THE RED ROOM

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

IN MIDSUMMER DAYS

5/— nett

"Strindberg at his cleverest and best,
and those who are interested in his work
should make a point of getting
the book."—The Observer.

THE

RED ROOM

BY

AUGUST STRINDBERG

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION
BY ELLIE SCHLEUSSNER

LONDON: HOWARD LATIMER. LTD
GREAT QUEEN STREET, KINGSWAY
MCMXIII

Printed by
Ballantyne & Company
London ltd

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF STOCKHOLM

It was an evening in the beginning of May. The little garden on "Moses Height," on the south side of the town had not yet been thrown open to the public, and the flower-beds were still unturned. The snowdrops had worked through the accumulations of last year's dead leaves, and were on the point of closing their short career and making room for the crocuses which had found shelter under a barren pear tree; the elder was waiting for a southerly wind before bursting into bloom, but the tightly closed buds of the limes still offered cover for love-making to the chaffinches, busily employed in building their lichen-covered nests between trunk and branch. No human foot had trod the gravel paths since last winter's snow had melted, and the free and easy life of beasts and flowers was left undisturbed. The sparrows industriously collected all manner of rubbish, and stowed it away under the tiles of the Navigation School. They burdened themselves with scraps of the rocket-cases of last autumn's fireworks, and picked the straw covers off the young trees, transplanted from the nursery in the Deer Park only a year ago— nothing escaped them. They discovered shreds of muslin in the summer arbours; the splintered leg of a seat supplied them with tufts of hair left on the battlefield by dogs which had not been fighting there since Josephine's day. What a life it was!

The sun was standing over the Liljeholm, throwing sheaves of rays towards the east; they pierced the columns of smoke of Bergsund, flashed across the Riddarfjörd, climbed to the cross of the Riddarholms church, flung themselves on to the steep roof of the German church opposite, toyed with the bunting displayed by the boats on the pontoon bridge, sparkled in the windows of the chief custom-house, illuminated the woods of the Liding Island, and died away in a rosy cloud far, far away in the distance where the sea was. And from thence the wind came and travelled back by the same way, over Vaxholm, past the fortress, past the custom-house and along the Sikla Island, forcing its way in behind the Hästarholm, glancing at the summer resorts; then out again and on, on to the hospital Daniken; there it took fright and dashed away in a headlong career along the southern shore, noticed the smell of coal, tar and fish-oil, came dead against the city quay, rushed up to Moses Height, swept into the garden and buffeted against a wall.

The wall was opened by a maid-servant, who, at the very moment, was engaged in peeling off the paper pasted over the chinks of the double windows; a terrible smell of dripping, beer dregs, pine needles, and sawdust poured out and was carried away by the wind, while the maid stood breathing the fresh air through her nostrils. It plucked the cotton-wool, strewn with barberry berries, tinsel and rose leaves, from the space between the windows and danced it along the paths, joined by sparrows and chaffinches who saw here the solution of the greater part of their housing problem.

Meanwhile, the maid continued her work at the double windows; in a few minutes the door leading from the restaurant stood open, and a man, well but plainly dressed, stepped out into the garden. There was nothing striking about his face beyond a slight expression of care and worry which disappeared as soon as he had emerged from the stuffy room and caught sight of the wide horizon. He turned to the side from whence the wind came, opened his overcoat, and repeatedly drew a deep breath which seemed to relieve his heart and lungs. Then he began to stroll up and down the barrier which separated the garden from the cliffs in the direction of the sea.

Far below him lay the noisy, reawakening town; the steam cranes whirred in the harbour, the iron bars rattled in the iron weighing machine, the whistles of the lock-keepers shrilled, the steamers at the pontoon bridge smoked, the omnibuses rumbled over the uneven paving-stones; noise and uproar in the fish market, sails and flags on the water outside; the screams of the sea-gulls, bugle-calls from the dockyard, the turning out of the guard, the clattering of the wooden shoes of the working-men—all this produced an impression of life and bustle, which seemed to rouse the young man's energy; his face assumed an expression of defiance, cheerfulness and resolution, and as he leaned over the barrier and looked at the town below, he seemed to be watching an enemy; his nostrils expanded, his eyes flashed, and he raised his clenched fist as if he were challenging or threatening the poor town.

The bells of St. Catherine's chimed seven; the splenetic treble of St. Mary's seconded; the basses of the great church, and the German church joined in, and soon the air was vibrating with the sound made by the seven bells of the town; then one after the other relapsed into silence, until far away in the distance only the last one of them could be heard singing its peaceful evensong; it had a higher note, a purer tone and a quicker tempo than the others—yes, it had! He listened and wondered whence the sound came, for it seemed to stir up vague memories in him. All of a sudden his face relaxed and his features expressed the misery of a forsaken child. And he was forsaken; his father and mother were lying in the churchyard of St. Clara's, from whence the bell could still be heard; and he was a child; he still believed in everything, truth and fairy tales alike.

The bell of St. Clara's was silent, and the sound of footsteps on the gravel path roused him from his reverie. A short man with side-whiskers came towards him from the verandah; he wore spectacles, apparently more for the sake of protecting his glances than his eyes, and his malicious mouth was generally twisted into a kindly, almost benevolent, expression. He was dressed in a neat overcoat with defective buttons, a somewhat battered hat, and trousers hoisted at half-mast. His walk indicated assurance as well as timidity. His whole appearance was so indefinite that it was impossible to guess at his age or social position. He might just as well have been an artisan as a government official; his age was anything between twenty-nine and forty-five years. He was obviously flattered to find himself in the company of the man whom he had come to meet, for he raised his bulging hat with unusual ceremony and smiled his kindliest smile.

"I hope you haven't been waiting, assessor?"

"Not for a second; it's only just struck seven. Thank you for coming. I must confess that this meeting is of the greatest importance to me; I might almost say it concerns my whole future, Mr. Struve."

"Bless me! Do you mean it?"

Mr. Struve blinked; he had come to drink a glass of toddy and was very little inclined for a serious conversation. He had his reasons for that.

"We shall be more undisturbed if we have our toddy outside, if you don't mind," continued the assessor.

Mr. Struve stroked his right whisker, put his hat carefully on his head and thanked the assessor for his invitation; but he looked uneasy.

"To begin with, I must ask you to drop the 'assessor,'" began the young man. "I've never been more than a regular assistant, and I cease to be even that from to-day; I'm Mr. Falk, nothing else."

"What?"

Mr. Struve looked as if he had lost a distinguished friend, but he kept his temper.

"You're a man with liberal tendencies...."

Mr. Struve tried to explain himself, but Falk continued:

"I asked you to meet me here in your character of contributor to the liberal Red Cap."

"Good heavens! I'm such a very unimportant contributor...."

"I've read your thundering articles on the working man's question, and all other questions which nearly concern us. We're in the year three, in Roman figures, for it is now the third year of the new Parliament, and soon our hopes will have become realities. I've read your excellent biographies of our leading politicians in the Peasant's Friend, the lives of those men of the people, who have at last been allowed to voice what oppressed them for so long; you're a man of progress and I've a great respect for you."

Struve, whose eyes had grown dull instead of kindling at the fervent words, seized with pleasure the proffered safety-valve.

"I must admit," he said eagerly, "that I'm immensely pleased to find myself appreciated by a young and—I must say it—excellent man like you, assessor; but, on the other hand, why talk of such grave, not to say sad things, when we're sitting here, in the lap of nature, on the first day of spring, while all the buds are bursting and the sun is pouring his warmth on the whole creation! Let's snap our fingers at care and drink our glass in peace. Excuse me—I believe I'm your senior—and—I venture—to propose therefore...."

Falk, who like a flint had gone out in search of steel, realized that he had struck wood. He accepted the proposal without eagerness. And the new brothers sat side by side, and all they had to tell each other was the disappointment expressed in their faces.

"I mentioned a little while ago," Falk resumed, "that I've broken to-day with my past life and thrown up my career as a government employé. I'll only add that I intend taking up literature."

"Literature? Good Heavens! Why? Oh, but that is a pity!"

"It isn't; but I want you to tell me how to set about finding work."

"H'm! That's really difficult to say. The profession is crowded with so many people of all sorts. But you mustn't think of it. It really is a pity to spoil your career; the literary profession is a bad one."

Struve looked sorry, but he could not hide a certain satisfaction at having met a friend in misfortune.

"But tell me," he continued, "Why are you throwing up a career which promises a man honours as well as influence?"

"Honours to those who have usurped the power, and influence to the most unscrupulous."

"Stuff! It isn't really as bad as all that?"

"Isn't it? Well, then I must speak more plainly. I'll show you the inner working of one of the six departments for which I had put down. The first five I left at once for the very simple reason that there was no room for me. Whenever I went and asked whether there was anything for me to do, I was told No! And I never saw anybody doing anything. And that was in the busy departments, like the Committee on Brandy Distilleries, the Direct Taxation Office and The Board of Administration of Employés' Pensions. But when I noticed the swarming crowd of officials, the idea struck me that the department which had to pay out all the salaries must surely be very busy indeed. I therefore put my name down for the Board of Payment of Employés' Salaries."

"And did you go there?" asked Struve, beginning to feel interested.

"Yes. I shall never forget the great impression made on me by my visit to this thoroughly well-organized department. I went there at eleven o'clock one morning, because this is supposed to be the time when the offices open. In the waiting-room I found two young messengers sprawling on a table, on their stomachs, reading the Fatherland."

"The 'Fatherland'?"

Struve, who had up to the present been feeding the sparrows with sugar, pricked up his ears.

"Yes. I said 'good morning.' A feeble wriggling of the gentlemen's backs indicated that they accepted my good morning without any decided displeasure; one of them even went to the length of waggling the heel of his right foot, which might have been intended as a substitute for a handshake. I asked whether either of the gentlemen were disengaged and could show me the offices. Both of them declared that they were unable to do so, because their orders were not to leave the waiting-room. I inquired whether there were any other messengers. Yes, there were others. But the chief messenger was away on a holiday; the first messenger was on leave; the second was not on duty; the third had gone to the post; the fourth was ill; the fifth had gone to fetch some drinking water; the sixth was in the yard 'where he remained all day long'; moreover, no official ever arrived before one o'clock. This was a hint to me that my early, inconvenient visit was not good form, and at the same time a reminder that the messengers, also, were government employés.

"But when I stated that I was firmly resolved on seeing the offices, so as to gain an idea of the division of labour in so important and comprehensive a department, the younger of the two consented to come with me. When he opened the door I had a magnificent view of a suite of sixteen rooms of various sizes. There must be work here, I thought, congratulating myself on my happy idea of coming. The crackling of sixteen birchwood fires in sixteen tiled stoves interrupted in the pleasantest manner the solitude of the place."

Struve, who had become more and more interested fumbled for a pencil between the material and lining of his waistcoat, and wrote "16" on his left cuff.

"'This is the adjuncts' room,' explained the messenger.

"'I see! Are there many adjuncts in this department?' I asked.

"'Oh, yes! More than enough!'"

"'What do they do all day long?'"

"'Oh! They write, of course, a little....'"

"He was speaking familiarly, so that I thought it time to interrupt him. After wandering through the copyists', the notaries', the clerk's, the controller's and his secretary's, the reviser's and his secretary's, the public prosecutor's, the registrar of the exchequer's, the master of the rolls' and the librarian's, the treasurer's, the cashier's, the procurator's, the protonotary's, the keeper of the minutes', the actuary's, the keeper of the records', the secretary's, the first clerk's, and the head of the department's rooms, we came to a door which bore in gilt letters the words: 'The President.' I was going to open the door but the messenger stopped me; genuinely uneasy, he seized my arm and whispered: 'Shsh!'—'Is he asleep?' I asked, my thoughts busy with an old rumour. 'For God's sake, be quiet! No one may enter here unless the president rings the bell.' 'Does he often ring?' 'No, I've never heard him ringing in my time, and I've been here twelve months.' He was again inclined to be familiar, so I said no more.

"About noon the adjuncts began to arrive, and to my amazement I found in them nothing but old friends from the Committee on Brandy Distilleries, and the Board of Administration of Employés' Pensions. My amazement grew when the registrar from the Inland Revenue Office strolled into the actuary's room, and made himself as comfortable in his easy-chair as he used to do in the Inland Revenue Office.

"I took one of the young men aside and asked him whether it would not be advisable for me to call on the president. 'Shsh!' was his mysterious reply, while he took me into room No. 8. Again this mysterious shsh!

"The room which we had just entered was quite as dark as the rest of them, but it was much dirtier. The horsehair stuffing was bursting through the leather covering of the furniture; thick dust lay on the writing-table; by the side of an inkstand, in which the ink had dried long ago, lay an unused stick of sealing-wax with the former owner's name marked on it in Anglo-Saxon letters; in addition there was a pair of paper shears whose blades were held together by rust; a date rack which had not been turned since midsummer five years ago; a State directory five years old; a sheet of blotting-paper with Julius Cæsar, Julius Cæsar, Julius Cæsar written all over it, a hundred times at least, alternating with as many Father Noahs.

"'This is the office of the Master of the Rolls; we shall be undisturbed here,' said my friend.

"'Doesn't the Master of the Rolls come here, then?' I asked.

"'He hasn't been here these five years, and now he's ashamed to turn up.'

"'But who does his work?'

"'The librarian.'

"'But what is his work in a department like the Board of Payment of Employés' Salaries?'

"'The messengers sort the receipts, chronologically and alphabetically, and send them to the book-binders; the librarian supervises their being placed on shelves specially adapted for the purpose.'"

The conversation now seemed to amuse Struve; he scribbled a word every now and then on his cuff, and as Falk paused he thought it incumbent on him to ask an important question.

"But how did the Master of the Rolls get his salary?"

"It was sent to his private address. Wasn't that simple enough? However, my young friend advised me to present myself to the actuary and ask him to introduce me to the other employés who were now dropping in to poke the fires in their tiled stoves and enjoy the last glimmer of the glowing wood. My friend told me that the actuary was an influential and good-natured individual, very susceptible to little courtesies.

"I, who had come across him in his character as Registrar of the Exchequer, had formed a different opinion of him, but believing that my friend knew better, I went to see him.

"The redoubtable actuary sat in a capacious easy-chair with his feet on a reindeer skin. He was engaged in seasoning a real meerschaum pipe, sewn up in soft leather. So as not to appear idle, he was glancing at yesterday's Post, acquainting himself in this way with the wishes of the Government.

"My entrance seemed to annoy him; he pushed his spectacles on to his bald head; hiding his right eye behind the edge of the newspaper, he shot a conical bullet at me with the left. I proffered my request. He took the mouthpiece of his meerschaum into his right hand and examined it to find out how far he had coloured it. The dreadful silence which followed confirmed my apprehensions. He cleared his throat; there was a loud, hissing noise in the heap of glowing coal. Then he remembered the newspaper and continued his perusal of it. I judged it wise to repeat my request in a different form. He lost his temper. 'What the devil do you want? What are you doing in my room? Can't I have peace in my own quarters? What? Get out, get out, get out! sir, I say! Can't you see that I'm busy. Go to the protonotary if you want anything! Don't come here bothering me!'

"I went to the protonotary.

"The Committee of Supplies was sitting; it had been sitting for three weeks already. The protonotary was in the chair and three clerks were keeping the minutes. The samples sent in by the purveyors lay scattered about on the tables, round which all disengaged clerks, copyists and notaries were assembled. In spite of much diversity of opinion, it had been agreed to order twenty reams of Lessebo paper, and after repeatedly testing their cutting capacity, the purchase of forty-eight pairs of Grantorp scissors, which had been awarded a prize, had been decided on. (The actuary held twenty-five shares in this concern.) The test writing with the steel nibs had taken a whole week, and the minutes concerning it had taken up two reams of paper. It was now the turn of the penknives, and the committee was intent on testing them on the leaves of the black table.

"'I propose ordering Sheffield doubleblades No. 4, without a corkscrew,' said the protonotary, cutting a splinter off the table large enough to light a fire with. 'What does the first notary say?'

"The first notary, who had cut too deeply into the table, had come across a nail and damaged an Eskilstuna No. 2, with three blades, suggested buying the latter.

"After everybody had given his opinion and alleged reasons for holding it, adding practical tests, the chairman suggested buying two gross of Sheffields.

"But the first notary protested, and delivered a long speech, which was taken down on record, copied out twice, registered, sorted (alphabetically and chronologically), bound and placed by the messenger—under the librarian's supervision—on a specially adapted shelf. This protest displayed a warm, patriotic feeling; its principal object was the demonstration of the necessity of encouraging home industries.

"But this being equivalent to a charge brought against the Government—seeing that it was brought against one of its employés—the protonotary felt it his duty to meet it. He started with a historical digression on the origin of the discount on manufactured goods—at the word discount all the adjuncts pricked up their ears—touched on the economic developments of the country during the last twenty years, and went into such minute details that the clock on the Riddarholms church struck two before he had arrived at his subject. At the fatal stroke of the clock the whole assembly rushed from their places as if a fire had broken out. When I asked a colleague what it all meant, the old notary, who had heard my question, replied: 'The primary duty of a Government employé is punctuality, sir!' At two minutes past two not a soul was left in one of the rooms.

