. Falk probably had a vague consciousness of something of this sort, as he sat, plunged in thought, for before he could realize what he was doing, he had docked off all the ear lobes. When he perceived what he had done, he painted the wounds with gum and watched it drying in the sun.
He vaguely wondered for a few moments how he was to get dinner, for he had strayed on to that path which leads to destruction, so-calledpoor circumstances. Finally he lit a pipe and watched the soothing smoke rising and bathing, for a few seconds in the sunshine. It made him feel more tolerant of poor Sweden, as she expressed herself in these daily, weekly, and monthly reports, called the Press.
He put the scissors aside and threw the papers into acorner; he shared the contents of the earthen water-bottle with the aloe; the miserable object looked like a creature whose wings had been clipped; a spirit standing in a bog on its head, digging for something; for pearls, for instance, or at any rate, for empty shells.
Then despair, like a tanner, seized him again with a long hook, and pushed him down into the vat, where he was to be prepared for the knife, which should scrape his skin off and make him like everybody else. And he felt no remorse, no regret at a wasted life, but only despair at having to die in his youth, die the spiritual death, before he had had an opportunity of being of use in the world; despair that he was being cast into the fire as a useless reed.
The clock on the German church struck eleven, and the chimes began to play "Oh blessed land" and "My life a wave"; as if seized by the same idea, an Italian barrel-organ, with a flute accompaniment, began to play "The Blue Danube." So much music put new life into the tinsmith below, who began hammering his iron-sheet with redoubled energy.
The din and uproar prevented Falk from becoming aware of the opening of the door and the entrance of two men. One of them had a tall, lean figure, an aquiline nose and long hair; the other one was short, blond, and thick set; his perspiring face much resembled the quadruped which the Hebrews consider more unclean than any other. Their outward appearance betrayed an occupation requiring neither much mental nor great physical strength; it had a quality of vagueness, pointing to irregularity of work and habits.
"Hsh!" whispered the tall man, "are you alone?"
Falk was partly pleased, partly annoyed at the sight of his visitors.
"Quite alone; the Red One's left town."
"Has he? Come along then and have some dinner."
Falk had no objection; he locked the office andwent with his visitors to the nearest public-house, where the three of them sat down in the darkest corner.
"Here, have some brandy," said the thick-set man, whose glazed eyes sparkled at the sight of the brandy bottle.
But Falk who had only joined his friends because he was yearning for sympathy and comfort, paid no attention to the proffered delights.
"I haven't been as miserable as this for a long time," he said.
"Have some bread and butter and a herring," said the tall man. "We'll have some caraway cheese. Here! Waiter!"
"Can't you advise me?" Falk began again. "I can't stand the Red One any longer, and I must...."
"Here! Waiter! Bring some black bread! Drink, Falk, and don't talk nonsense."
Falk was thrown out of the saddle; he made no second attempt to find sympathy with his mental difficulties, but tried another, not unusual way.
"Your advice is the brandy bottle?" he said. "Very well, with all my soul, then!"
The alcohol flowed through his veins like poison, for he was not accustomed to take strong drink in the morning; the smell of cooking, the buzzing of the flies, the odour of the faded flowers, which stood by the side of the dirty table-centre, induced in him a strange feeling of well-being. And his low companions with their neglected linen, their greasy coats, and their unwashed gaol-bird faces harmonized so well with his own degraded position, that he felt a wild joy surging in his heart.
"We were in the Deer Park last night and, by Jove! we did drink," said the stout man, once more enjoying the past delights in memory.
Falk had no answer to this, and moreover, his thoughts were running in a different groove.
"Isn't it jolly to have a morning off?" said the tall man, who seemed to be playing the part of tempter.
"It is, indeed!" replied Falk, trying to measure his freedom, as it were, with a glance through the window; but all he saw was a fire-escape and a dust-bin in a yard which never received more than a faint reflexion of the summer sky.
"Half a pint! That's it! Ah! Well and what do you say to the 'Triton'? Hahaha!"
"Don't laugh," said Falk; "many a poor devil will suffer through it."
"Who are the poor devils? Poor capitalists? Are you sorry for those who don't work, but live on the proceeds of their money? No, my boy, you are still full of prejudices! There was a funny tale in theHornetabout a wholesale merchant, who bequeathed to the crèche Bethlehem twenty thousand crowns, and was given the order of Vasa for his munificence; now it has transpired that the bequest was in 'Triton' shares with joint liability, and so the crèche is of course bankrupt. Isn't that lovely? The assets were twenty-five cradles and an oil painting by an unknown master. It's too funny! The portrait was valued at five crowns! Hahahaha!"