"'We shall have a hot day to-morrow,' whispered a colleague, as we went downstairs. 'What in the name of fortune is going to happen?' I asked uneasily. 'Lead pencils,' he replied. There were hot days in store for us. Sealing-wax, envelopes, paper-knives, blotting-paper, string. Still, it might all be allowed to pass, for every one was occupied. But a day came when there was nothing to do. I took my courage in my hands and asked for work. I was given seven reams of paper for making fair copies at home, a feat by which 'I should deserve well of my country.' I did my work in a very short time, but instead of receiving appreciation and encouragement, I was treated with suspicion; industrious people were not in favour. Since then I've had no work.

"I'll spare you the tedious recital of a year's humiliations, the countless taunts, the endless bitterness. Everything which appeared small and ridiculous to me was treated with grave solemnity, and everything which I considered great and praiseworthy was scoffed at. The people were called 'the mob,' and their only use was to be shot at by the army if occasion should arise. The new form of government was openly reviled and the peasants were called traitors.[A]"]

[A] Since the great reorganization of the public offices, this description is no longer true to life.

"I had to listen to this sort of thing for seven months; they began to suspect me because I didn't join in their laughter, and challenged me. Next time the 'opposition dogs' were attacked, I exploded and made a speech, the result of which was that they knew where I stood, and that I was henceforth impossible. And now I shall do what so many other shipwrecks have done: I shall throw myself into the arms of literature."

Struve, who seemed dissatisfied with the truncated ending, put the pencil back, sipped his toddy and looked absent-minded. Nevertheless, he thought he ought to say something.

"My dear fellow," he remarked at last, "you haven't yet learned the art of living; you will find out how difficult it is to earn bread and butter, and how it gradually becomes the main interest. One works to eat and eats to be able to work. Believe me, who have wife and child, that I know what I'm talking about. You must cut your coat according to your cloth, you see—according to your cloth. And you've no idea what the position of a writer is. He stands outside society."

"His punishment for aspiring to stand above it. Moreover, I detest society, for it is not founded on a voluntary basis. It's a web of lies—I renounce it with pleasure."

"It's beginning to grow chilly," said Struve.

"Yes; shall we go?"

"Perhaps we'd better."

The flame of conversation had flickered out.

Meanwhile the sun had set; the half moon had risen and hung over the fields to the north of the town. Star after star struggled with the daylight which still lingered in the sky; the gas-lamps were being lighted in the town; the noise and uproar was beginning to die away.

Falk and Struve walked together in the direction of the north, talking of commerce, navigation, the crafts, everything in fact which did not interest them; finally, to each other's relief, they parted.

Falk strolled down River Street towards the dockyard, his brain pregnant with new thoughts. He felt like a bird which had flown against a window-pane and now lay bruised on the ground at the very moment when it had spread its wings to fly towards freedom. He sat down on a seat, listening to the splashing of the waves; a light breeze had sprung up and rustled through the flowering maple trees, and the faint light of the half moon shone on the black water; twenty, thirty boats lay moored on the quay; they tore at their chains for a moment, raised their heads, one after the other, and dived down again, underneath the water; wind and wave seemed to drive them onward; they made little runs towards the bridge like a pack of hounds, but the chain held them in leash and left them kicking and stamping, as if they were eager to break loose.

He remained in his seat till midnight; the wind fell asleep, the waves went to rest, the fettered boats ceased tugging at their chains; the maples stopped rustling, and the dew was beginning to fall.

Then he rose and strolled home, dreaming, to his lonely attic in the north-eastern part of the town.

That is what young Falk did; but old Struve, who on the same day had become a member of the staff of the Grey Bonnet, because the Red Cap had sacked him, went home and wrote an article for the notorious People's Flag, on the Board of Payment of Employés' Salaries, four columns at five crowns a column.

CHAPTER II

BETWEEN BROTHERS

The flax merchant, Charles Nicholas Falk—son of the late flax merchant, one of the fifty elders of the burgesses, captain of the infantry of militia, vestryman and member of the Board of Administration of the Stockholm Fire Insurance, Charles John Falk, and brother of the former assessor and present writer, Arvid Falk—had a business or, as his enemies preferred to call it, a shop in Long Street East, nearly opposite Pig Street, so that the young man who sat behind the counter, surreptitiously reading a novel, could see a piece of a steamer, the paddle-box perhaps, or the jib-boom, and the crown of a tree on Skeppsholm, with a patch of sky above it, whenever he raised his eyes from his book.

The shop assistant, who answered to the not unusual name of Andersson, and he had learnt to answer to it, had just—it was early in the morning—opened the shop, hung up outside the door a flax tress, a fish and an eel basket, a bundle of fishing-rods, and a crawl of unstripped quills; this done, he had swept the shop, strewn the floor with sawdust, and sat down behind the counter. He had converted an empty candle-box into a kind of mouse-trap, which he set with a hooked stick; immediately on the appearance of his principal, or any of the latter's friends, the novel on which Andersson was intent dropped into the box. He did not seem afraid of customers; for one thing it was early in the morning and for another he was not used to very many customers.

The business had been established in the days of the late King Frederick—Charles Nicholas Falk had inherited this statement from his father, to whom it had descended from his grandfather; it had flourished and earned a good deal of money until a few years ago; but the disastrous chamber-system killed trade, ruined all prospects, impeded all enterprise, and threatened all citizens with bankruptcy. So, at least, Falk said; others were inclined to believe that the business was mismanaged; to say nothing of the fact that a dangerous competitor had established himself close to the lock. Falk never talked of the decline of the business if he could help it, and he was shrewd enough carefully to choose occasion and audience whenever he touched upon that string. If an old business connexion expressed surprise, in a friendly way, at the reduced trade, he told him that his principal business was a wholesale trade in the provinces, and that he was looking upon the shop merely in the light of a sign-board; nobody doubted this, for he had, behind the shop, a small counting-house where he generally could be found when he was not in town or at the Exchange. But it was quite another tale if any of his acquaintances, such as the notary or the schoolmaster, for instance, expressed the same friendly uneasiness. Then he blamed the bad times, the result of the new chamber-system; this alone was to blame for the stagnation of trade.

Andersson was disturbed in his reading by two or three boys who were standing in the doorway, asking the price of the fishing-rods. Looking out into the street he caught sight of our Mr. Arvid Falk. Falk had lent him the book, so that it could safely be left on the counter; and as his former playfellow entered the shop, he greeted him familiarly, with a knowing look.

"Is he upstairs?" asked Falk, not without a certain uneasiness.

"He's at breakfast," replied Andersson, pointing to the ceiling.

A chair was pushed back on the floor above their heads.

"He's got up from the table now, Mr. Arvid."

Both young men seemed familiar with the noise and its purport. Heavy, creaking footsteps crossed the floor, apparently in all directions, and a subdued murmur penetrated through the ceiling to the listeners below.

"Was he at home last night?" asked Falk.

"No, he was out."

"With friends or acquaintances?"

"Acquaintances."

"Did he come home late?"

"Very late."

"Do you think he'll be coming down soon, Andersson? I don't want to go upstairs on account of my sister-in-law."

"He'll be here directly; I can tell by his footsteps."

A door slammed upstairs; they looked at each other significantly. Arvid made a movement towards the door, but pulled himself together.

A few moments later they heard sounds in the counting-house. A violent cough shook the little room and then came the well-known footsteps, saying: stamp—stamp, stamp—stamp!

Arvid went behind the counter and knocked at the door of the counting-house.

"Come in!"

He stood before his brother, a man of forty who looked his age. He was fifteen years older than Arvid, and for that and other reasons he had accustomed himself to look upon his younger brother as a boy towards whom he acted as a father. He had fair hair, a fair moustache, fair eyebrows, and eye-lashes. He was rather stout, and that was the reason why his boots always creaked; they groaned under the weight of his thick-set figure.

"Oh, it's only you?" he said with good-natured contempt. This attitude of mind was typical of the man; he was never angry with those who for some reason or other could be considered his inferiors; he despised them. But his face expressed disappointment; he had expected a more satisfactory subject for an outburst; his brother was shy and modest, and never offered resistance if he could possibly help it.

"I hope I'm not inconveniencing you, brother Charles?" asked Arvid, standing on the threshold. This humble question disposed the brother to show benevolence. He helped himself to a cigar from his big, embroidered leather cigar-case, offering his brother a smoke from a box which stood near the fire-place; that boxful—visitors' cigars, as he frankly called them, and he was of a candid disposition—had been through a shipwreck, which made them interesting, but did not improve them, and a sale by auction on the strand, which had made them very cheap.

"Well, what is it you want?" asked Charles Nicholas, lighting his cigar, and absent-mindedly putting the match into his pocket—he could only concentrate his thoughts on one spot inside a not very large circumference; his tailor could have expressed the size of it in inches after measuring him round the stomach.

"I want to talk business with you," answered Arvid, fingering his unlighted cigar.

"Sit down!" commanded the brother.

It was customary with him to ask people to sit down whenever he intended to take them to task; he had them under him, then, and it was more easy to crush them—if necessary.

"Business? Are we doing business together?" he began. "I don't know anything about it. Are you doing business? Are you?"

"I only meant to say that I should like to know whether there's anything more coming to me?"

"What, may I ask? Do you mean money?" said Charles Nicholas, jestingly, allowing his brother to enjoy the scent of his good cigar. As the reply, which he did not want, was not forthcoming, he went on:

"Coming to you? Haven't you received everything due to you? Haven't you yourself receipted the account for the Court of Wards? Haven't I kept and clothed you since—to be strictly correct, haven't I made you a loan, according to your own wish, to be paid back when you are able to do so? I've put it all down, in readiness for the day when you will be earning your livelihood, a thing which you've not done yet."

"I'm going to do it now, and that's why I'm here. I wanted to know whether there's still anything owing to me, or whether I am in debt."

The brother cast a penetrating look at his victim, wondering whether he had any mental reservations. His creaking boots began stamping the floor on a diagonal line between spittoon and umbrella-stand; the trinkets on his watch-chain tinkled, a warning to people not to cross his way; the smoke of his cigar rose and lay in long, ominous clouds, portentous of a thunderstorm, between tiled stove and door. He paced up and down the room furiously, his head bowed, his shoulders rounded, as if he were rehearsing a part. When he thought he knew it, he stopped short before his brother, gazed into his eyes with a long, glinting, deceitful look, intended to express both confidence and sorrow, and said, in a voice meant to sound as if it came from the family grave in the churchyard of St. Clara's:

"You're not straight, Arvid; you're not straight."

Who, with the exception of Andersson, who was standing behind the door, listening, would not have been touched by those words, spoken by a brother to a brother, fraught with the deepest brotherly sorrow? Even Arvid, accustomed from his childhood to believe all men perfect and himself alone unworthy, wondered for a moment whether he was straight or not? And as his education, by efficacious means, had provided him with a highly sensitive conscience, he found that he really had not been quite straight, or at least quite frank, when he asked his brother the not-altogether candid question as to whether he wasn't a scoundrel.

"I've come to the conclusion," he said, "that you cheated me out of a part of my inheritance; I've calculated that you charged too much for your inferior board and your cast-off clothes; I know that I didn't spend all my fortune during my terrible college days, and I believe that you owe me a fairly big sum; I want it now, and I request you to hand it over to me."

A smile illuminated the brother's fair face, and with an expression so calm and a gesture so steady, that he might have been rehearsing them for years, so as to be in readiness when his cue was given to him, he put his hand in his trousers pocket, rattled his bunch of keys before taking it out, threw it up and dexterously caught it again, and walked solemnly to his safe. He opened it more quickly than he intended and, perhaps, than the sacredness of the spot justified, took out a paper lying ready to his hand and evidently also waiting for its cue, and handed it to his brother.

"Did you write this? Answer me! Did you write it?"

"Yes!"

Arvid rose and turned towards the door.

"Don't go! Sit down! Sit down!"

If a dog had been present it would have sat down at once.

"What's written here? Read it! 'I, Arvid Falk, acknowledge and testify—that—I—have received from my brother, Charles Nicholas Falk—who was appointed my guardian—my inheritance in full—amounting to—' and so on." He was ashamed to mention the sum.

"You have acknowledged and testified a fact which you did not believe. Is that straight? No, answer my question! Is that straight? No! Therefore you have borne false witness. Ergo—you're a blackguard! Yes, that's what you are! Am I right?"

The part was too excellent and the triumph too great to be enjoyed without an audience. The innocently accused must have witnesses. He opened the door leading into the shop.

"Andersson!" he shouted, "answer this question! Listen to me! If I bear false witness, am I a blackguard or not?"

"Of course, you are a blackguard, sir!" Andersson answered unhesitatingly and with warmth.

"Do you hear? He says I'm a blackguard—if I put my signature to a false receipt. What did I say? You're not straight, Arvid, you are not straight. Good-natured people often are blackguards; you have always been good-natured and yielding, but I've always been aware that in your secret heart you harboured very different thoughts; you're a blackguard! Your father always said so; I say 'said,' for he always said what he thought, and he was a straight man, Arvid, and that—you—are—not! And you may be sure that if he were still alive he would say with grief and pain: 'You're not straight, Arvid, you—are—not—straight!'"

He did a few more diagonal lines and it sounded as if he were applauding the scene with his feet; he rattled his bunch of keys as if he were giving the signal for the curtain to rise. His closing remarks had been so rounded off that the smallest addition would have spoilt the whole. In spite of the heavy charge which he had actually expected for years—for he had always believed his brother to be acting a part—he was very glad that it was over, happily over, well and cleverly over, so that he felt almost gay and even a little grateful. Moreover he had had a splendid chance of venting the wrath which had been kindled upstairs, in his family, on some one; to vent it on Andersson had lost its charm; and he knew better than to vent it on his wife.

Arvid was silent; the education he had received had so intimidated him that he always believed himself to be in the wrong; since his childhood the great words "upright, honest, sincere, true," had daily and hourly been drummed into his ears, so that they stood before him like a judge, continuously saying: "Guilty...." For a moment he thought that he must have been mistaken in his calculations, that his brother must be innocent and he himself a scoundrel; but immediately after he realized that his brother was a cheat, deceiving him by a simple lawyer's trick. He felt prompted to run away, fearful of being drawn into a quarrel, to run away without making his request number two, and confessing that he was on the point of changing his profession.

There was a long pause. Charles Nicholas had plenty of time to recapitulate his triumph in his memory. That little word "blackguard" had done his tongue good. It had been as pleasant as if he had said "Get out!" And the opening of the door, Andersson's reply, and the production of the paper, everything had passed off splendidly; he had not forgotten the bunch of keys on his night-table; he had turned the key in the lock without any difficulty; his proof was binding as a rope, the conclusion he had drawn had been the baited hook by which the fish had been caught.

He had regained his good temper; he had forgiven, nay, he had forgotten, and as he slammed the door of the safe, he shut away the disagreeable story for ever.

But he did not want to part from his brother in this mood; he wanted to talk to him on other subjects; throw a few shovelfuls of gossip on the unpleasant affair, see him under commonplace circumstances, sitting at his table, for instance—and why not eating and drinking? People always looked happy and content when they were eating and drinking; he wanted so see him happy and content. He wanted to see his face calm, listen to his voice speaking without a tremor, and he resolved to ask him to luncheon. But he felt puzzled how to lead up to it, find a suitable bridge across the gulf. He searched his brain, but found nothing. He searched his pockets and found—the match.

"Hang it all, you've never lit your cigar, old boy!" he exclaimed with genuine, not feigned, warmth.

But the old boy had crushed his cigar during the conversation, so that it would not draw.

"Look here! Take another!" and he pulled out his big leather case.

"Here! Take one of these! They are good ones!"

Arvid, who, unfortunately, could not bear to hurt anybody's feelings, accepted it gratefully, like a hand offered in reconciliation.

"Now, old boy," continued Charles Nicholas, talking lightly and pleasantly, an accomplishment at which he was an expert. "Let's go to the nearest restaurant and have lunch. Come along!"

Arvid, unused to friendliness, was so touched by these advances that he hastily pressed his brother's hand and hurried away through the shop without taking any notice of Andersson, and out into the street.

The brother felt embarrassed; he could not understand it. To run away when he had been asked to lunch! To run away when he was not in the least angry with him! To run away! No dog would have run away if a piece of meat had been thrown to him!

"He's a queer chap!" he muttered, stamping the floor. Then he went to his desk, screwed up the seat of his chair as high as it would go and climbed up. From this raised position he was in the habit of contemplating men and circumstances as from a higher point of view, and he found them small; yet not so small that he could not use them for his purposes.

CHAPTER III

THE ARTISTS' COLONY

It was between eight and nine o'clock on the same beautiful May morning. Arvid Falk, after the scene with his brother, was strolling through the streets, dissatisfied with himself, his brother, and the whole world. He would have preferred to see the sky overcast, to be in bad company. He did not believe that he was a blackguard, but he was disappointed with the part he had played; he was accustomed to be severe on himself, and it had always been drummed into him that his brother was a kind of stepfather to whom he owed great respect, not to say reverence. But he was worried and depressed by other thoughts as well. He had neither money nor prospect of work. The last contingency was, perhaps, the worse of the two, for to him, with his exuberant imagination, idleness was a dangerous enemy.

Brooding over these disagreeable facts, he had reached Little Garden Street; he sauntered along, on the left pavement, passed the Dramatic Theatre, and soon reached High Street North. He walked on aimlessly; the pavement became uneven; wooden cottages took the place of the stone houses; badly dressed men and women were throwing suspicious glances at the well-dressed stranger who was visiting their quarter at such an early hour; famished dogs growled threateningly at him. He hastened past groups of gunners, labourers, brewers' men, laundresses, and apprentices, and finally came to Great Hop-Garden Street. He entered the Hop-Garden. The cows belonging to the Inspector-General of Ordnance were grazing in the fields; the old, bare apple trees were making the first efforts to put forth buds; but the lime trees were already in leaf and squirrels were playing up and down the branches. He passed the merry-go-round and came to the avenue leading to the theatre; here he met some truant schoolboys engaged in a game of buttons; a little further a painter's apprentice was lying in the grass on his back staring at the clouds through the dome of foliage; he was whistling carelessly, indifferent to the fact that master and men were waiting for him, while flies and other insects drowned themselves in his paint-pots.

Falk had walked to the top of the hill and had come to the duck-pond; he stood still for a while, studying the metamorphoses of the frogs; watching the leeches; catching a water-spider. Then he began to throw stones. The exercise brought his blood into circulation; he felt rejuvenated, a schoolboy playing truant, free, defiantly free! It was freedom bought by great self-sacrifice. The thought of being able to commune with nature freely and at will, made him glad; he understood nature better than men who had only ill-treated and slandered him; his unrest disappeared; he rose and continued his way further into the country.

Walking through the Cross, he came into Hop-Garden Street North. Some of the boards were missing in the fence facing him, and there was a very plainly marked footpath on the other side. He crept through the hole, disturbing an old woman who was gathering nettles, crossed the large tobacco field where a colony of villas has now sprung up, and found himself at the gate of "Lill-Jans."

There was no doubt of its being spring in the little settlement, consisting of three cottages snugly nestling among elders and apple trees, and sheltered from the north wind by the pine-wood on the other side of the High Road. The visitor was regaled with a perfect little idyll. A cock, perched on the shafts of a watercart, was basking in the sun and catching flies, the bees hung in a cloud round the bee-hives, the gardener was kneeling by the hot-beds, sorting radishes; the warblers and brand-tails were singing in the gooseberry bushes, while lightly clad children chased the fowls bent on examining the germinative capacity of various newly sown seeds. A brilliant blue sky spanned the scene and the dark forest framed the background.

Two men were sitting close to the hot-beds, in the shelter of the fence. One of them, wearing a tall, black hat and a threadbare, black suit, had a long, narrow, pale face, and looked like a clergyman. With his stout but deformed body, drooping eyelids, and Mongolian moustache, the other one belonged to the type of civilized peasant. He was very badly dressed and might have been many things: a vagabond, an artisan, or an artist; he looked seedy, but seedy in an original way.

The lean man, who obviously felt chilly, although he sat right in the sun, was reading to his friend from a book; the latter looked as though he had tried all the climates of the earth and was able to stand them all equally well.

As Falk entered the garden gate from the high road, he could distinctly hear the reader's words through the fence, and he thought it no breach of confidence to stand still for a while and listen.

The lean man was reading in a dry, monotonous voice, a voice without resonance, and his stout friend every now and then acknowledged his appreciation by a snort which changed occasionally into a grunt and became a splutter whenever the words of wisdom to which he was listening surpassed ordinary human understanding.

"'The highest principles are, as already stated, three; one, absolutely unconditioned, and two, relatively unconditioned ones. Pro primo: the absolutely first, purely unconditioned principle, would express the action underlying all consciousness and without which consciousness cannot exist. This principle is the identity A—A. It endures and cannot be disposed of by thought when all empirical definitions of consciousness are prescinded. It is the original fact of consciousness and must therefore, of necessity, be acknowledged. Moreover, it is not conditioned like every other empirical fact, but as consequence and substance of a voluntary act entirely unconditioned.'"

"Do you follow, Olle?" asked the reader, interrupting himself.

"It's amazing! It is not conditioned like every other empirical fact. Oh! What a man! Go on! Go on!"

"'If it is maintained,'" continued the reader, "'that this proposition without any further proof be true....'"

"Oh! I say! What a rascal! without any further proof be true," repeated the grateful listener, bent on dissipating all suspicion that he had not grasped what had been read, "without any further reason, how subtle, how subtle of him to say that instead of simply saying 'without any reason.'"

"Am I to continue? Or do you intend to go on interrupting me?" asked the offended reader.

"I won't interrupt again. Go on! Go on!"

"Well, now he draws the conclusion (really excellent): 'If one ascribes to oneself the ability to state a proposition——'"

Olle snorted.

"'One does not propose thereby A (capital A), but merely that A—A, if and in so far as A exists at all. It is not a question of the essence of an assertion but only of its form. The proposition A—A is therefore conditioned (hypothetically) as far as its essence is concerned, and unconditioned only as far as its form goes.'

"Have you noticed the capital A?"

Falk had heard enough; this was the terribly profound philosophy of Upsala, which had strayed to Stockholm to conquer and subdue the coarse instincts of the capital. He looked at the fowls to see whether they had not tumbled off their roosts; at the parsley whether it had not stopped growing while made to listen to the profoundest wisdom ever proclaimed by human voice at Lill-Jans; he was surprised to find that the sky had not fallen after witnessing such a feat of mental strength. At the same time his base human nature clamoured for attention: his throat was parched, and he decided to ask for a glass of water at one of the cottages.

Turning back he strolled towards the hut on the right-hand side of the road, coming from town. The door leading into a large room—once a bakery—from an entrance-hall the size of a travelling trunk, stood open. The room contained a bed-sofa, a broken chair, an easel, and two men. One of them, wearing only a shirt and a pair of trousers kept up by a leather belt, was standing before the easel. He looked like a journeyman, but he was an artist making a sketch for an altar-piece. The other man was a youth with clear-cut features and, considering his environment, well-made clothes. He had taken off his coat, turned back his shirt and was serving as the artist's model. His handsome, noble face showed traces of a night of dissipation, and every now and then he dozed, each time reprimanded by the master who seemed to have taken him under his protection. As Falk was entering the room he heard the burden of one of these reprimands:

"That you should make such a hog of yourself and spend the night drinking with that loafer Sellén, and now be standing here wasting your time instead of being at the Commercial School! The right shoulder a little higher, please; that's better! Is it true that you've spent all the money for your rent and daren't go home? Have you nothing left? Not one farthing?"

"I still have some, but it won't go far." The young man pulled a scrap of paper out of his trousers pocket, and straightening it out, produced two notes for a crown each.

"Give them to me, I'll take care of them for you," exclaimed the master, seizing them with fatherly solicitude.

Falk, who had vainly tried to attract their attention, thought it best to depart as quietly as he had come. Once more passing the manure heap and the two philosophers, he turned to the left. He had not gone far when he caught sight of a young man who had put up his easel at the edge of a little bog planted with alder trees, close to the wood. He had a graceful, slight, almost elegant figure, and a thin, dark face. He seemed to scintillate life as he stood before his easel, working at a fine picture. He had taken off his coat and hat and appeared to be in excellent health and spirits; alternately talking to himself and whistling or humming snatches of song.

When Falk was near enough to have him in profile he turned round.

"Sellén! Good morning, old chap!"

"Falk! Fancy meeting you out here in the wood! What the deuce does it, mean? Oughtn't you to be at your office at this time of day?"

"No! But are you living out here?"

"Yes; I came here on the first of April with some pals. Found life in town too expensive—and, moreover, landlords are so particular."

A sly smile played about one of the corners of his mouth and his brown eyes flashed.

"I see," Falk began again; "then perhaps you know the two individuals who were sitting by the hot-beds just now, reading?"

"The philosophers? Of course, I do! The tall one is an assistant at the Public Sales Office at a salary of eighty crowns per annum, and the short one, Olle Montanus, ought to be at home at his sculpture—but since he and Ygberg have taken up philosophy, he has left off working and is fast going down hill. He has discovered that there is something sensual in art."

"What's he living on?"

"On nothing at all! Occasionally he sits to the practical Lundell and then he gets a piece of black pudding. This lasts him for about a day. In the winter Lundell lets him lie on his floor; 'he helps to warm the room,' he says, and wood is very dear; it was very cold here in April."

"How can he be a model? He looks such a God-help-me sort of chap."

"He poses for one of the thieves in Lundell's "Descent from the Cross," the one whose bones are already broken; the poor devil's suffering from hip disease; he does splendidly when he leans across the back of a chair; sometimes the artist makes him turn his back to him; then he represents the other thief."

"But why doesn't he work himself? Has he no talent?"

"Olle Montanus, my dear fellow, is a genius, but he won't work. He's a philosopher and would have become a great man if he could have gone to college. It's really extraordinary to listen to him and Ygberg talking philosophy; it's true, Ygberg has read more, but in spite of that Montanus, with his subtle brain, succeeds in cornering him every now and again; then Ygberg goes away and reads some more, but he never lends the book to Montanus."

"I see! And you like Ygberg's philosophy?" asked Falk.

"Oh! It's subtle, wonderfully subtle! You like Fichte, don't you? I say! What a man!"

"Who were the two individuals in the cottage?" asked Falk, who did not like Fichte.

"Oh. You saw them too? One of them was the practical Lundell, a painter of figures, or rather, sacred subjects; the other one was my friend Rehnhjelm."

He pronounced the last few words with the utmost indifference, so as to heighten their effect as much as possible.

"Rehnhjelm?"

"Yes; a very nice fellow."

"He was acting as Lundell's model."

"Was he? That's like Lundell! He knows how to make use of people; he is extraordinarily practical. But come along, let's worry him; it's the only fun I have out here. Then, perhaps, you'll hear Montanus speaking, and that's really worth while."

Less for the sake of hearing Montanus speaking than for the sake of obtaining a glass of water, Falk followed Sellén, helping him to carry easel and paintbox.

The scene in the cottage was slightly changed; the model was now sitting on the broken chair, and Montanus and Ygberg on the bed-sofa. Lundell was standing at his easel, smoking; his seedy friends watched him and his old, snoring cherry-wood pipe; the very presence of a pipe and tobacco raised their spirits.

Falk was introduced and immediately Lundell monopolized him, asking him for his opinion of the picture he was painting. It was a Rubens, at least as far as the subject went, though anything but a Rubens in colour and drawing. Thereupon Lundell dilated on the hard times and difficulties of an artist, severely criticized the Academy, and censured the Government for neglecting native art. He was engaged in sketching an altar-piece, although he was convinced that it would be refused, for nobody could succeed without intrigues and connexions. And he scrutinized Falk's clothes, wondering whether he might be a useful connexion.

Falk's appearance had produced a different effect on the two philosophers. They scented a man of letters in him, and hated him because he might rob them of the reputation they enjoyed in the small circle. They exchanged significant glances, immediately understood by Sellén, who found it impossible to resist the temptation of showing off his friends in their glory, and, if possible, bring about an encounter. He soon found an apple of discord, aimed, threw, and hit.

"What do you say to Lundell's picture, Ygberg?"

Ygberg, not expecting to be called upon to speak so soon, had to consider his answer for a few seconds. Then he made his reply, raising his voice, while Olle rubbed his back to make him hold himself straight.

"A work of art may, in my opinion, be divided into two categories: subject and form. With regard to the subject in this work of art there is no denying that it is profound and universally human; the motive, properly speaking, is in itself fertile, and contains all the potentialities of artistic work. With regard to the form which of itself shall de facto manifest the idea, that is to say the absolute identity, the being, the ego—I cannot help saying that I find it less adequate."

Lundell was obviously flattered. Olle smiled his sunniest smile as if he were contemplating the heavenly hosts; the model was asleep and Sellén found that Ygberg had scored a complete success. All eyes were turned on Falk who was compelled to take up the gauntlet, for no one doubted that Ygberg's criticism was a challenge.

Falk was both amused and annoyed. He was searching the limbo of memory for philosophical air-guns, when he caught sight of Olle Montanus, whose convulsed face betrayed his desire to speak. Falk loaded his gun at random with Aristotle and fired.

"What do you mean by adequate? I cannot recollect that Aristotle made use of that word in his Metaphysics."

Absolute silence fell on the room; everybody felt that a fight between the artist's colony and the University of Upsala was imminent. The interval was longer than was desirable, for Ygberg was unacquainted with Aristotle and would have died sooner than have admitted it. As he was not quick at repartee, he failed to discover the breach which Falk had left open; but Olle did, caught Aristotle with both hands and flung him back at his opponent.

"Although I'm not a learned man, I venture to question whether you, Mr. Falk, have upset your opponent's argument? In my opinion adequate may be used and accepted as a definition in a logical conclusion, in spite of Aristotle not having mentioned the word in his Metaphysics. Am I right, gentlemen? I don't know, I'm not a learned man and Mr. Falk has made a study of these things."

He had spoken with half-closed eyelids; now he closed them entirely and looked impudently shy.

There was a general murmur of "Olle is right."

Falk realized that this was a matter to be handled without mittens, if the honour of Upsala was to be safeguarded; he made a pass with the philosophical pack of cards and threw up an ace.

"Mr. Montanus has denied the antecedent or said simply: nego majorem! Very well! I, on my part, declare that he has been guilty of a posterius prius; when he found himself on the horns of a dilemma he went astray and made a syllogism after ferioque instead of barbara. He has forgotten the golden rule: Cæsare camestres festino baroco secundo; and therefore his conclusion became weakened. Am I right gentlemen?"

"Quite right, absolutely right," replied everybody, except the two philosophers who had never held a book of logic in their hands.

Ygberg looked as if he had bitten on a nail, and Olle grinned as if a handful of snuff had been thrown into his eyes; but his native shrewdness had discovered the tactical method of his opponent. He resolved not to stick to the point, but to talk of something else. He brought out everything he had learned and everything he had heard, beginning with the Criticism of Fichte's Philosophy to which Falk had been listening a little while ago from behind the fence. The discussion went on until the morning was nearly spent.

In the meantime Lundell went on painting, his foul pipe snoring loudly. The model had fallen asleep on the broken chair, his head sinking deeper and deeper until, about noon, it hung between his knees; a mathematician could have calculated the time when it would reach the centre of the earth.

Sellén was sitting at the open window enjoying himself; but poor Falk, who had been under the impression that this terrible philosophy was a thing of the past, was compelled to continue throwing fistfuls of philosophic snuff into the eyes of his antagonists. The torture would never have come to an end if the model's centre of gravity had not gradually shifted to one of the most delicate parts of the chair; it gave way and the Baron fell on the floor. Lundell seized the opportunity to inveigh against the vice of drunkenness and its miserable consequences for the victim as well as for others; by others he meant, of course, himself.

Falk, anxious to come to the assistance of the embarrassed youth, eagerly asked a question bound to be of general interest.

"Where are the gentlemen going to dine?"

The room grew silent, so silent that the buzzing of the flies was plainly audible; Falk was quite unconscious of the fact that he had stepped on five corns at one and the same moment. It was Lundell who broke the silence. He and Rehnhjelm were going to dine at the "Sauce-Pan," their usual restaurant, for they had credit there; Sellén objected to the place because he did not like the cooking, and had not yet decided on another establishment; he looked at the model with an anxious, inquiring glance. Ygberg and Montanus were too "busy" and "not going to cut up their working-day" by "dressing and going up to town." They were going to get something out here, but they did not say what.

A general dressing began, principally consisting of a wash at the old garden-pump. Sellén, who was a dandy, had hidden a parcel wrapped in a newspaper underneath the bed-sofa, from which he produced collar, cuffs and shirt-front, made of paper. He knelt for a long time before the pump, gazing into the trough, while he put on a brownish-green tie, a present from a lady, and arranged his hair in a particular style.

When he had rubbed his shoes with a bur leaf, brushed his hat with his coat sleeve, put a grape-hyacinth in his buttonhole and seized his cinnamon cane, he was ready to go. To his question whether Rehnhjelm would be ready soon, Lundell replied that he would be hours yet, as he required his assistance in drawing; Lundell always devoted the time from twelve to two to drawing. Rehnhjelm submitted and obeyed, although he found it hard to part with Sellén, of whom he was fond, and stay with Lundell whom he disliked.

"We shall meet to-night at the Red Room," said Sellén, comforting him, and all agreed, even the philosophers and the moral Lundell.