The subject of conversation irritated Falk, for he knew more of the matter than the two others.
"Did you see that theRed Capunmasked that humbug Schönström who published that volume of miserable verses at Christmas?" said the stout man. "It really was a rare pleasure to learn the truth about the rascal. I have more than once given him a sound slating in theCopper-Snake."
"But you were rather unjust; his verses were not as bad as you said," remarked the tall man.
"Not as bad? They were worse than mine which theGrey Bonnettore to shreds. Don't you remember?"
"By-the-by, Falk, have you been to the theatre in the Deer Park?" asked the tall man.
"No!"
"What a pity! That Lundholm gang of thieves is playing there. Impudent fellow, the director! He sent no seats to theCopper-Snake, and when wearrived at the theatre last night, he turned us out. But he'll pay for it! You give it to the dog! Here's paper and pencil. Heading: 'Theatre and Music. Deer Park Theatre.' Now, you go on!"
"But I haven't seen the company."
"What does that matter? Have you never written about anything you hadn't seen?"
"No! I've unmasked humbugs, but I have never attacked unoffending people, and I know nothing about this company."
"They are a miserable lot. Just scum," affirmed the stout man. "Sharpen your pen and bruise his heel; you are splendid at it."
"Why don't you bruise him yourselves?"
"Because the printers know our handwriting and some of them walk on in the crowds. Moreover Lundholm is a violent fellow; he will be sure to invade the editorial office; then it will be a good thing to be able to tell him that the criticism is a communication from the public. And while you write up the stage, I will do the concerts. There was a sacred concert last week. Wasn't the man's name Daubry? With a 'y'?"
"No, with an 'i,'" corrected the fat man. "Don't forget that he's a tenor and sang the 'Stabat Mater.'"
"How do you spell it?"
"I'll tell you in a minute."
The stout editor of theCopper-Snaketook a packet of greasy newspapers from the gas-meter.
"Here's the whole programme, and, I believe, a criticism as well."
Falk could not help laughing.
"How could a criticism appear simultaneously with the advertisement?"
"Why shouldn't it? But we shan't want it; I will criticize that French mob myself. You'd better do the literature, Fatty!"
"Do the publishers send books to theCopper-Snake?" asked Falk.
"Are you mad?"
"Do you buy them yourselves for the sake of reviewing them?"
"Buy them? Greenhorn! Have another glass and cheer up, and I'll treat you to a chop."
"Do you read the books which you review?"
"Who do you think has time for reading books? Isn't it enough to write about them? It's quite sufficient to read the papers. Moreover, it's our principle to slate everything."
"An absurd principle!"
"Not at all! It brings all the author's enemies and enviers on one's side—and so one's in the majority. Those who are neutral would rather see an author slated than praised. To the nobody there is something edifying and comforting in the knowledge that the road to fame is beset with thorns. Don't you think so?"
"You may be right. But the idea of playing with human destinies in this way is terrible."
"Oh! It's good for young and old; I know that, for I was persistently slated in my young days."
"But you mislead public opinion."
"The public does not want to have an opinion, it wants to satisfy its passions. If I praise your enemy you writhe like a worm and tell me that I have no judgment; if I praise your friend, you tell me that I have. Take that last piece of the Dramatic Theatre, Fatty, which has just been published in book form."
"Are you sure that it has been published?"
"I am certain of it. It's quite safe to say that there isn't enough action in it; that's a phrase the public knows well; laugh a little at the 'beautiful language'; that's good, old, disparaging praise; then attack the management for having accepted such a play and point out that the moral teaching is doubtful—a very safe thing to say about most things. But as you haven't seen the performance, say that want of room compels us to postpone our criticism of the acting. Do that, and you can't make a mistake."
"Who is the unfortunate author?" asked Falk.
"Nobody knows."
"Think of his parents, his friends, who will read your possibly quite unjust remarks."
"What's that got to do with theCopper-Snake? They were hoping to see a friend slated; they know what to expect from theCopper-Snake."
"Have you no conscience?"
"Has the public which supports us, a conscience? Do you think we could survive if it did not support us? Would you like to hear a paragraph which I wrote on the present state of literature? I can assure you it will give you plenty to think about. I have a copy with me. But let us have some stout first. Waiter! Here! Now I'm going to give you a treat; you can profit by it if you like."
"'We have not heard so much whining in the Swedish verse-factory for many years; this constant puling is enough to drive a man into a lunatic asylum. Robust rascals caterwaul like cats in March; they imagine that anæmia and adenoids will arouse public interest now that consumption is played out. And withal they have backs broad as brewers' horses and faces red as tapsters. This one whimpers about the infidelity of women, although all he has to go on is the bought loyalty of a wanton; that one tells us that he has no gold, but that his "harp is all he possesses in the world"—the liar! He has five thousand crowns dividend per annum and the right to an endowed chair in the Swedish Academy. A third is a faithless, cynical scoffer, who cannot open his lips without breathing forth his impure spirit and babbling blasphemies. Their verses are not a whit better than those which thirty years ago clergymen's daughters sang to the guitar. They should write for confectioners at a penny a line, and not waste the time of publishers, printers, and reviewers with their rhymes. What do they write about? About nothing at all, that is to say about themselves. It is bad form to talk about oneself, but it is quite the right thing to write about oneself. What are they bemoaning?Their incapacity to achieve a success? Success? That is the word! Have they produced one single thought, capable of benefiting their fellow-creatures; the age in which they live? If they had but once championed the cause of the helpless, their sins might be forgiven them; but they have not. Therefore they are as sounding brass—nay, they are as a clanking piece of tin and the cracked bell of a fool's cap—for they have no other love than the love of the next edition of their books, the love of the Academy and the love of themselves.'"
"That's sarcasm, isn't it? What?"
"It's unjust," said Falk.
"I find it very impressive," said the stout man. "You can't deny that it is well written. Can you? He wields a pen which pierces shoe-leather."
"Now, lads, stop talking and write; afterwards you shall have coffee and liqueurs."
And they wrote of human merit and human unworthiness and broke hearts as if they were breaking egg-shells.
Falk felt an indescribable longing for fresh air; he opened the window which looked on the yard; it was dark and narrow like a tomb; all he could see was a small square of the sky if he bent his head far back. He fancied that he was sitting in his grave, breathing brandy fumes and kitchen smells, eating the funeral repast at the burial of his youth, his principles and his honour. He smelt the elder-blossoms which stood on the table, but they reeked of decay; once more he looked out of the window eager to find an object which would not inspire him with loathing; but there was nothing but a newly tarred dust-bin—standing like a coffin—with its contents of cast-off finery and broken litter. His thoughts climbed up the fire-escape which seemed to lead from dirt, stench, and shame right up into the blue sky; but no angels were ascending and descending, and no love was watching from above—there was nothing but the empty, blue void.
Falk took his pen and began to shade the letters of the headline "Theatre," when a strong hand clutched his arm and a firm voice said:
"Come along, I want to speak to you!"
He looked up, taken back and ashamed. Borg stood beside him, apparently determined not to let him go.
"May I introduce...." began Falk.
"No, you may not," interrupted Borg, "I don't want to know any drunken scribblers, come along."
He drew Falk to the door.
"Where's your hat? Oh, here it is! Come along!"
They were in the street. Borg took his arm, led him to the nearest square, marched him into a shop and bought him a pair of canvas shoes. This done, he drew him across the lock to the harbour. A cutter lay there, fast to her moorings, but ready to go to sea; in the cutter sat young Levi reading a Latin grammar and munching a piece of bread and butter.
"This," said Borg, "is the cutterUrijah; it's an ugly name, but she is a good boat and she is insured in the 'Triton.' There sits her owner, the Hebrew lad Isaac, reading a Latin grammar—the idiot wants to go to college—and from this moment you are engaged as his tutor for the summer—and now we'll be off for our summer residence at Nämdö. All hands on board! No demur! Ready? Put off!"
Candidate BorgtoJournalist Struve
Nämdö,June 18—
Old scandal-monger!—As I am convinced that neither you nor Levin have paid off your instalments of the loan made by the Shoemakers' Bank, I am sending you herewith a promissory note, so that you may raise a new loan from the Architects' Bank. If there is anything over after the instalments have been paid up, we will divide it equally amongst us. Please send me my share by steamer to Dalarö, where I will call for it.
I have now had Falk under treatment for a month, and I believe he is on the road to recovery.
You will remember that after Olle's famous lecture he left us abruptly and, instead of making use of his brother and his brother's connexions, went on the staff of theWorkman's Flag, where he was ill-treated for fifty crowns a month. But the wind of freedom which blew there must have had a demoralizing effect on him, for he became morose and neglected his appearance. With the help of the girl Beda I kept my eye on him, and when I considered him ripe for a rupture with the communards, I went and fetched him away.