On their way to town Sellén initiated his friend Falk into some of the secrets of the colonists. As for himself, he had broken with the Academy, because his views on art differed from theirs; he knew that he had talent and would eventually be successful, although success might be long in coming. It was, of course, frightfully difficult to make a name without the Royal Medal. There were also natural obstacles in his way. He was a native of the barren coast of Halland and loved grandeur and simplicity; but critics and public demanded detail and trifles; therefore his pictures did not sell; he could have painted what everybody else painted, but he scorned to do so.

Lundell, on the other hand, was a practical man—Sellén always pronounced the word practical with a certain contempt—he painted to please the public. He never suffered from indisposition; it was true he had left the Academy, but for secret, practical reasons; moreover, in spite of his assertion, he had not broken with it entirely. He made a good income out of his illustrations for magazines and, although he had little talent, he was bound to make his fortune some day, not only because of the number of his connexions, but also because of his intrigues. It was Montanus who had put him up to those; he was the originator of more than one plan which Lundell had successfully carried out. Montanus was a genius, although he was terribly unpractical.

Rehnhjelm was a native of Norrland. His father had been a wealthy man; he had owned a large estate which was now the property of his former inspector. The old aristocrat was comparatively poor; he hoped that his son would learn a lesson from the past, take an inspector's post and eventually restore the family to its former position by the acquisition of a new estate. Buoyed up with this hope, he had sent him to the Commercial School to study agricultural book-keeping, an accomplishment which the youth detested. He was a good fellow but a little weak, and allowing himself to be influenced by Lundell, who did not scorn to take the fee for his preaching and patronage in natura.

In the meantime Lundell and the Baron had started work; the Baron was drawing, while the master lay on the sofa, supervising the work, in other words, smoking.

"If you'll put your back into your work, you shall come to dinner with me at the 'Brass-Button,'" promised Lundell, feeling rich with the two crowns which he had saved from destruction.

Ygberg and Montanus had sauntered up the wooded eminence, intending to sleep away the dinner hour; Olle beamed after his victories, but Ygberg was depressed; his pupil had surpassed him. Moreover, his feet were cold and he was unusually hungry, for the eager discussion of dinner had awakened in him slumbering feelings successfully suppressed for the last twelve months. They threw themselves under a pine tree; Ygberg hid the precious, carefully wrapped up book, which he always refused to lend to Olle, under his head, and stretched himself full-length on the ground; he looked deadly pale, cold and calm like a corpse which has abandoned all hope of resurrection. He watched some little birds above his head picking at the pine seed and letting the husks fall down on him; he watched a cow, the picture of robust health, grazing among the alders; he saw the smoke rising from the gardener's kitchen chimney.

"Are you hungry, Olle?" he asked in a feeble voice.

"No!" replied Olle, casting covetous looks at the wonderful book.

"Oh! to be a cow!" sighed Ygberg, crossing his hands on his chest and giving himself up to all-merciful sleep.

When his low breathing had become regular, the waking friend gently pulled the book from its hiding-place, without disturbing the sleeper; then he turned over and lying on his stomach he began to devour the precious contents, forgetting all about the "Sauce-Pan" and the "Brass-Button."

CHAPTER IV

MASTER AND DOGS

Two or three days had passed. Mrs. Charles Nicholas Falk, a lady of twenty-two years of age, had just finished her breakfast in bed, the colossal mahogany bed in the large bedroom. It was only ten o'clock. Her husband had been away since seven, taking up flax on the shore. But the young wife had not stayed in bed—a thing she knew to be contrary to the rules of the house—because she counted on his absence. She had only been married for two years, but during that period she had found abundant time to introduce sweeping reforms in the old, conservative, middle-class household, where everything was old, even the servants. He had invested her with the necessary power on the day on which he had confessed his love to her, and she had graciously consented to become his wife, that is to say, permitted him to deliver her from the hated bondage of her parental roof, where she had been compelled to get up every morning at six o'clock and work all day long. She had made good use of the period of her engagement, for it was then that she had collected a number of guarantees, promising her a free and independent life, unmolested by any interference on the part of her husband. Of course these guarantees consisted merely of verbal assurances made by a love-sick man, but she, who had never allowed her emotion to get the better of her, had carefully noted them down on the tablets of her memory. After two years of matrimony, unredeemed by the promise of a child, the husband showed a decided inclination to set aside all these guarantees, and question her right to sleep as long as she liked, for instance, to have breakfast in bed, etcetera, etcetera; he had even been so indelicate as to remind her that he had pulled her out of the mire; had delivered her from a hell, thereby sacrificing himself. The marriage had been a misalliance, her father being one of the crew of the flagship.

As she lay there she was concocting replies to these and similar reproaches; and as her common sense during the long period of their mutual acquaintance had never been clouded by any intoxication of the senses, she had it well in hand and knew how to use it. The sounds of her husband's return filled her with unalloyed pleasure. Presently the dining-room door was slammed; a tremendous bellowing became audible; she pushed her head underneath the bed-clothes to smother her laughter. Heavy footsteps crossed the adjacent room and the angry husband appeared on the threshold, hat on head. His wife, who was turning her back to him, called out in her most dulcet tones:

"Is that you, little lubber? Come in, come in!"

The little lubber—this was a pet name, and husband and wife frequently used others, even more original ones—showed no inclination to accept her invitation, but remained standing in the doorway and shouted:

"Why isn't the table laid for lunch?"

"Ask the girls; it isn't my business to lay the table! But it's customary to take off one's hat on coming into a room, sir!"

"What have you done with my cap?"

"Burnt it! It was so greasy, you ought to have been ashamed to wear it."

"You burnt it? We'll talk about that later on! Why are you lying in bed until all hours of the morning, instead of supervising the girls?"

"Because I like it."

"Do you think I married a wife to have her refusing to look after her house? What?"

"You did! But why do you think I married you? I've told you a thousand times—so that I shouldn't have to work—and you promised me I shouldn't. Didn't you? Can you swear, on your word of honour, that you did not promise? That's the kind of man you are! You are just like all the rest!"

"It was long ago!"

"Long ago? When was long ago? Is a promise not binding for all times? Or must it be made in any particular season?"

The husband knew this unanswerable logic only too well, and his wife's good temper had the same effect as her tears—he gave in.

"I'm going to have visitors to-night," he stated.

"Oh, indeed! Gentlemen?"

"Of course! I detest women."

"Well, I suppose you've ordered what you want?"

"No, I want you to do that."

"I? I've no money for entertaining. I shall certainly not spend my housekeeping money on your visitors."

"No, you prefer spending it on dress and other useless things."

"Do you call the things I make for you useless? Is a smoking-cap useless? Are slippers useless? Tell me! Tell me candidly!"

She was an adept in formulating her questions in such a way that the reply was bound to be crushing for the person who had to answer them. She was merely copying her husband's method. If he wanted to avoid being crushed, he was compelled to keep changing the subject of conversation.

"But I really have a very good reason for entertaining a few guests to-night," he said with a show of emotion; "my old friend, Fritz Levin, of the Post Office, has been promoted after nineteen years' service—I read it in the Postal Gazette last night. But as you disapprove, and as I always give way to you, I shall let the matter drop, and shall merely ask Levin and schoolmaster Nyström to a little supper in the counting-house."

"So that loafer Levin has been promoted? I never! Perhaps now he'll pay you back all the money he owes you?"

"I hope so!"

"I can't understand how on earth you can have anything to do with that man! And the schoolmaster! Beggars, both of them, who hardly own the clothes they wear."

"I say, old girl, I never interfere in your affairs; leave my business alone."

"If you have guests downstairs, I don't see why I shouldn't have friends up here!"

"Well, why don't you?"

"All right, little lubber, give me some money then."

The little lubber, in every respect pleased with the turn matters had taken, obeyed with pleasure.

"How much? I've very little cash to-day."

"Oh! Fifty'll do."

"Are you mad?"

"Mad? Give me what I ask for. Why should I starve when you feast?"

Peace was established and the parties separated with mutual satisfaction. There was no need for him to lunch badly at home; he was compelled to go out; no necessity to eat a poor dinner and be made uncomfortable by the presence of ladies; he was embarrassed in the company of women, for he had been a bachelor too long; no reason to be troubled by his conscience, for his wife would not be alone at home; as it happened she wanted to invite her own friends and be rid of him—it was worth fifty crowns.

As soon as her husband had gone, Mrs. Falk rang the bell; she had stayed in bed all the morning to punish the housemaid, for the girl had remarked that in the old days everybody used to be up at seven. She asked for paper and ink and scribbled a note to Mrs. Homan, the controller's wife, who lived in the house opposite.

Dear Evelyn—the letter ran:

Come in this evening and have a cup of tea with me; we can then discuss the statutes of the "Association for the Rights of Women." Possibly a bazaar or amateur theatricals would help us on. I am longing to set the association going; it is an urgent need, as you so often said; I feel it very deeply when I think about it. Do you think that her Ladyship would honour my house at the same time? Perhaps I ought to call on her first. Come and fetch me at twelve and we'll have a cup of chocolate at a confectioner's. My husband is away.

Yours affectionately,
Eugenia.

P.S. My husband is away.

When she had despatched the letter, she got up and dressed, so as to be ready at twelve.

It was evening.

The eastern end of Long Street was already plunged in twilight, when the clock of the German church struck seven; only a faint ray of light from Pig Street fell into Falk's flax-shop, as Andersson made ready to close it for the night. The shutters in the counting-house had already been fastened and the gas was lighted. The place had been swept and straightened; two hampers with protruding necks of bottles, sealed red and yellow, some covered with tinfoil and others wrapped in pink tissue paper, were standing close to the door. The centre of the room was taken up by a table covered with a white cloth; on it stood an Indian bowl and a heavy silver candelabrum.

Nicholas Falk paced up and down. He was wearing a black frock-coat, and had a respectable as well as a festive air. He had a right to look forward to a pleasant evening: he had arranged it; he had paid for it; he was in his own house and at his ease, for there were no ladies present, and his invited guests were of a calibre which justified him in expecting from them not only attention and civility, but a little more.

They were only two, but he did not like many people; they were his friends, reliable, devoted as dogs; submissive, agreeable, always flattering and never contradicting him.

Being a man of means, he could have moved in better circles; he might have associated with his father's friends, and he did so, twice a year; but he was of too despotic a nature to get on with them.

It was three minutes past seven and still the guests had not arrived. Falk began to show signs of impatience. When he invited his henchmen, he expected them to be punctual to the minute. The thought of the unusually sumptuous arrangement, however, and the paralysing impression it was bound to make, helped him to control his temper a little longer; at the lapse of a few more moments Fritz Levin, the post-office official put in an appearance.

"Good-evening, brother—oh! I say!" He paused in the action of divesting himself of his overcoat, and feigned surprise at the magnificent preparations; he almost seemed in danger of falling on his back with sheer amazement. "The seven-armed candle-stick, and the tabernacle! Good Lord!" he ejaculated, catching sight of the hampers.

The individual who delivered these well-rehearsed witticisms while taking off his overcoat, was a middle-aged man of the type of the government official of twenty years ago; his whiskers joined his moustache, his hair was parted at the side and arranged in a coup de vent. He was extremely pale and as thin as a shroud. In spite of being well dressed, he was shivering with cold and seemed to have secret traffic with poverty.

Falk's manner in welcoming him was both rude and patronizing; it was partly intended to express his scorn of flattery, more particularly from an individual like the newcomer, and partly to intimate that the newcomer enjoyed the privilege of his friendship.

By way of congratulation he began to draw a parallel between Levin's promotion and his own father's receiving a commission in the militia.

"Well, it's a grand thing to have the royal mandate in one's pocket, isn't it? My father, too, received a royal mandate...."

"Pardon me, dear brother, but I've only been appointed."

"Appointed or royal mandate, it comes to the same thing. Don't teach me! My father, too, had a royal mandate...."

"I assure you...."

"Assure me—what d'you mean by that? D'you mean to imply that I'm standing here telling lies? Tell me, do you mean to say that I'm lying?"

"Of course I don't! There's no need to lose your temper like that!"

"Very well! You're admitting that I'm not telling lies, consequently you have a royal mandate. Why do you talk such nonsense? My father...."

The pale man, in whose wake a drove of furies seemed to have entered the counting-house—for he trembled in every limb—now rushed at his patron, firmly resolved to get over with his business before the feast began, so that nothing should afterwards disturb the general enjoyment.

"Help me," he groaned, with the despair of a drowning man, taking a bill out of his pocket.

Falk sat down on the sofa, shouted for Andersson, ordered him to open the bottles and began to mix the bowl.

"Help you? Haven't I helped you before?" he replied. "Haven't you borrowed from me again and again without paying me back? Answer me! What have you got to say?"

"I know, brother, that you have always been kindness itself to me."

"And now you've been promoted, haven't you? Everything was to be all right now; all debts were to be paid and a new life was to begin. I've listened to this kind of talk for eighteen years. What salary do you draw now?"

"Twelve hundred crowns instead of eight hundred as before. But now, think of this: the cost of the mandate was one hundred and twenty-five; the pension fund deducts fifty; that makes one hundred and seventy-five. Where I am to take it from? But the worst of it all is this: my creditors have seized half my salary; consequently I have now only six hundred crowns to live on instead of eight hundred—and I've waited nineteen years for that. Promotion is a splendid thing!"

"Why did you get into debt? One ought never to get into debt. Never—get—into debt."

"With a salary of eight hundred crowns all these years! How was it possible to keep out of it?"

"In that case you had no business to be in the employ of the Government. But this is a matter which doesn't concern me; doesn't—concern—me."

"Won't you sign once more? For the last time?"

"You know my principles; I never sign bills. Please let the matter drop."

Levin, who was evidently used to these refusals, calmed down. At the same moment schoolmaster Nyström entered, and, to the relief of both parties, interrupted the conversation. He was a dried-up individual of mysterious appearance and age. His occupation, too, was mysterious; he was supposed to be a master at a school in one of the southern suburbs—nobody ever asked which school and he did not care to talk about it. His mission, so far as Falk was concerned, was first to be addressed as schoolmaster when there were other people present; secondly, to be polite and submissive; thirdly, to borrow a little every now and then; never exceeding a fiver; it was one of Falk's fundamental needs that people should borrow money from him occasionally, only a little, of course; and, fourthly, to write verses on festive occasions; and the latter was not the least of the component parts of his mission.

Charles Nicholas Falk sat enthroned on his leather sofa, very conscious of the fact that it was his leather sofa, surrounded by his staff; or his dogs, as one might have said. Levin found everything splendid; the bowl, the glasses, the ladle, the cigars—the whole box had been taken from the mantelpiece—the matches, the ash-trays, the bottles, the corks, the wire—everything. The schoolmaster looked content; he was not called upon to talk, the other two did that; he was merely required to be present as a witness in case of need.

Falk was the first to raise his glass and drink—nobody knew to whom—but the schoolmaster, believing it to be to the hero of the day, produced his verses and began to read "To Fritz Levin on the Day of his Promotion."

Falk was attacked by a violent cough which disturbed the reading and spoiled the effect of the wittiest points; but Nyström, who was a shrewd man and had foreseen this, had introduced into his poem the finely felt and finely expressed reflection: "What would have become of Fritz Levin if Charles Nicholas hadn't befriended him?" This subtle hint at the numerous loans made by Falk to his friend, soothed the cough; it subsided and ensured a better reception to the last verse which was quite impudently dedicated to Levin, a tactlessness which again threatened to disturb the harmony. Falk emptied his glass as if he were draining a cup filled to the brim with ingratitude.

"You're not up to the mark, Nyström," he said.

"No, he was far wittier on your thirty-eighth birthday," agreed Levin, guessing what Falk was driving at.

Falk's glance penetrated into the most hidden recesses of Levin's soul, trying to discover whether any lie or fraud lay hidden there—and as his eyes were blinded by pride, he saw nothing.

"Quite true," he acquiesced: "I never heard anything more witty in all my life; it was good enough to be printed; you really ought to get your things printed. I say, Nyström, surely you know it by heart, don't you?"

Nyström had a shocking memory, or, to tell the truth, he had not yet had enough wine to commit the suggested outrage against decency and good form; he asked for time. But Falk, irritated by his quiet resistance, had gone too far to turn back, and insisted on his request. He was almost sure that he had a copy of the verses with him; he searched his pocket-book and behold! There they lay. Modesty did not forbid him to read them aloud himself; it would not have been for the first time; but it sounded better for another to read them. The poor dog bit his chain, but it held. He was a sensitive man, this schoolmaster, but he had to be brutal if he did not want to relinquish the precious gift of life, and he had been very brutal. The most private affairs were fully and openly discussed, everything in connexion with the birth of the hero, his reception into the community, his education and up-bringing were made fun of; the verses would have disgusted even Falk himself if they had treated of any other person, but the fact of their celebrating him and his doings made them excellent. When the recitation was over, his health was drunk uproariously, in many glasses, for each member of the little party felt that he was too sober to keep his real feelings under control.

The table was now cleared and an excellent supper consisting of oysters, birds, and other good things, was served. Falk went sniffing from dish to dish, sent one or two of them back, took care that the chill was taken off the stout, and that the wines were the right temperature. Now his dogs were called upon to do their work and offer him a pleasant spectacle. When everybody was ready, he pulled out his gold watch and held it in his hand while he jestingly asked a question which his convives had heard many times—so very many times:

"What is the time by the silver watches of the gentlemen?"

The anticipated reply came as in duty bound, accompanied by gay laughter: the watches were at the watch-maker's. This put Falk into the best of tempers, which found expression in the not at all unexpected joke:

"The animals will be fed at eight."

He sat down, poured out three liqueurs, took one and invited his friends to follow his example.

"I must make a beginning myself, as you both seem to be holding back. Don't let's stand on ceremony! Tuck in boys!"

The feeding began. Charles Nicholas who was not particularly hungry, had plenty of time to enjoy the appetite of his guests, and he continually urged them to eat. An unspeakably benevolent smile radiated from his bright, sunny countenance as he watched their zeal, and it was difficult to say what he enjoyed more, the fact of their having a good meal, or the fact of their being so hungry. He sat there like a coachman on his box, clicking his tongue and cracking his whip at them.

"Eat, Nyström! You don't know when you'll get a meal next. Help yourself, Levin; you look as if you could do with a little flesh on your bones. Are you grinning at the oysters? Aren't they good enough for a fellow like you? What do you say? Take another! Don't be shy! What do you say? You've had enough? Nonsense! Have a drink now! Take some stout, boys! Now a little more salmon! You shall take another piece, by the Lord Harry, you shall! Go on eating! Why the devil don't you? It costs you nothing!"

When the birds had been carved, Charles Nicholas poured out the claret with a certain solemnity. The guests paused, anticipating a speech. The host raised his glass, smelt the bouquet of the wine and said with profound gravity:

"Your health, you hogs!"

Nyström responded by raising his glass and drinking; but Levin left his untouched, looking as if he were secretly sharpening a knife.

When supper was over Levin, strengthened by food and drink, his senses befogged by the fumes of the wine, began to nurse a feeling of independence; a strong yearning for freedom stirred in his heart. His voice grew more resonant; he pronounced his words with increasing assurance, and his movements betrayed greater ease.

"Give me a cigar!" he said in a commanding tone; "no, not a weed like these, a good one."

Charles Nicholas, regarding his words as a good joke, obeyed.

"Your brother isn't here to-night," remarked Levin casually. There was something ominous and threatening in his voice; Falk felt it and became uneasy.

"No!" he said shortly, but his voice was unsteady.

Levin waited for a few moments before striking a second blow. One of his most lucrative occupations was his interference in other people's business; he carried gossip from family to family; sowed a grain of discord here and another there, merely to play the grateful part of the mediator afterwards. In this way he had obtained a great deal of influence, was feared by his acquaintances, and managed them as if they were marionettes.

Falk felt this disagreeable influence and attempted to shake it off; but in vain. Levin knew how to whet his curiosity; and by hinting at more than he knew, he succeeded in bluffing people into betraying their secrets.

At the present moment Levin held the whip and he promised himself to make his oppressor feel it. He was still merely playing with it, but Falk was waiting for the blow. He tried to change the subject of conversation. He urged his friends to drink and they drank. Levin grew whiter and colder as his intoxication increased, and went on playing with his victim.

"Your wife has visitors this evening," he suddenly remarked.

"How do you know?" asked Falk, taken aback.

"I know everything," answered Levin, showing his teeth. It was almost true; his widely extending business connexions compelled him to visit as many public places as possible, and there he heard much; not only the things which were spoken of in his society, but also those which were discussed by others.

Falk was beginning to feel afraid without knowing why, and he thought it best to divert the threatening danger. He became civil, humble even, but Levin's boldness still increased. There was no alternative, he must make a speech, remind his companions of the cause of the gathering, acknowledge the hero of the day. There was no other escape. He was a poor speaker, but the thing had to be done. He tapped against the bowl, filled the glasses, and recollecting an old speech, made by his father when Falk became his own master, he rose and began, very slowly:

"Gentlemen! I have been my own master these eight years; I was only thirty years old...."

The change from a sitting position to a standing one caused a rush of blood to his head; he became confused; Levin's mocking glances added to his embarrassment. His confusion grew; the figure thirty seemed something so colossal that it completely disconcerted him.

"Did I say thirty? I didn't—mean it. I was in my father's employ—for many years. It would take too long to recount everything—I suffered during those years; it's the common lot. Perhaps you think me selfish...."

"Hear! hear!" groaned Nyström who was resting his heavy head on the table.

Levin puffed the smoke of his cigar in the direction of the speaker, as if he were spitting in his face.

Falk, really intoxicated now, continued his speech; his eyes seemed to seek a distant goal without being able to find it.

"Everybody is selfish, we all know that. Ye-es! My father, who made a speech when I became my own master, as I was just saying——"

He pulled out his gold watch and took it off the chain. The two listeners opened their eyes wide. Was he going to make a present of it to Levin?

"Handed me on that occasion this gold watch which he, in his turn, had received from his father in the year...."

Again those dreadful figures—he must refer back.

"This gold watch, gentlemen, was presented to me, and I cannot think without emotion of the moment—when I received it. Perhaps you think I'm selfish gentlemen? I'm not. I know it's not good form to speak of oneself, but on such an occasion as this it seems very natural to glance at—the past. I only want to mention one little incident."

He had forgotten Levin and the significance of the day and was under the impression that he was celebrating the close of his bachelor-life. All of a sudden he remembered the scene between himself and his brother, and his triumph. He felt a pressing need to talk of this triumph, but he could not remember the details. He merely remembered having proved that his brother was a blackguard; he had forgotten the chain of evidence with the exception of only two facts: his brother and a blackguard: he tried to link them together, but they always fell apart. His brain worked incessantly and picture followed on picture. He must tell them of a generous action he had done; he recollected that he had given his wife some money in the morning, and had allowed her to sleep as long as she liked and have breakfast in bed; but that wasn't a suitable subject. He was in an unpleasant position, but fear of a silence and the two pairs of sharp eyes which followed his every movement, helped him to pull himself together. He realized that he was still standing, watch in hand. The watch? How had it got into his hand? Why were his friends sitting down, almost blotted out by the smoke, while he was on his legs? Oh! of course! He had been telling them about the watch, and they were waiting for the continuation of the story.

"This watch, gentlemen, is nothing special at all. It's only French gold."

The two whilom owners of silver watches opened their eyes wide. This information was new to them.

"And I believe it has only seven rubies—it's not a good watch at all—on the contrary—I should rather call it a cheap one...."

Some secret cause of which his brain was hardly conscious, made him angry; he must vent his wrath on something; tapping the table with his watch, he shouted:

"It's a damned bad watch, I say! Listen to me when I'm speaking! Don't you believe what I say, Fritz? Answer me! Why do you look so vicious? You don't believe me. I can read it in your eyes. Fritz, you don't believe what I'm saying. Believe me, I know human nature. And I might stand security for you once more! Either you are a liar, or I am! Shall I prove to you that you are a scoundrel? Shall I? Listen, Nyström, if—I—forge a bill—am I a scoundrel?"

"Of course you are a scoundrel, the devil take you!" answered Nyström, without a moment's hesitation.

"Yes—Yes!"

His efforts to remember whether Levin had forged a bill, or was in any way connected with a bill, were in vain. Therefore he was obliged to let the matter drop. Levin was tired; he was also afraid that his victim might lose consciousness, and that he and Nyström would be robbed of the pleasure of enjoying his intended discomfiture. He therefore interrupted Falk with a jest in his host's own style.

"Your health, old rascal!"

And down came the whip. He produced a newspaper.

"Have you seen the People's Flag?" he asked Falk in cold murderous accents.

Falk stared at the scandalous paper but said nothing. The inevitable was bound to happen.

"It contains a splendid article on the Board of Payment of Employés' Salaries."

Falk's cheeks grew white.

"Rumour has it that your brother wrote it."

"It's a lie! My brother's no scandal-monger! He isn't! D'you hear?"

"But unfortunately he had to suffer for it. I'm told he's been sacked."

"It's a lie!"

"I'm afraid it's true. Moreover, I saw him dining to-day at the 'Brass-Button' with a rascally looking chap. I'm sorry for the lad."

It was the worst blow that could have befallen Charles Nicholas. He was disgraced. His name, his father's name, was dishonoured; all that the old burgesses had achieved had been in vain. If he had been told that his wife had died, he could have borne up under it; a financial loss, too, might have been repaired. If he had been told that his friend Levin, or Nyström, had been arrested for forgery, he would have disowned them, for he had never shown himself in public in their company. But he could not deny his relationship to his brother. And his brother had disgraced him. There was no getting away from the fact.

Levin had found a certain pleasure in retailing his information. Falk, although he had never given his brother the smallest encouragement, was in the habit of boasting of him and his achievements to his friends. "My brother, the assessor, is a man of brains, and he'll go far, mark my words!" These continual indirect reproaches had long been a source of irritation to Levin, more particularly as Charles Nicholas drew a definite, unsurpassable, although indefinable, line between assessors and secretaries.

Levin, without moving a finger in the matter, had had his revenge at so little cost to himself that he could afford to be generous, and play the part of the comforter.

"There's no reason why you should take it so much to heart. Even a journalist can be a decent specimen of humanity, and you exaggerate the scandal. There can be no scandal where no definite individuals have been attacked. Moreover, the whole thing's very witty, and everybody's reading it."

This last pill of comfort made Falk furious.

"He's robbed me of my good name! My name! How can I show myself to-morrow at the Exchange? What will people say?"

By people he meant his wife. She would enjoy the situation because it would make the misalliance less marked. Henceforth they would be on the same social level. The thought was intolerable. A bitter hatred for all mankind took possession of his soul. If only he had been the bastard's father! Then he could have made use of his parental privilege, washed his hands of him, cursed him, and so have put an end to the matter; but there was no such thing as a brotherly privilege. Was it possible that he himself, was partly to blame for the disgrace? Had he not forced his brother into his profession? Maybe the scene of the morning or his brother's financial difficulties—caused by him—were to blame? No! he had never committed a base action; he was blameless; he was respected and looked up to; he was no scandal-monger; he had never been sacked by anybody. Did he not carry a paper in his pocket-book, testifying that he was the kindest friend with the kindest heart? Had not the schoolmaster read it aloud a little while ago? Yes, certainly—and he sat down to drink, drink immoderately—not to stupefy his conscience, there was no necessity for that, he had done no wrong, but merely to drown his anger. But it was no use; it boiled over—and scalded those who sat nearest to him.

"Drink, you rascals! That brute there's asleep! And you call yourselves friends! Waken him up, Levin!"

"Whom are you shouting at?" asked the offended Levin peevishly.

"At you, of course!"

Two glances were exchanged across the table which promised no good. Falk, whose temper improved directly he saw another man in a rage, poured a ladleful of the contents of the bowl on the schoolmaster's head, so that it trickled down his neck behind his collar.

"Don't dare to do that again!" threatened Levin.

"Who's to prevent me?"

"I! Yes, I! I shan't let you ruin his clothes. It's a beastly shame!"

"His clothes," laughed Falk. "Isn't it my coat? Didn't I give it to him?"

"You're going too far!" said Levin, rising to go.

"So you're going now! You've had enough to eat, you can't drink any more, you don't want me any longer to-night. Didn't you want to borrow a fiver? What? Am I to be deprived of the honour of lending you some money? Didn't you want me to sign something? Sign, eh?"

At the word sign, Levin pricked up his ears. Supposing he tried to get the better of him in his excited condition? The thought softened him.

"Don't be unjust, brother," he re-commenced. "I'm not ungrateful; I fully appreciate your kindness; but I'm poor, poorer than you've ever been, or ever can be; I've suffered humiliations which you can't even conceive; but I've always looked upon you as a friend. I mean a friend in the highest sense of the word. You've had too much to drink to-night and so you're cross; this makes you unjust, but I assure you, gentlemen, in the whole world there beats no kinder heart than that of Charles Nicholas. And I don't say this for the first time. I thank you for your courtesy to-night, that is to say, if the excellent supper we have eaten, the magnificent wines we have drunk, have been eaten and drunk in my honour. I thank you, brother, and drink your health. Here's to you, brother Charles Nicholas! Thank you, thank you a thousand times! You've not done it in vain! Mark my words!"

Strange to say, these words, spoken in a tremulous voice—tremulous with emotion—produced good results. Falk felt good. Hadn't he again been assured that he had a kind heart? He firmly believed it.

The intoxication had reached the sentimental stage; they moved nearer together; they talked of their good qualities, of the wickedness of the world, the warmth of their feelings, the strength of their good intentions; they grasped each other's hands. Falk spoke of his wife; of his kindness to her; he regretted the lack of spirituality in his calling; he mentioned how painfully aware he was of his want of culture; he said that his life was a failure; and after the consumption of his tenth liqueur, he confided to Levin that it had been his ambition to go into the church, become a missionary, even. They grew more and more spiritual. Levin spoke of his dead mother, her death and funeral, of an unhappy love-affair, and finally of his religious convictions, as a rule jealously guarded as a secret. And soon they were launched on an eager discussion of religion.

It struck one—it struck two—and they were still talking while Nyström slept soundly, his arms on the table, and his head resting on his arms. A dense cloud of tobacco smoke filled the counting-house and robbed the gas flames of their brilliancy. The seven candles of the seven-armed candelabrum had burnt down to the sockets and the table presented a dismal sight. One or two glasses had lost their stems, the stained tablecloth was covered with cigar ash, the floor was strewn with matches. The daylight was breaking through the chinks of the shutters; its shafts pierced the cloud of smoke and drew cabbalistic figures on the tablecloth between the two champions of their faith, busily engaged in re-editing the Augsburg Confession. They were now talking with hissing voices; their brains were numbed; their words sounded dry, the tension was relaxing in spite of their diligent recourse to the bottle. They tried to whip up their souls into an ecstasy, but their efforts grew weaker and weaker; the spirit had died out of their conversation; they only exchanged meaningless words; the stupefied brains which had been whirling round like teetotums, slackened in their speed and finally stopped; one thought alone filled their minds—they must go to bed, if they did not want to loathe the sight of each other; they must be alone.

Nyström was shaken into consciousness; Levin embraced Charles Nicholas and took the opportunity to pocket three of his cigars. The heights which they had scaled were too sublime to allow them to talk of the bill just yet. They parted—the host let his guests out—he was alone! He opened the shutters—daylight poured into the room; he opened the window; the cool sea-breeze swept through the narrow street, one side of which was already illuminated by the rising sun. It struck four, he listened to that wonderful striking only heard by the poor wretch who yearns for the day on a bed of sickness or sorrow. Even Long Street East, that street of vice, of filth and brawls, lay in the early morning sun, still, desolate and pure. Falk felt deeply unhappy. He was disgraced—he was lonely! He closed window and shutters, and as he turned round and beheld the state of the room, he at once began setting it straight. He picked up the cigar ends and threw them into the grate; he cleared the table, swept the room, dusted it and put everything in its place. He washed his face and hands, and brushed his hair; a policeman might have thought him a murderer, intent on effacing all traces of his crime. But all the while he thought, clearly, firmly and logically. When he had straightened the room and himself, he formed a resolution, long brooded over, but now to be carried into effect. He would wipe away the disgrace which had fallen on his family; he would rise in the world and become a well-known and influential man; he would begin a new life; he would keep his reputation unstained and he would make his name respected. He felt that only a great ambition could help him to keep his head erect after the blow he had received to-night. Ambition had been latent in his heart; it had been awakened and henceforth it should rule his life.

Quite sober now, he lighted a cigar, drank a brandy, and went upstairs, quietly, gently, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife.

CHAPTER V

AT THE PUBLISHER'S

Arvid Falk decided to try Smith first, the almighty Smith—a name adopted by the publisher in his youth during a short trip to the great continent, from exaggerated admiration of everything American—the redoubtable Smith with his thousand arms who could make a writer in twelve months, however bad the original material. His method was well known, though none but he dared to make use of it, for it required an unparalleled amount of impudence. The writer whom he took up could be sure of making a name; hence Smith was overrun with nameless writers.