I found him in a low public-house called "The Star," in the company of two scandal writers with whom he was drinking brandy—I believe they were writing at the same time. He was in a melancholy condition, as you would say.
As you know, I regard mankind with calm indifference; men are to me geological preparations, minerals; some crystallize under one condition, others under another; it all depends on certain laws or circumstances which should leave us completely unmoved. I don't weep over the lime-spar, because it is not as hard as a rock-crystal.
Therefore I cannot regard Falk's condition as melancholy; it was the outcome of his temperament (heart you would say) plus the circumstances which his temperament had created.
But he was certainly "down" when I found him. I took him on board our cutter and he remained passive. But just as we had pushed off, he turned round and saw Beda standing on the shore, beckoning to him; I can't think how she got there. On seeing her, our man went clear out of his mind. Put me ashore! he screamed, threatening to jump overboard. I seized him by the arms, pushed him into the cabin and locked the door.
As we passed Vaxholm, I posted two letters; one to the editor of theWorkman's Flag, begging him to excuse Falk's absence, and the other to his landlady, asking her to send him his clothes.
In the meantime he had calmed down, and when he beheld the sea and the skerries, he became sentimental and talked a great deal of nonsense: he had lost all hope of ever seeing God's (?) green earth again, he said, and so on.
But presently he began to suffer from something like qualms of conscience. He maintained that he had no right to be happy and take a holiday when there were so many unhappy people in the world; he imagined that he was neglecting his duty towards the scoundrel who edits theWorkman's Flag, and begged us to row him back. When I talked to him of the terrible time he had just gone through, he replied that it was the duty of all men to work and suffer for one another. This view had almost become a religion with him, but I have cured him of it with soda water and salt baths. He was completely broken, and I hadgreat difficulty in patching him up, for it was hard to say where the physical trouble ended and the psychical began.
I must say that in a certain respect he excites my astonishment—I won't say admiration, for I never admire anybody. He seems to suffer from an extraordinary mania which makes him act in direct contradiction to his own interest. He might have been in a splendid position, if he had not thrown up his career in the Civil Service, particularly as his brother would, in that case have helped him with a sum of money. Instead of that he cast his reputation to the winds and slaved for a brutal plebeian; and all for the sake of his ideals! It is most extraordinary!
But he seems to be mending at last, more particularly after a lesson he had here. Can you believe it, he called the fishermen "sir," and took off his hat to them. In addition he indulged in cordial chats with the natives, in order to find out "how these people lived." The result was that the fishermen pricked up their ears, and one of them asked me one day whether "this Falk" paid for his own board, or whether the doctor (I) paid for him? I told Falk about it and it depressed him; he is always despondent, whenever he is robbed of a delusion. A few days later he talked to our landlord on the subject of universal suffrage; later on our landlord asked me whether Falk was in poor circumstances.
During the first few days he ran up and down the shore like a madman. Often he swam far out into the fjörd, as if he never meant to return again. As I always looked upon suicide as the sacred right of every individual, I did not interfere.
Isaac told me that Falk had opened his heart to him on the subject of the girl Beda; she seems to have made an awful fool of him.
A propos of Isaac! He is one of the shrewdest fellows I ever met. He has, after one month's study, mastered the Latin grammar, and he reads his Cæsar as we read theGrey Bonnet; and what's more, heknows all about it, which we never did. His brain is receptive, that is to say, capable of assimilating knowledge, and in addition to this it is practical; this combination has produced many a genius, in spite of gross stupidity in many other respects. Every now and then he indulges his business instincts; the other day he gave us a brilliant example of his talent in that direction.
I know nothing about his financial position—for in that respect he is very reticent—but a little while ago he had to pay a few hundred crowns. He was very fidgety, and as he did not want to apply to his brother (of the "Triton") with whom he is not on friendly terms, he asked me to lend him the sum. I was not in a position to do so. Thereupon he sat down, took a sheet of note-paper, wrote a letter and sent it off by special messenger. For a few days nothing happened.
In front of our cottage grew a pretty little oakwood which shaded us from the sun and sheltered us from the strong sea breezes. I don't know much about trees and things pertaining to nature, but I love to sit in the shade when the days are hot. One morning, on pulling up my blind, I was dumbfounded; I was looking at the open fjörd and a yacht riding at anchor about a cable-length from the shore. Every tree had gone, and Isaac was sitting on a stump reading Euclid and counting the trunks as they were being carried on board the yacht.