The following story is told as an instance of his irresistible power and capacity for starting an author on the road to fame. A young, inexperienced writer submitted his first novel, a bad one, to Smith. For some reason the latter happened to like the first chapter—he never read more—and decided to bless the world with a new author. The book was published bearing on the back of the cover the words: "Blood and Sword. A novel by Gustav Sjöholm. This work of the young and promising author whose highly respected name has for a long time been familiar to the widest circles, etc. etc. It is a book which we can strongly recommend to the novel-reading public." The book was published on April 3. On April 4, a review appeared in the widely read metropolitan paper the Grey Bonnet, in which Smith held fifty shares. It concluded by saying: "Gustav Sjöholm's name is already well known; the spreading of his fame does not lie with us; and we recommend this book not only to the novel-reading, but also to the novel-writing public." On April 5 an advertisement appeared in every paper of the capital with the following quotation: "Gustav Sjöholm's name is already well known; the spreading of his fame does not lie with us. (Grey Bonnet)." On the same evening a notice appeared in the Incorruptible, a paper read by nobody. It represented the book as a model of bad literature, and the reviewer swore that Gustav Sjöblom (reviewer's intentional slip), had no name at all. But as nobody read the Incorruptible, the opposition remained unheard. The other papers, unwilling to disagree with the venerable leading Grey Bonnet, and afraid of offending Smith, were mild in their criticisms, but no more. They held the view that with hard work Gustav Sjöholm might make a name for himself in the future. A few days of silence followed, but in every paper—in the Incorruptible in bold type—appeared the advertisement, shouting: "Gustav Sjöholm's name is already well known." Then a correspondence was started in the X-köpings Miscellaneous, reproaching the metropolitan papers with being hard on young authors. "Gustav Sjöholm is simply a genius," affirmed the hot-headed correspondent, "in spite of all that dogmatic blockheads might say to the contrary." On the next day the advertisement again appeared in all the papers, bawling: "Gustav Sjöholm's name is already well known, etc. (Grey Bonnet)." "Gustav Sjöholm is a genius, etc. (X-köpings Miscellaneous)." The cover of the next number of the magazine Our Land, one of Smith's publications, bore the notice: "We are pleased to be in a position to inform our numerous subscribers that the brilliant young author Gustav Sjöholm has promised us an original novel for our next number, etc." And then again the advertisement in the papers. Finally, when at Christmas the almanac Our People appeared, the authors mentioned on the title page were: Orvar Odd, Talis Qualis, Gustav Sjöholm, and others. It was a fact. In the eighth month Gustav Sjöholm was made. And the public was powerless. It had to swallow him. It was impossible to go into a bookseller's and look at a book without reading his name; impossible to take up a newspaper without coming across it. In all circumstances and conditions of life that name obtruded itself, printed on a slip of paper; it was put into the housewives' market baskets on Saturdays; the servants carried it home from the tradespeople; the crossing-sweeper swept it off the street, and the man of leisure went about with it in the pockets of his dressing-gown.

Being well aware of Smith's great power, the young man climbed the dark stairs of the publisher's house close to the Great Church, not without misgivings. He had to wait for a long time in an outer office, a prey to the most unpleasant meditations, until suddenly the door was burst open and a young man rushed out of an inner office, despair on his face and a roll of paper under his arm. Shaking in every limb, Falk entered the sanctum, where the despot received his visitors, seated on a low sofa, calm and serene as a god; he kindly nodded his grey head, covered by a blue cap, and went on smoking, peacefully, as if he had never shattered a man's hopes or turned an unhappy wretch from his door.

"Good morning, sir, good morning!"

His divinely flashing eyes glanced at the newcomer's clothes and approved; nevertheless he did not ask him to sit down.

"My name is—Falk."

"Unknown to me! What is your father?"

"My father is dead."

"Is he? Good! What can I do for you, sir?"

Falk produced a manuscript from his breast pocket and handed it to Smith; the latter sat on it without looking at it.

"You want me to publish it? Verse? I might have guessed it! Do you know the cost of printing a single page, sir? No, you don't."

And he playfully poked the ignoramus with the stem of his pipe.

"Have you made a name, sir? No! Have you distinguished yourself in any way? No!"

"The Academy has praised these verses."

"Which Academy? The Academy of Sciences? The one which publishes all that stuff about flints?"

"About flints?"

"Yes, you know the Academy of Sciences! Close to the Museum, near the river. Well, then!"

"Oh, no, Mr. Smith! The Swedish Academy, in the Exchange...."

"I see! The one with the tallow candles! Never mind; no man on earth can tell what purpose it serves! No, my dear sir, the essential thing is to have a name, a name like Tegnér, like Ohrenschlägel, like—Yes! Our country has many great poets, but I can't remember them just at the moment; but a name is necessary. Mr. Falk? H'm! Who knows Mr. Falk? I don't, and I know many great poets. As I recently said to my friend Ibsen: 'Now just you listen to me, Ibsen'—I call him Ibsen, quite plainly—'just you listen to me, write something for my magazine. I'll pay you whatever you ask!' He wrote—I paid—but I got my money back."

The annihilated young man longed to sink through the chinks in the floor when he realized that he was standing before a person who called Ibsen quite plainly "Ibsen." He longed to recover his manuscript, and go his way, as the other young man had done, away, far away, until he came to running water. Smith guessed it.

"Well, I've no doubt you can write Swedish, sir. And you know our literature better than I do. Good! I have an idea. I am told of great, beautiful, spiritual writers who lived in the past, let's say in the reign of Gustav Eriksson and his daughter Christina. Isn't that so?"

"Gustavus Adolfus."

"Gustavus Adolfus, so be it! I remember there was one with a great, a very great name; he wrote a fine work in verse, on God's Creation, I believe! His Christian name was Hokan!"

"You mean Haquin Spegel, Mr. Smith! 'God's Works and Rest.'"

"Ah, yes! Well, I've been thinking of publishing it. Our nation is yearning for religion these days; I've noticed that; and one must give the people something. I have given them a good deal of Hermann Francke and Arndt, but the great Foundation can sell more cheaply than I can, and now I want to bring out something good at a fair price. Will you take the matter in hand?"

"I don't know where I come in, as it is but a question of a reprint," answered Falk, not daring to refuse straight out.

"Dear me, what ignorance! You would do the editing and proof-reading, of course. Are we agreed? You publish it, sir! What? Shall we draw up a little agreement? The work must appear in numbers. What? A little agreement. Just hand me pen and ink. Well?"

Falk obeyed; he was unable to offer resistance. Smith wrote and Falk signed.

"Well, so much for that! Now, there's another thing! Give me that little book on the stand! The third shelf! There! Now look here! A brochure—title: "The Guardian Angel." Look at the vignette! An angel with an anchor and a ship—it's a schooner without any yards, I believe! The splendid influence of marine insurance on social life in general is well known. Everybody has at one time or other sent something more or less valuable across the sea in a ship. What? Well! Everybody doesn't realize this. No! Consequently it is our duty to enlighten those who are ignorant; isn't that so? Well! We know, you and I; therefore it is for us to enlighten those who don't. This book maintains that everybody who sends things across the water should insure them. But this book is badly written. Well! We'll write a better one. What? You'll write me a novel of ten pages for my magazine Our Land, and I expect you to have sufficient gumption to introduce the name Triton—which is the name of a new limited liability company, founded by my nephew, and we are told to help our neighbours—twice, neither more nor less; but it must be done cleverly and so that it is not at all obvious. Do you follow me?"

Falk found the offer repulsive, although it contained nothing dishonest; however, it gave him a start with the influential man, straight away, without any effort on his part. He thanked Smith and accepted.

"You know the size? Sixteen inches to the page, altogether a hundred and sixty inches of eight lines each. Shall we write a little agreement?"

Smith drew up an agreement and Falk signed.

"Well, now! You know the history of Sweden? Go to the stand again—you will find a cliché there, a wood block. To the right! That's it! Can you tell me who the lady is meant for? She is supposed to be a queen."

Falk, who saw nothing at first but a piece of black wood, finally made out some human features and declared that to the best of his belief it represented Ulrica Eleonora.

"Didn't I say so? Hihihi! The block has been used for Elizabeth, Queen of England, in an American popular edition. I've bought it cheaply, with a lot of others. I'm going to use it for Ulrica Eleonora in my People's Library. Our people are splendid; they are so ready to buy my books. Will you write the letterpress?"

Although Falk did not like the order, his super-sensitive conscience could find no wrong in the proposal.

"Well then! We'd better make out a little agreement. Sixteen pages octavo, at three inches, at twenty-four lines each. There!"

Falk, realizing that the audience was over, made a movement to recover his manuscript on which Smith had all along been sitting. But the latter would not give it up; he declared that he would read it, although it might take him some time.

"You're a sensible man, sir, who knows the value of time," he said. "I had a young fellow here just before you came in; he also brought me verses, a great poem, for which I have no use. I made him the same offers I just made to you, sir; do you know what he said? He told me to do something unmentionable. He did, indeed, and rushed out of the office. He'll not live long, that young man! Good day, good day! Don't forget to order a copy of Hoken Spegel! Well, good day, good day."

Smith pointed to the door with the stem of his pipe and Falk left him.

He did not walk away with light footsteps. The wood-block in his pocket was heavy and weighed him down, kept him back. He thought of the pale young man with the roll of manuscript who had dared to say a bold thing to Smith, and pride stirred in his heart. But memories of old paternal warnings and advice whispered the old lie to him that all work was equally honourable, and reproved him for his pride. He laid hold of his common sense and went home to write a hundred and ninety-two inches about Ulrica Eleonora.

As he had risen early he was at his writing-table at nine o'clock. He filled a large pipe, took two sheets of paper, wiped his steel nibs and tried to recall all he knew about Ulrica Eleonora. He looked her up in Ekelund and Fryxell. There was a great deal under the heading Ulrica Eleonora, but very little about her personally. At half-past nine he had exhausted the subject. He had written down her birthplace, and the place where she died, when she came to the throne, when she abdicated, the names of her parents and the name of her husband. It was a commonplace excerpt from a church register—and filled three pages, leaving thirteen to be covered. He smoked two or three pipes and dragged the inkstand with his pen, as if he were fishing for the Midgard serpent, but he brought up nothing. He was bound to say something about her personally, sketch her character; he felt as if he were sitting in judgment on her. Should he praise or revile her? As it was a matter of complete indifference to him, his mind was still not made up when it struck eleven. He reviled her—and came to the end of the fourth page, leaving twelve to be accounted for. He was at his wits' end. He wanted to say something about her rule, but as she had not ruled, there was nothing to be said. He wrote about her Council—one page—leaving eleven; he whitewashed Görtz—another—leaving ten. He had not yet filled half the required space. He hated the woman! More pipes! Fresh steel nibs! He went back to remoter days, passing them in review, and being now in a thoroughly bad temper, he overthrew his old idol, Charles XII, and hurled him in the dust; it was done in a few words, and only added one more page to his pile. There still remained nine. He anticipated events and criticised Frederick I. Half a page! He glanced at the paper with unhappy eyes; he glimpsed half-way house, but could not reach it. He had written seven and a half small pages; Ekelund had only managed one and a half.

He flung the wood-block on the floor, kicked it underneath his writing-table, crawled after it, dusted it and put it in its former place. It was torture! His soul was as dry as the block. He tried to work himself up to views which he did not hold; he tried to awaken some sort of emotion in his heart for the dead queen, but her plain, dull features, cut into the wood, made no more impression on him than he on the block. He realized his incapacity and felt despondent, degraded. And this was the career of his choice, the one he had preferred to all others. With a strong appeal to his reason, he turned to the guardian angel.

The brochure was originally written for a German society, the "Nereus," and the argument was as follows: Mr. and Mrs. Castle had emigrated to America, where they acquired a large estate. To make the story possible, they had sold their land, and, very unpractically, invested the total amount realized in costly furniture and objects of art. As the story required that everything should be completely lost and nothing whatever saved from the shipwreck, they sent off the whole lot in advance by the Washington, a first-class steamer, copper bottomed, with watertight bulkheads, and insured with the great German Marine Insurance Company for £60,000. Mr. and Mrs. Castle and the children followed on the Bolivar, the finest boat of the White Star Line, insured with the great Marine Insurance Company "Nereus" (Capital $10,000,000), and safely arrived at Liverpool. They left Liverpool and all went well until they came to Skagen Point. During the whole voyage the weather had, of course, been magnificent; the sky was clear and radiant, but at the dangerous Skagen Point a storm overtook them; the steamer was wrecked; the parents, whose lives were insured, were drowned, thereby guaranteeing to the children, who were saved, £1500. The latter, rejoicing at their parents' foresight, arrived at Hamburg in good spirits, eager to take possession of the insurance money and the property which they had inherited from their parents. Imagine their consternation when they were told that the Washington had been wrecked a fortnight before their arrival on Dogger Bank; their whole fortune, which had been left uninsured, was lost. All that remained was the life insurance money. They hurried to the Company's agents. A fresh disaster! They were told that their parents had not paid the last premium which—oh, fateful blow!—had been due on the day preceding their death. The distressed children bitterly mourned their parents, who had worked so hard for them. They embraced each other with tears and made a solemn vow that henceforth all their possessions should be insured, and that they would never neglect paying their life insurance premiums.

This story was to be localized, adapted to a Swedish environment and made into a readable novelette; and with this he was to make his début in the literary world. The devil of pride whispered to him not to be a blackguard and to leave the business alone, but this voice was silenced by another, which came from the region of his empty stomach, and was accompanied by a gnawing, stinging sensation. He drank a glass of water and smoked another pipe. But his discomfort increased. His thoughts became more gloomy; he found his room uncomfortable, the morning dull and monotonous; he was tired and despondent; everything seemed repulsive; his ideas were spiritless and revolved round nothing but unpleasant subjects; and still his discomfort grew. He wondered whether he was hungry? It was one o'clock. He never dined before three. He anxiously examined his purse. Threepence halfpenny! For the first time in his life he would have to go without dinner! This was a trouble hitherto unknown to him. But with threepence halfpenny there was no necessity to starve. He could send for bread and beer. No! That would not do; it was infra dig. Go to a dairy? No! Borrow? Impossible! He knew nobody who would lend. No sooner had he realized this than hunger began to rage in him like a wild beast let loose, biting him, tearing him and chasing him round the room. He smoked pipe after pipe to stupefy the monster; in vain.

A rolling of drums from the barracks yard told him that the guardsmen were lining up with their copper vessels to receive their dinner; every chimney was smoking; the dinner bell went in the dockyard; a hissing sound came from his neighbour's, the policemen's kitchen; the smell of roast meat penetrated through the chinks of the door; he heard the rattling of knives and plates in the adjacent room, and the children saying grace. The paviours in the street below were taking their after-dinner nap with their heads on their empty food baskets. The whole town was dining; everybody, except he. He raged against God. But all at once a clear thought shot through his brain. He seized Ulrica Eleonora and the guardian angel, wrapped them in paper, wrote Smith's name and address on the parcel, and handed the messenger his threepence halfpenny. And with a sigh of relief he threw himself on his sofa and starved, with a heart bursting with pride.

CHAPTER VI

THE RED ROOM

The same afternoon sun which had witnessed Arvid Falk's defeat in his first battle with hunger shone serenely into the cottage of the artists' colony, where Sellén, in shirt sleeves, was standing before his easel working at his picture which had to be in the Exhibition on the following morning before ten, finished, framed, and varnished. Olle Montanus sat on the bed-sofa reading the wonderful book lent to him by Ygberg for a day in exchange for his muffler; betweenwhiles he cast a look of admiration at Sellén's picture. He had great faith in Sellén's talent. Lundell was calmly working at his "Descent from the Cross"; he had already sent three pictures to the Exhibition and, like many others, he was awaiting their sale with a certain amount of excitement.

"It's fine, Sellén," said Olle, "you paint divinely."

"May I look at your spinach?" asked Lundell, who never admired anything, on principle.

The subject was simple and grand. The picture represented a stretch of drifting sand on the coast of Halland with the sea in the background; it was full of the feeling of autumn; sunbeams were breaking through riven clouds; the foreground was partly drift sand and newly washed-up seaweed, dripping wet and lit by the sun; in the middle distance lay the sea, with huge crested waves—the greater part in deep shadow; but in the background, on the horizon, the sun was shining, opening up a perspective into infinity; the only figures were a flock of birds.

No unperverted mind who had the courage to face the mysterious wealth of solitude, had seen promising harvests choked by the drifting sand, could fail to understand the picture. It was painted with inspiration and talent; the colouring was the result of the prevailing mood, the mood was not engendered by the colouring.

"You must have something in the foreground," persisted Lundell. "Take my advice."

"Rubbish!" replied Sellén.

"Do what I tell you, and don't be a fool, otherwise you won't sell. Paint in a figure; a girl by preference; I'll help you if you don't know how to do it. Look here...."

"None of your tricks! What's the good of petticoats in a high wind? You're mad on petticoats!"

"Very well, do as you like," replied Lundell, a little hurt by the reference to one of his weakest points. "But instead of those grey gulls you should have painted storks. Nobody can tell what sort of birds these are. Picture the red storks' legs against the dark cloud! What a contrast!"

"You don't understand!"

Sellén was not clever in stating his motives, but he was sure of his points and his sound instincts led him safely past all errors.

"You won't sell," Lundell began again; his friend's financial position worried him.

"Well, I shall live somehow in spite of it. Have I ever sold anything? Am I the worse for it? Do you think I don't know that I should sell if I painted like everybody else? Do you think I can't paint as badly as everybody else? I just don't want to!"

"But you ought to think of paying your debts! You owe Mr. Lund of the 'Sauce-Pan' several hundred crowns."

"Well, that won't ruin him. Moreover I gave him a picture worth twice that amount."