I wakened Falk; he was furious and had a quarrel with Isaac who made a thousand crowns on the deal. Our landlord received two hundred, all he had asked for. I could have killed Isaac, not because he had had the trees cut down, but because I had not thought of it first.
Falk said it was unpatriotic, but Isaac swears that the removal of the "rubbish" has improved the view; he declares that he will take a boat next week and visit the neighbouring islets with the same object.
Our landlord's wife cried all day long, but her husband went to Dalarö to buy her a new dress; heremained away for two whole days, and when he returned at last, he was drunk; there was nothing in the boat, and when his wife asked for the new dress, the fisherman confessed that he had forgotten all about it.
Enough for the present. Write soon and tell me a few new scandals, and be careful how you manipulate the loan.
Your deadly enemy and security,H. B.
P.S. I read in the papers that a Civil Service Bank is about to be established. Who is going to put money into it? Keep an eye on it, so that we can place a bill there when the time comes.
Please put the following paragraph into theGrey Bonnet; it will affect my medical degree.
Scientific Discovery: Cand. Med. Henrik Borg, one of our younger distinguished medical men has, while engaged in zootomic research on the skerries near Stockholm, discovered a new species of the family Clypeaster, to which he has given the very pertinent name ofmaritimus. Its characteristics may be described as follows: Cutaneous laminæ in five porous ambulacral shields and five interambulacral shields, with warts instead of pricks. The animal has excited much interest in the scientific world.
Arvid FalktoBeda Petterson
Nämdö,August 18—
As I walk along the seashore and see the roadweed growing in sand and pebbles, I think of you blossoming for a whole winter in an inn of old Stockholm.
I know nothing more delightful than to lie full length on a cliff and feel the fragments of gneiss tickling my ribs while I gaze seaward. It makes me feel proud, and I imagine that I am Prometheus, while the vulture—that is you—has to lie in a feather bed in Sandberg Street and swallow mercury.
Seaweed is of no use while it grows at the bottom ofthe sea; but when it decays on the shore it smells of iodine which is a cure for love, and bromide, which is a cure for insanity.
There was no hell until Paradise was quite complete, that is to say until woman was created (chestnut!).
Far away, by the open sea, there lives a pair of eider ducks, in an old quarter cask. If one considers that the stretched out wings of the eider measure two feet, it seems a miracle—and love is a miracle. The whole world is too small for me.
Beda PettersontoMr. Falk
Stockholm,August 18—
Dear Frent,—i have just receeved your letter, but i cannot say that i have understood it, i see you think that i am in Sandberg Street, but that is a grate lie and i can undertand why that blackgard says i am, it is a grate lie and i sware that i love you as much as befor, i often long to see you but it canot be yet.
Your fathfull Beda.
P. S. Dear Arvid, if you could lent me 30 crowns till the 15th, i sware i will pay it back on the 15th becos i shall receeve money then, i have been so ill and i am often so sad that i wish i was dead. The barmaid in the café was a horrid creechur who was jelous becaus of the stout Berglund and that is why i left. All they say of me is lies i hope you are well and dont forget your
The same.
You can send the money to Hulda in the Café then i shall get it.
Candidate BorgtoJournalist Struve
Nämdö,August 18—
Conservative Blackguard,—You must have embezzled the money, for instead of receiving cash, I received a request for payment from the Shoemakers' Bank. Do you imagine a man has a right to steal because he has a wife and children? Render anaccount at once, else I shall come up to town and make a row.
I have read the paragraph, which, of course, was not without errors. It said zoologic instead of zootomic, and Crypeaster instead of Clypeaster. Nevertheless, I hope it will serve its purpose.
Falk went mad after receiving a letter in a feminine handwriting a day or two ago. One minute he was climbing trees, at the next he was diving to the bottom of the sea. I expect it was the crisis—I'll talk to him like a father a little later on.
Isaac has sold his yacht without asking my permission, and for this reason we are, at the moment, enemies. He is at present reading the second book of Livy and founding a Fishing Company.
He has bought a strömming-net, a seal-gun, twenty-five pipe stems, a salmon line, two bass-nets, a shed for drag-nets and a—church. The latter seems incredible, but it is quite true. I admit it was scorched a little by the Russians in 1719, but the walls are still standing. The parish possesses a new one which serves the ordinary purpose; the old one was used as a parochial store-room. Isaac is thinking of making the Academy a present of it, in the hope of receiving the order of Vasa.
The latter has been given for less. Isaac's uncle, who is an innkeeper, received it for treating the deaf and dumb to bread and butter and beer when they used the riding-ground in the autumn. He did it for six years. Then he received his reward. Now he takes no more notice of the deaf and dumb, which proves how fatal the order of Vasa may be under certain circumstances.
Unless I drown the rascal Isaac, he won't rest until he has bought all Sweden.
Pull yourself together and behave like an honourable man, or I shall bear down upon you like Jehu, and then you'll be lost.
H. B.
P.S. When you write the notice relating to thedistinguished strangers at Dalarö, mention me and Falk, but ignore Isaac; his presence irritates me—he went and sold his yacht.
Send me some blank bills (blue ones, sola-bills) when you send the money.
Candidate BorgtoJournalist Struve
Nämdö,September 18—
Man of honour!—Money arrived! Seems to have been exchanged, for the Architects' Bank always pays in Scanian bills of fifty. However, never mind!
Falk is well; he has passed the crisis like a man; he has regained his self-confidence—a most important quality as far as worldly success goes, but a quality which, according to statistics is considerably weakened in children who lose their mothers at an early age. I gave him a prescription which he promised to try all the more readily as the same idea had occurred to him. He will return to his former profession, but without accepting his brother's help—his last act of folly of which I do not approve—re-enter society, register his name with the rest of the cattle, become respectable, make himself a social position, and hold his tongue until his word bears weight.
The latter is absolutely necessary, if he is to remain alive; he has a tendency to insanity, and is bound to lose his reason unless he forgets all about these ideas which I really cannot understand; and I don't believe that he himself could define what it is he wants.
He has begun the cure and I am amazed at his progress. I'm sure he'll end as a member of the Royal Household.
That is what I believed until a few days ago when he read in a paper an account of the Commune at Paris. He at once had a relapse and took to climbing trees again. He got over it, though, and now he does not dare to look at a paper. But he never says a word. Beware of the man when his apprenticeship is over.
Isaac is now learning Greek. He considers the text-books too stupid and too long; therefore he takes them to pieces, cuts out the most important bits and pastes them into an account book which he has arranged like a summary for his forthcoming examinations.
Unfortunately, his increasing knowledge of the classics makes him impudent and disagreeable. So, for instance, he dared to contradict the pastor the other day while playing a game of draughts with him, and maintain that the Jews had invented Christianity and that all those baptized were really Jews. Latin and Greek have ruined him! I am afraid that I have nursed a dragon in my hairy bosom; if this is so, then the seed of the woman must bruise the serpent's head.
H. B.
P.S. Falk has shaved his American beard and no longer raises his hat to the fishermen.
You'll not hear from me again from Nämdö. We are returning to town on Monday.
It was autumn again. On a clear November morning Arvid Falk was walking from his elegantly furnished rooms in Great Street to ... man's Boarding School near Charles XII Market, where he had an appointment as master of the Swedish language and history.
During the autumn months he had made his way back into civilized society, a proceeding which had brought home to him the fact that he had become a perfect savage during his wanderings. He had discarded his disreputable hat and bought a high one which he found difficult, at first, to keep on his head; he had bought gloves, but in his savagery he had replied "fifteen" when the shopgirl asked for his size, and blushed when his reply brought a smile to the face of every girl in the shop.
The fashion had changed, since he had last bought clothes; as he was walking through the streets, he looked upon himself as a dandy, and every now and then examined his reflexion in the shop windows, to see whether his garments set well.
Now he was strolling up and down the pavement before the Dramatic Theatre and waiting for the clock on St. James' Church to strike nine; he felt uneasy and embarrassed, as if he were a schoolboy going to school himself; the pavement was so short, and as again and again he retraced his footsteps he compared himself to a dog on a chain.
For a moment he had a wild thought of taking a wider range, a very much wider range, for if he went straight on, he would come to Lill-Jans, andhe remembered the spring morning when that very pavement had led him away from society, which he detested, into liberty, nature, and—slavery.
It struck nine. He stood in the corridor; the schoolroom doors were closed; in the twilight he saw a long row of children's garments hanging against the wall: hats, boas, bonnets, wraps, gloves, and muffs were lying on tables and window sills, and whole regiments of button boots and overshoes stood on the floor. But there was no smell of damp clothes and wet leather as in the halls of the Parliamentary Buildings and in the Working-men's Union "Phœnix," or—he became conscious of a faint odour of newly mown hay—it seemed to come from a little muff lined with blue silk and trimmed with tassels, which looked like a white kitten with black dots. He could not resist taking it in his hand and smelling the perfume—new-mown hay—when the front door opened and a little girl of about ten came in accompanied by a maid.