"You are the most selfish man I ever met! The picture wasn't worth twenty crowns."

"I value it at five hundred, as prices go! But unfortunately inclinations and tastes differ here below. I find your 'Crucifixion' an execrable performance, you find it beautiful. Nobody can blame you for it. Tastes differ!"

"But you spoilt our credit at the 'Sauce-Pan.' Mr. Lund refused to give me credit yesterday, and I don't know how I'm to get a dinner to-day."

"What does it matter? Do without it! I haven't had a dinner these last two years."

"You plundered Mr. Falk the other day, when he fell into your clutches."

"That's true! He's a nice chap; moreover, he has talent. There's much originality in his verses; I have read some of them these last few evenings. But I'm afraid he's not hard enough to get on in this world. He's too sensitive, the rascal!"

"If he sees much of you, he'll get over that. It's outrageous how you spoilt that young Rehnhjelm in so short a time. I hear you are encouraging him to go on the stage."

"Did he tell you that? The little devil! He'll get on if he remains alive; but that's not so simple when one has so little to eat! God's death! I've no more paint! Can you spare any white? Merciful Lord! All the tubes are empty! You must give me some, Lundell!"

"I've no more than I want for myself—and even if I had, I should take jolly good care not to give you any."

"Stop talking nonsense! You know there's no time to lose!"

"Seriously, I haven't got your colours. If you weren't so wasteful your tubes would go further."

"I know that! Give me some money, then!"

"Money, indeed! That's no go!"

"Get up, Olle! You must go and pawn something."

At the word pawn Olle's face brightened; he saw a prospect of food.

Sellén was searching the room.

"What's this? A pair of boots! We'll get twopence halfpenny on them; they'd better be sold."

"They're Rehnhjelm's! You can't take them," objected Lundell, who had meant to put them on in the afternoon when he was going up to town. "Surely you aren't going to take liberties with other people's property!"

"Why not? He'll be getting money for them. What's in this parcel? A velvet waistcoat! A beauty! I shall keep it for myself and then Olle can pawn mine. Collars and cuffs? Oh! paper! A pair of socks! Here, Olle, twopence halfpenny! Wrap them in the waistcoat! You can sell the empty bottles—I think the best thing would be to sell everything."

"Do you mean to say you are going to sell other people's belongings? Have you no sense of right and wrong?" interrupted Lundell again, hoping to gain possession of the parcel which had long tempted him, by means of persuasion.

"He'll get paid for it later on! But it isn't enough yet. We must take the sheets off the bed. Why not? We don't want any sheets! Here, Olle, cram them in!"

Olle very skilfully made a bag of one of the sheets and stuffed everything into it, while Lundell went on eagerly protesting.

When the parcel was made, Olle took it under his arm, buttoned his ragged coat so as to hide the absence of a waistcoat, and set out on his way to the town.

"He looks like a thief," said Sellén, watching him from the window with a sly smile. "I hope the police won't interfere with him! Hurry up, Olle!" he shouted after the retreating figure. "Buy six French rolls and two half-pints of beer if there's anything over after you've bought the paint."

Olle turned round and waved his hat with as much assurance as if he had the feast already safely in his pockets.

Lundell and Sellén were alone. Sellén was admiring his new velvet waistcoat for which Lundell had nursed a secret passion for a long time. He scraped his palette and cast envious glances at the lost glory. But it was something else he was trying to speak of; something else, which was very difficult to mention.

"I wish you'd look at my picture," he said at last. "What do you think of it, seriously?"

"Don't draw and slave at it so much! Paint! Where does the light come from? From the clothes, from the flesh! It's crazy! What do these people breathe? Colour! Turpentine! I see no air!"

"Well," said Lundell, "tastes differ, as you said just now. What do you think of the composition?"

"Too many people!"

"You're awful! I want more, not fewer."

"Let me see! There's one great mistake in it."

Sellén shot a long glance at the picture, a glance peculiar to the inhabitants of sea-coasts and plains.

"Yes, you're right," agreed Lundell. "You can see it then?"

"There are only men in your picture. It's somewhat monotonous."

"That's it! But fancy, that you should see that!"

"You want a woman then?"

Lundell looked at him, wondering whether he was joking, but was unable to settle the point, for Sellén was whistling.

"Yes, I want a female figure," he replied at last.

There was silence, and gradually the silence became uncomfortable: two very old acquaintances in a tête-à-tête conversation.

"I wish I knew where to get a model from! I don't want the Academy models, the whole world knows them, and, besides, the subject is a religious one."

"You want something better? I understand! If it were not for the nude, I might perhaps...."

"It isn't for the nude! Are you mad? Among all those men ... besides, it's a religious subject."

"Yes, yes, we know all that. She must be dressed in something Oriental, and bend down as if she were picking up something, show her shoulders, her neck, and the first vertebra, I understand. Religious like the Magdalene! Bird's-eye view!"

"You scoff and jeer at everything!"

"Let's keep to the point! You shall have your model, for it's impossible to paint without one. You, yourself, don't know one. Very well! Your religious principles don't allow you to look for one; therefore Rehnhjelm and I, the two black sheep, will find you one."

"But it must be a respectable girl, don't forget that."

"Of course! We will see what we can do, the day after to-morrow, when we shall be in funds."

And they went on painting, quietly, diligently, until four—until five. Every now and then their anxious glances swept the road. Sellén was the first to break the uneasy silence.

"Olle is a long time! Something must have happened to him," he said.

"Yes, something must be up. But why do you always send the poor devil? Why can't you run your own errands?"

"He's nothing else to do, and he likes going."

"How d'you know? And besides, let me tell you, nobody can say how Olle's going to turn out. He has great schemes, and he may be on his feet any day; then it will be a good thing to have him for a friend."

"You don't say so! What great work is he going to accomplish? I can quite believe that Olle will become a great man, although not a great sculptor. But where the devil is he? Do you think he's spending the money?"

"Possibly, possibly! He's had nothing for a long time and perhaps the temptation was too strong," answered Lundell, tightening his belt by two holes, and wondering what he would do in Olle's place.

"Well, he's only human, and charity begins at home," said Sellén, who knew perfectly well what he would have done under the circumstances. "But I can't wait any longer. I must have paint, even if I have to steal it. I'll go and see Falk."

"Are you going to squeeze more out of that poor chap? You robbed him yesterday for your frame. And it wasn't a small sum you borrowed."

"My dear fellow! I am compelled to cast all feelings of shame to the winds; there's no help for it. One has to put up with a good deal. However, Falk is a great-hearted fellow who understands that a man may suddenly find himself in Queer Street. Anyhow, I'm going. If Olle returns in the meantime, tell him he's a blockhead. So long! Come to the Red Room and we'll see whether our master will be graciously pleased to give us something to eat before the sun sets. Lock the door, when you leave, and push the key underneath the mat. By-by!"

He went, and before long he stood before Falk's door in Count Magni Street. He knocked, but received no reply. He opened the door and went in. Falk, who had probably had uneasy dreams, awakened from his sleep, jumped up and stared at Sellén without recognizing him.

"Good evening, old chap," said Sellén.

"Oh! It's you. I must have had a strange dream. Good evening! Sit down and smoke a pipe! Is it evening already?"

Sellén thought he knew the symptoms, but he pretended to notice nothing.

"You didn't go to the 'Brass Button' to-day?" he remarked.

"No," replied Falk, confused; "I wasn't there, I was at Iduna."

He really did not know whether he had dreamt it or whether he had actually been there; but he was glad that he had said it, for he was ashamed of his position.

"Perfectly right, old chap," commented Sellén; "the cooking at the 'Brass Button' is beneath criticism."

"It is, indeed," agreed Falk; "the soup's damned bad."

"And the old head-waiter is always on the spot, counting the rolls and butter, the rascal!"

The words "rolls and butter" awakened Falk to consciousness; he did not feel hungry, only a little shaky and faint. But he did not like the subject of conversation and changed it.

"Well, will your picture be ready for to-morrow?" he asked.

"No, unfortunately, it won't."

"What's the matter now?"

"I can't possibly finish it."

"You can't? Why aren't you at home working?"

"The old, old story, my dear fellow! I have no paint! No paint!"

"But there's a remedy for that! Or haven't you any money?"

"If I had I should be all right."

"And I haven't any either! What's to be done?"

Sellén dropped his eyes until his glance reached the height of Falk's waistcoat pocket, into which a heavy gold chain was creeping; not that Sellén believed it to be gold, good, stamped gold. He could not have understood the recklessness of carrying so much money outside one's waistcoat. But his thoughts were following a definite course, and he continued:

"If at least I had something to pawn! But we carelessly pledged our winter overcoats on the first sunny day in April."

Falk blushed. He had never done such a thing.

"Do you pawn your winter overcoats?" he asked. "Do you get anything on them?"

"One gets something on everything—on everything," said Sellén, laying stress on everything; "the only thing needful is to have something."

To Falk the room seemed to be turning round. He had to sit down. Then he pulled out his gold watch.

"How much, do you think, should I get on this watch and chain?"

Sellén seized the future pledges and looked at them with the eye of a connoisseur.

"Is it gold?" he asked faintly.

"It is gold."

"Stamped?"

"Stamped."

"The chain, too?"

"The chain, too."

"A hundred crowns," declared Sellén, shaking his hand so that the gold chain rattled. "But it's a pity! You shouldn't pawn your things for my sake."

"Then for my own," said Falk, anxious to avoid the semblance of an unselfishness which he did not feel. "I want money, too. If you'll turn them into cash, you'll do me a service."

"All right then," said Sellén, resolved not to embarrass his friend by asking indelicate questions. "I'll pawn them! Pull yourself together, old chap! Life is hard at times, I don't deny it; but we go through with it."

He patted Falk's shoulder with a cordiality which did not often pierce the scorn with which he had enveloped himself.

They went out together.

By the time they had concluded the business it was seven o'clock. They bought the paint and repaired to the Red Room.

Berns' "Salon" had just begun to play its civilizing part in the life of Stockholm by putting an end to the unhealthy café-chantants life which had flourished—or raged—in the sixties, and from the capital had spread over the whole country. Here, every evening after seven, crowds of young people met who lived in that abnormal transition stage which begins on leaving the parental roof and ends with the foundation of a new home and family; here were numbers of young men who had escaped from the solitude of their room or attic to find light and warmth and a fellow-creature to talk to. The proprietor had made more than one attempt to amuse his patrons by pantomimic, gymnastic, ballet, and other performances; but he had been plainly shown that his guests were not in search of amusement, but in quest of peace; what was wanted was a consulting-room, where one was likely every moment to chance on a friend. The band was tolerated because it did not stop conversation, but rather stimulated it, and gradually it became as much a component of the Stockholm evening diet, as punch and tobacco.

In this way Berns' Salon became the bachelors' club of all Stockholm. Every circle had its special corner; the colonists of Lill-Jans had usurped the inner chess room, usually called the Red Room on account of its red furniture and for the sake of brevity. It was a safe meeting-ground even if during the whole day the members had been scattered like chaff. When times were hard and funds had to be raised at any cost, regular raids were made from this spot round the room. A chain was formed: two members skirmished in the galleries, and two others attacked the room lengthways. One might have said they dredged the room with a ground-net, and they rarely dredged in vain, for there was a constant flow of new arrivals during the evening.

To-night, however, these efforts were not required; Sellén, calmly and proudly, sat down on the red sofa in the background. After having acted a little farce on the subject of what they were going to drink, they came to the conclusion that they must have something to eat first. They were starting the "sexa," and Falk was beginning to feel a return of his strength, when a long shadow fell across their table. Before them stood Ygberg, as pale and emaciated as ever. Sellén, who was in funds to-night, and under those circumstances invariably courteous and kind-hearted, pressed him to have dinner with them, and Falk seconded the invitation. Ygberg hesitated while examining the contents of the dishes and calculating whether his hunger would be satisfied or only half-satisfied.

"You wield a stinging pen, Mr. Falk," he said, in order to deflect the attention from the raids which his fork was making on the tray.

"How? What do you mean?" asked Falk flushing; he did not know that anybody had made the acquaintance of his pen.

"The article has created a sensation."

"What article? I don't understand."

"The correspondence in the People's Flag on the Board of Payment of Employés' Salaries."

"I didn't write it."

"But the Board is convinced that you did. I just met a member who's a friend of mine; he mentioned you as the author; I understood that the resentment was fierce."

"Indeed?"

Falk felt that he was half to blame for it; he realized now what the notes were which Struve had been making on that evening on Moses Height. But Struve had merely reported what he, Falk, had said. He was responsible for his statements and must stand by them even at the risk of being considered a scandal-monger. Retreat was impossible; he realized that he must go on.

"Very well," he said, "I am the instigator of the article. But let us talk of something else! What do you think of Ulrica Eleonora? Isn't she an interesting character? Or what is your opinion of the Maritime Insurance Company Triton? Or Haquin Spegel?"

"Ulrica Eleonora is the most interesting character in the whole history of Sweden," answered Ygberg gravely; "I've just had an order to write an essay on her."

"From Smith?" asked Falk.

"Yes; but how do you know?"

"I've returned the block this afternoon."

"It's wrong to refuse work. You'll repent it! Believe me."

A hectic flush crimsoned Falk's cheeks; he spoke feverishly. Sellén sat quietly on the sofa, smoking. He paid more attention to the band than to the conversation, which did not interest him because he did not understand it. From his sofa corner he could see through the two open doors leading to the south gallery, and catch a glimpse of the north gallery. In spite of the dense cloud of smoke which hung above the pit between the two galleries, he could distinguish the faces on the other side. Suddenly his attention was caught by something in the distance. He clutched Falk's arm.

"The sly-boots! Look behind the left curtain!"

"Lundell!"

"Just so! He's looking for a Magdalene! See! He's talking to her now! What a beautiful girl!"

Falk blushed, a fact which did not escape Sellén.

"Does he come here for his models?" he asked surprised.

"Well, where else should he go to? He can't find them in the dark."

A moment afterwards Lundell joined them; Sellén greeted him with a patronizing nod, the significance of which did not seem to be lost on the newcomer. He bowed to Falk with more than his usual politeness, and expressed his astonishment at Ygberg's presence in disparaging words. Ygberg, carefully observing him, seized the opportunity to ask him what he would like to eat. Lundell opened his eyes; he seemed to have fallen among magnates. He felt happy; a gentle, philanthropic mood took possession of him, and after ordering a hot supper, he felt constrained to give expression to his emotion. It was obvious that he wanted to say something to Falk, but it was difficult to find an opening. The band was playing "Hear us, Sweden!" and a moment afterwards "A Stronghold is our God."

Falk called for more drink.

"I wonder whether you admire this fine old hymn as much as I do, Mr. Falk?" began Lundell.

Falk, who was not conscious of admiring any one hymn more than another, asked him to have some punch. Lundell had misgivings; he did not know whether he could venture. He thought he had better have some more supper first; he was not strong enough to drink. He tried to prove it, after his third liqueur, by a short but violent attack of coughing.

"The Torch of Reconciliation is a splendid name," he said presently; "it proves at the same time the deep, religious need of atonement, and the light which came into the world when the miracle happened which has always given offence to the proud in spirit."

He swallowed a meat ball while carefully studying the effect of his remark—and felt anything but flattered when he saw three blank faces staring at him, expressing nothing but consternation.

"Spegel is a great name, and his words are not like the words of the Pharisees. We all know that he wrote the magnificent psalm, 'The wailing cries are silent,' a psalm which has never been equalled. Your health, Mr. Falk! I am glad to hear that you are identifying yourself with the work of such a man."

Lundell discovered that his glass was empty.

"I think I must have another half-pint!"

Two thoughts were humming in Falk's brain: "The fellow is drinking neat brandy" and "How did he get to know about Spegel?" A suspicion illuminated his mind like a flash of lightning, but he pretended to know nothing, and merely said: "Your health, Mr. Lundell!"

The unpleasant explanation which seemed bound to follow was avoided by the sudden entrance of Olle. It was Olle, but more rugged than before, dirtier than before and, to judge from his appearance, lamer than before. His hips stood out beneath his coat like bowsprits; a single button kept his coat together close above his first rib. But he was in good spirits and laughed on seeing so much food and drink on the table. To Sellén's horror he began to report on the success of his mission, all the time divesting himself of his acquisitions. He had really been arrested by the police.

"Here are the tickets!"

He handed Sellén two green pawn-tickets across the table, which Sellén instantly converted into a paper pellet.

He had been taken to the police station. He pointed to his coat, the collar of which was missing. There he was asked for his name. His name was, of course, assumed! There existed no such name as Montanus! His native place? Västmanland! Again a false statement! The inspector was a native of that province and knew his countrymen. His age? Twenty-eight years! That was a lie; he must be at least forty. His domicile? Lill-Jans! Another lie; nobody but a gardener lived there. His profession? Artist! That also was a lie: for he looked like a dock labourer.

"Here's your paint, four tubes! Better look at them carefully!"

His parcel had been opened and, in the process, one of the sheets had been torn.