She looked at the master with big fearless eyes, and dropped a coquettish little curtsey; the almost embarrassed master replied with a bow which made the little beauty smile—and the maid, too. She was late; but she was quite unconcerned and allowed her maid to take off her outdoor garments and overshoes as calmly as if she had come to a dance.
From the class-room came a sound which made his heart beat—what was it? Ah! The organ—the old organ! a legion of children's voices were singing "Jesus, at the day's beginning...." He felt ill at ease, and forced himself to fix his mind on Borg and Isaac in order to control his feelings.
But matters went from bad to worse: "Our Father, which art in Heaven...." The old prayer—it was long ago....
The silence was so profound that he could hear the raising of all the little heads and the rustling of collars and pinafores; the doors were thrown open; he looked at a huge, moving flower-bed composed oflittle girls between eight and fourteen. He felt self-conscious like a thief caught in the act, when the old headmistress shook hands with him; the flowers waved to and fro, and there was much excited whispering and exchanging of significant glances.
He sat down at the end of a long table, surrounded by twenty fresh faces with sparkling eyes; twenty children who had never experienced the bitterest of all sorrows, the humiliations of poverty; they met his glance boldly and inquisitively, but he was embarrassed and had to pull himself together with an effort; before long, however, he was on friendly terms with Anna and Charlotte, Georgina and Lizzy and Harry; teaching was a pleasure. He made allowances, and let Louis XIV and Alexander be termed great men, like all others who had been successful; he permitted the French Revolution to be called a terrible event, during which the noble Louis XVI and the virtuous Marie Antoinette perished miserably, and so on.
When he entered the office of the Board of Purveyance of Hay for the Cavalry Regiments, he felt young and refreshed. He stayed till eleven reading theConservative; then he went to the offices of the Committee on Brandy Distilleries, lunched, and wrote two letters, one to Borg and one to Struve.
On the stroke of one he was in the Department for Death Duties. Here he collated an assessment of property which brought him in a hundred crowns; he had time enough before dinner to read the proofs of the revised edition of the Forest Laws, which he was editing.
It struck three. Anybody crossing the Riddarhus Market at that time could have met on the bridge a young, important-looking man, with pockets bulging with manuscripts, and hands crossed on his back; he is strolling slowly along, accompanied by an elderly, lean, grey-haired man of fifty, the actuary of the dead. The estate of every citizen who dies has to be declared to him; according to the amounthe takes his percentage; some say that this is his duty; others that he represents the Earth, and has to watch that the dead take nothing away with them, as everything is a loan—without interest. In any case, he is a man more interested in the dead than the living, and therefore Falk likes his company; he, on the other hand, is attached to Falk because, like himself, he collects coins and autographs, and because he possesses that excellent quality, tolerance, which is rarely found in a young man.
The two friends enter the Restaurant Rosengren, where they are fairly certain not to meet young men and where they can discuss numismatics and autography. They take their coffee in the Café Rydberg and look at catalogues of coins until six. At six o'clock the officialPostappears, and they read the promotions.
Each enjoys the other's company, for they never quarrel. Falk is so free from fixed opinions that he is the most amiable man in the world, liked and appreciated by chiefs and colleagues.
Occasionally they dine in the Hamburg Exchange and take a liqueur or two at the Opera Restaurant, and to see them walking along arm in arm, at eleven o'clock, is really quite an edifying sight.
Moreover, Falk has become a regular guest at family dinners and suppers in houses into which Borg's father has introduced him. The women find him interesting, although they do not know how to take him; he is always smiling and expert at sarcastic little pleasantries.
But when he is sick of family life and the social life, he visits the Red Room, and there he meets the redoubtable Borg, his admirer Isaac, his secret enemy and envier Struve, the man who never has any money, and the sarcastic Sellén, who is gradually preparing his second success, after all his imitators have accustomed the public to his manner.
Lundell, who, after the completion of his altar-piece, gave up painting sacred pictures and became a fatEpicurean, only comes to the Red Room when he has no money to pay for his dinner; he makes a living by portrait painting, a profession which brings him countless invitations to dinners and suppers; Lundell maintains that these invitations are essential for making character studies.
Olle, who is still employed by the stonemason, has become a gloomy misanthrope after his great failure as a politician and orator. He refuses "to impose on" his former friends and lives a solitary life.
Falk is in a boisterous, riotous mood whenever he visits the Red Room, and Borg is of opinion that he does him credit; he is a veritablesappeurto whom nothing is sacred—except politics; this is a subject on which he never touches. But if, while he lets off his fireworks for the amusement of his friends, he should catch, through the dense tobacco smoke, a glimpse of the morose Olle on the other side of the room, his mood changes, he becomes gloomy like a night on the sea, and swallows large quantities of strong liquor, as if he wanted to extinguish a smouldering fire.
But Olle has not been seen for a long time.
The snow was falling lightly and silently, clothing the street in pure white, as Falk and Sellén were walking to the infirmary in the south-eastern suburb of Kingsholm, to call for Borg on their way to the Red Room.
"It's strange that the first snow should create an almost solemn impression," said Sellén. "The dirty ground is transformed to...."
"Are you sentimental?" scoffed Falk.
"Oh, no! I was merely talking from the point of view of a landscape painter."
They continued their way in silence, wading through the whirling snow.
"The Kingsholm with its infirmaries always strikes me as uncanny," remarked Falk, after a pause.
"Are you sentimental?" scoffed Sellén.
"Not at all, but this part of the town always makes that impression on me."
"Nonsense! It doesn't make any impression at all; you imagine it does. Here we are, and Borg's windows are lit up. Perhaps he's got some nice corpses to-night."
They were standing before the door of the institute. The huge building with its many dark windows glared at them as if it were inquiring what they wanted at that hour of the night. They passed the round flower bed, and entered the small building on the right.
At the very back of the room Borg was sitting alone in the lamplight, working at the mutilated body of a man who had hanged himself.
"Good evening," said Borg, laying aside his knife. "Would you like to see an old friend?"
He did not wait for the answer—which was not forthcoming—but lighted a lantern, took his overcoat and a bunch of keys.
"I didn't know that we had any friends here," said Sellén, desperately clinging to a flippant mood.
"Come along!" said Borg.
They crossed the yard and entered the large building; the creaking door closed behind them, and the little piece of candle, a remnant from the last card party, threw its red, feeble glimmer on the white walls. The two strangers tried to read Borg's face, wondering whether he was up to some trick, but the face was inscrutable.
They turned to the left and went along a passage which echoed to their footsteps in a way which suggested that they were being followed. Falk kept close behind Borg and tried to keep Sellén at his back.
"Over there!" said Borg, standing still in the middle of the passage.
Nobody could see anything but walls. But they heard a low trickling sound, like the falling of a gentle rain and became aware of a strange odour, resembling the smell of a damp flower-bed or a pine-wood in October.
"To the right!" said Borg.
The right wall was made of glass, and behind it, on their backs, lay three white bodies.
Borg selected a key, opened the glass door, and entered.
"Here!" he said, standing still before the second of the three.
It was Olle. He lay there as quietly, with his hands folded across his chest, as if he were taking an afternoon nap. His drawn-up lips created the impression that he was smiling. He was well-preserved.
"Drowned?" asked Sellén, who was the first to regain his self-possession.
"Drowned," echoed Borg. "Can either of you identify his clothes?"
Three miserable suits were hanging against the wall. Sellén at once picked out the right one; a blue jacket with sporting buttons, and a pair of black trousers, rubbed white at the knees.
"Are you certain?"
"Ought to know my own coat—which I borrowed from Falk."
Sellén drew a pocket-book from the breast pocket of the jacket, it was saturated with water and covered with green algæ, which Borg called enteromorph. He opened it by the light of the lantern and examined its contents—two or three overdue pawn-tickets and a bundle of papers tied together, on which was written: To him who cares to read.
"Have you seen enough?" asked Borg. "Then let's go and have a drink."
The three mourners (friend was a word only used by Levin and Lundell when they wanted to borrow money) went to the nearest public-house as representatives of the Red Room.
Beside a blazing fire and behind a battery of bottles, Borg began the perusal of the papers which Olle had left behind, but more than once he had to have recourse to Falk's skill as an "autographer," for the water had washed away the words here and there; it looked as if the writer's tears had fallen on the sheets, as Sellén facetiously remarked.
"Stop talking now," said Borg, emptying his glass of grog with a grimace which exhibited all his back teeth; "I am going to read, and I beg of you not to interrupt me.