"Therefore I only got one and twopence halfpenny for both. You'll see that I'm right if you'll look at the ticket."

The next question was where he had stolen the things? Olle had replied that he had not stolen them; then the inspector drew his attention to the fact that he had not been asked whether he had stolen them, but where he had stolen them? Where? where? where?

"Here's your change, twopence halfpenny; I've kept nothing back."

Then the evidence was taken down and the stolen goods—which had been sealed with three seals—were described. In vain had Olle protested, in vain had he appealed to their sense of justice and humanity; the only result of his protestations was a suggestion made by the constable to place on record that the prisoner—he was already regarded in the light of a prisoner—was heavily intoxicated; the suggestion was acted upon, but the word heavily was omitted. After the inspector had repeatedly urged the constable to try and remember whether the prisoner had offered resistance at his arrest, and the constable had declared that he could not take his oath on it—it would have been a very serious matter for the prisoner looked a desperate character—but it had appeared to him that he had tried to resist by taking refuge in a doorway the latter statement was placed on record.

Then a report was drawn up, and Olle was ordered to sign it. It ran as follows:

A male individual of sinister and forbidding appearance was found slinking along the row of houses in Northland Street, carrying a suspicious-looking parcel in his hand. On his arrest he was dressed in a green frock-coat—he wore no waistcoat—blue serge trousers, a shirt with the initials P.L. (which clearly proves that either the shirt was stolen or that he had given a wrong name), woollen stockings with grey edges, and a felt hat with a cock's feather. Prisoner gave the assumed name of Olle Montanus, falsely deposed that his people were peasants in Västmanland and that he was an artist, domiciled at Lill-Jans, obviously an invention. On being arrested he tried to offer resistance by taking refuge in a doorway. Then followed a minute description of the contents of the parcel.

As Olle refused to admit the correctness of this report, a telegram was sent to the prison, and a conveyance appeared to fetch Olle, the bundle, and a constable.

As they were turning into Mint Street, Olle caught sight of Per Illson, a member of Parliament and a countryman of his. He called to him, and Per Illson proved that the report was wrong. Olle was released and his bundle was restored to him. And now he had come to join them and——

"Here are your French rolls! There are only five of them, for I've eaten one. And here's the beer!"

He produced five French rolls from his coat pockets, laid them on the table, and placed two bottles of beer, which he pulled out of his trousers pockets, by the side of them, after which his figure resumed its usual disproportions.

"Falk, old chap, you must excuse Olle; he's not used to smart society. Put the French rolls back into your pockets, Olle! What will you be up to next?" said Sellén disapprovingly.

Olle obeyed.

Lundell refused to have the tray taken away, although he had cleared the dishes so thoroughly that it would have been impossible to say what they had contained; every now and then he seized the brandy bottle, absent-mindedly, and poured himself out half a glass. Occasionally he stood up or turned round in his chair to "see what the band was playing." On those occasions Sellén kept a close eye on him.

At last Rehnhjelm arrived. He had obviously been drinking; he sat down silently, his eyes seeking an object on which they could rest while he listened to Lundell's exhortations. Finally his weary eyes fell on Sellén and remained riveted on the velvet waistcoat, which gave him plenty of food for thought for the remainder of the evening. His face brightened momentarily as if he had met an old friend; but the light on it went out as Sellén buttoned up his coat "because there was a draught."

Ygberg took care that Olle had some supper, and never tired of urging him to help himself and to fill his glass.

As the evening advanced music and conversation grew more and more lively.

This state of semi-stupor had a great charm for Falk; it was warm, light, and noisy here; he was in the company of men whose lives he had prolonged for a few more hours and who were therefore gay and lively, as flies revived by the rays of the sun. He felt that he was one of them, for he knew that in their inner consciousness they were unhappy; they were unassuming; they understood him, and they talked like human beings and not like books; even their coarseness was not unattractive; there was so much naturalness in it, so much innocence; even Lundell's hypocrisy did not repulse him; it was so naïve and sat on him so loosely, that it could have been cast off at any moment.

And the evening passed away and the day was over which had pushed Falk irrevocably on to the thorny path of the writer.

CHAPTER VII

THE IMITATION OF CHRIST

On the following morning Falk was awakened by a maid servant who brought him a letter. He opened it and read:

Timothy x. 27, 28, 29.
First Corinth. vi. 3, 4, 5.

Dear Brother,
The grace and peace of our Lord J. C., the love of the father and the fellowship of the H. G., etc., Amen.

I read last night in the Grey Bonnet that you are going to edit the Torch of Reconciliation. Meet me in my office to-morrow morning.

Your saved brother,
Nathanael Skore.

Now he partially understood Lundell's riddle. He did not know Skore, the great champion of the Lord, personally; he knew nothing of the Torch of Reconciliation, but he was curious and decided to obey the insolent request.

At nine o'clock he was in Government Street, looking at the imposing four-storied house, the front of which, from cellar to roof, was covered by sign-boards: "Christian Printing office, Peace, Ltd., second floor. Editorial office, The Inheritance of the Children of God, half-landing floor. Publishing office, The Last Judgment, first floor. Publishing office, The Trump of Peace, second floor. Editorial office of the children's paper, Feed My Lambs, first floor. Offices of the Christian Prayer House Society, Ltd., The Seat of Mercy. Loans granted against first securities, third floor. Come to Jesus, third floor. Employment found for respectable salesmen who can offer security. Foreign Missions Society, Ltd., Eagle, distribution of the profits of the year 1867 in coupons, second floor. Offices of the Christian Mission Steamer Zululu, second floor. The steamer will leave, D.V., on the 28th. Goods received against bill of lading and certificate at the shipping offices close to the landing-bridge where the steamer is loading. Needlework society 'Ant Heap' receives gifts, first floor. Clergymen's bands washed and ironed by the porter. Wafers at 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 an organ with many stops; there was a complete key-board with buttons and semaphores with trumpet-like speaking-tubes, connected with all parts of the building. A big man in riding-boots was standing at the writing-desk. He wore a cassock fastened with one button at the neck which gave it a military appearance; the coat was surmounted by a white band and the mask of a sea captain, for the real face had long ago been mislaid in one of the desks or boxes. The big man was slapping the tops of his boots with his horsewhip, the handle of which was in the form of a symbolical hoof, and sedulously smoking and chewing a strong regalia, probably to keep his jaws in trim. Falk looked at the big man in astonishment.

This, then, was the last fashion in clergymen, for in men, too, there is a fashion. This was the great promulgator, who had succeeded in making it fashionable to be sinful, to thirst for mercy, to be poor and wretched, in fact, to be a worthless specimen of humanity in every possible way. This was the man who had brought salvation in vogue! He had discovered a gospel for smart society. The divine ordinance of grace had become a sport! There were competitions in viciousness in which the prize was given to the sinner. Paper chases were arranged to catch poor souls for the purpose of saving them; but also, let us confess it, battues for subjects on whom to demonstrate one's conversion in a practical manner, by venting on them the most cruel charity.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Falk," said the mask. "Welcome, dear friend! Perhaps you would like to see something of my work? Pardon me, I hope you are saved? Yes, this is the office of the printing works. Excuse me a second."

He stepped up to the organ and pulled out several stops. The answer was a long whistle.

"Just have a look round."

He put his mouth to one of the trumpets and shouted: "The seventh trumpet and the eighth woe! Composition Mediæval 8, titles Gothic, names spaced out."

A voice answered through the same trumpet: "No more manuscript." The mask sat down at the organ, and took a pen and a sheet of foolscap. The pen raced over the paper while he talked, cigar in mouth.

"This activity—is so extensive—that it would soon—be beyond my strength—and my health—would be worse—than it is—if I did—not look after it—so well."

He jumped up, pulled out another stop and shouted into another trumpet: "Proofs of 'Have you paid your Debt?'" Then he continued writing and talking.

"You wonder—why—I—wear riding-boots. It's first—because—I take riding exercises—for the sake of—my health...."

A boy appeared with proofs. The mask handed them to Falk. "Please read that," he said, speaking through his nose, because his mouth was busy, while his eyes shouted to the boy: Wait!

"... secondly—(a movement of the ears plainly conveyed to Falk that he had not lost the thread), because—I am of opinion—that a spiritually minded man should not—be conspicuous—by his appearance—for this would be—spiritual pride—and a challenge—to the scoffers."

A book-keeper entered. The mask acknowledged his salutation by a wrinkling of his forehead, the only part of his face which was unoccupied.

For want of something else to do, Falk took the proofs and began to read them. The cigar continued talking:

"Everybody—wears—riding-boots. I won't—be conspicuous—by my—appearance. I wear—riding-boots—because—I'm no humbug."

He handed the manuscript to the boy and shouted—with his lips: "Four sticks—Seventh trumpet for Nyström!"—and then to Falk:

"I shall be disengaged in five minutes. Will you come with me to the warehouse?"

And to the book-keeper:

"Zululu is charging?"

"Brandy," answered the book-keeper in a rusty voice.

"Everything all right?"

"Everything all right."

"In God's name, then! Come along Mr. Falk."

They entered a room the walls of which were lined with shelves, filled with piles of books. The mask touched them with his horsewhip and said proudly:

"I've written those! What do you think of that? Isn't it a lot? You, too, write—a little. If you stick to it, you might write as much."

He bit and tore at his cigar and spat out the tiny flakes which filled the air like flies and settled on the backs of the books. His face wore a look of contempt.

"The Torch of Reconciliation! Hm! I think it's a stupid name! Don't you rather agree with me? What made you think of it?"

For the first time Falk had a chance of getting in a word, for like all great men, the mask answered his own questions. His reply was in the negative but he got no further; the mask again usurped the conversation.

"I think it's a very stupid name. And do you really believe that it will draw?"

"I know nothing whatever about the matter; I don't know what you are talking about."

"You don't know?"

He took up a paper and pointed to a paragraph.

Falk, very much taken aback, read the following advertisement:

"Notice to subscribers: The Torch of Reconciliation. Magazine for Christian readers, about to appear under the editorship of Arvid Falk whose work has been awarded a prize by the Academy of Sciences. The first number will contain 'God's Creation,' by Hokan Spegel, a poem of an admittedly religious and profoundly Christian spirit."

Falk had forgotten Spegel and his agreement; he stood speechless.

"How large is the edition going to be? What? Two thousand, I suppose. Too small! No good! My Last Judgment was ten thousand, and yet I didn't make more than—what shall I say?—fifteen net."

"Fifteen?"

"Thousand, young man!"

The mask seemed to have forgotten his part and reverted to old habits.

"You know," he continued, "that I'm a popular preacher; I may say that without boasting, for all the world knows it. You know, that I'm very popular; I can't help that—it is so! I should be a hypocrite if I pretended not to know what all the world knows! Well, I'll give you a helping hand to begin with. Look at this bag here! If I say that it contains letters from persons—ladies—don't upset yourself, I'm a married man—begging for my portrait, I have not said too much."

As a matter of fact it was nothing but an ordinary bag which he touched with his whip.

"To save them and me a great deal of trouble, and at the same time for the sake of doing a fellow-man a kindness, I have decided to permit you to write my biography; then you can safely issue ten thousand copies of your first number and pocket a clear thousand."

"But, my dear pastor—he had it on the tip of his tongue to say captain—I know nothing at all about this matter."

"Never mind! Never mind! The publisher has himself written to me and asked me for my portrait. And you are to write my biography! To facilitate your work, I asked a friend to write down the principal points. You have only to write an introduction, brief and eloquent—a few sticks at the most. That's all."

So much foresight depressed Falk; he was surprised to find the portrait so unlike the original, and the friend's handwriting so much like that of the mask.

The latter, who had given him portrait and manuscript, now held out his hand expecting to be thanked.

"My regards to—the publisher."

He had so nearly said Smith, that a slight blush appeared between his whiskers.

"But you don't know my views yet," protested Falk.

"Views? Have I asked what your views are? I never ask anybody about his views. God forbid! I? Never!"

Once more he touched the backs of his publications with his whip, opened the door, let the biographer out and returned to his service at the altar.

Falk, as usual, could not think of a suitable answer until it was too late; when he thought of one, he was already in the street. A cellar window which happened to stand wide open (and was not covered with advertisements) received biography and portrait into safe keeping.

Then Falk went to the nearest newspaper office, handed in a protest against the Torch of Reconciliation, and resigned himself to starve.

CHAPTER VIII

POOR MOTHER COUNTRY

The clock on the Riddarholms Church struck ten as Falk arrived, a few days later, at the Parliamentary buildings to assist the representative of the Red Cap in reporting the proceedings of the Second Chamber.

He hastened his footsteps, convinced that here, where the pay was good, strict punctuality would be looked upon as a matter of course. He climbed the Committee stairs and was shown to the reporters' gallery on the left. A feeling of awe overcame him as he walked across the few boards, hung up under the roof like a pigeon house, where the men of "free speech listen to the discussion of the country's most sacred interests by the country's most worthy representatives."

It was a new sensation to Falk; but he was far from being impressed as he looked down from his scaffolding into the empty hall which resembled a Lancastrian school. It was five minutes past ten, but with the exception of himself, not a soul was present. All of a sudden the silence was broken by a scraping noise. A rat! he thought, but almost immediately he discovered, on the opposite gallery, across the huge, empty hall, a short, abject figure sharpening a pencil on the rail. He watched the chips fluttering down and settling on the tables below.

His eyes scanned the empty walls without finding a resting-place, until finally they fell on the old clock, dating from the time of Napoleon I, with its imperial newly lit emblems, symbolical of the old story, and its hands, now pointing to ten minutes past ten, symbolical in the spirit of irony—of something else. At the same moment the doors in the background opened and a man entered. He was old; his shoulders stooped under the burden of public offices; his back had shrunk under the weight of communal commissions; the long continuance in damp offices, committee-rooms and safe deposits had warped his neck; there was a suggestion of the pensioner in his calm footsteps, as he walked up the cocoa-nut matting towards the chair. When he had reached the middle of the long passage and had come into line with the imperial clock, he stopped; he seemed accustomed to stopping half-way and looking round and backwards; but now he stopped to compare his watch with the clock; he shook his old, worn out head with a look of discontent: "Fast! Fast!" he murmured. His features expressed a supernatural calm and the assurance that his watch could not be slow. He continued his way with the same deliberate footsteps; he might be walking towards the goal of his life; and it was very much a question whether he had not attained it when he arrived at the venerable chair on the platform. When he was standing close by it he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose; his eyes roamed over the brilliant audience of chairs and tables, announcing an important event: "Gentlemen, I have blown my nose." Then he sat down and sank into a presidential calm which might have been sleep, if it had not been waking; and, alone in the large room, as he imagined, alone with his God, he prepared to summon strength for the business of the day, when a loud scraping on the left, high up, underneath the roof, pierced the stillness; he started and turned his head to kill with a three-quarter look the rat which dared to gnaw in his presence. Falk who had omitted to take into account the resonant capacity of the pigeon house, received the deadly thrust of the murderous glance; but the glance softened as it slid down from the eaves-mouldings, whispering—"Only a reporter; I was afraid it might be a rat." And deep regret stole over the murderer, contrition at the sin committed by his eye; he buried his face in his hands and—wept? Oh, no! he rubbed off the spot which the appearance of a repulsive object had thrown on his retina.

Presently the doors were flung wide open; the delegates were beginning to arrive, while the hands on the clock crept forward—forward. The president rewarded the good with friendly nods and pressures of the hand, and punished the evil-doers by turning away his head; he was bound to be just as the Most High.

The reporter of the Red Cap arrived, an unprepossessing individual, not quite sober and only half awake. In spite of this he seemed to find pleasure in answering truthfully the questions put by the newcomer.

Once more the doors were flung open and in stalked a man with as much self-assurance as if he were in his own home: he was the treasurer of the Inland Revenue Office and actuary of the Board of Payment of Employés' Salaries; he approached the chair, greeted the president like an old acquaintance and began to rummage in the papers as if they were his own.

"Who's this?" asked Falk.

"The chief clerk," answered his friend from the Red Cap.

"What? Do they write here, too, then?"

"Too? You'll soon see! They keep a story full of clerks; the attics are full of clerks and they'll soon have clerks in the cellars."

The room below was now presenting the aspect of an ant-heap. A rap of the hammer and there was silence. The head clerk read the minutes of the last meeting, and they were signed without comment. Then the same man read a petition for a fortnight's leave, sent in by Jon Jonson from Lerbak. It was granted.

"Do they have holidays here?" asked the novice, surprised.

"Certainly, Jon Jonson wants to go home and plant his potatoes."

The platform down below was now beginning to fill with young men armed with pen and paper. All of them were old acquaintances from the time when Falk was a Government official. They took their seats at little tables as if they were going to play "Preference."

"Those are the clerks," explained the Red Cap; "they appear to recognize you."

And they really did; they put on their eye-glasses and stared at the pigeon house with the condescension vouchsafed in a theatre by the occupants of the stalls to the occupants of the galleries. They whispered among themselves, evidently discussing an absent acquaintance who, from unmistakable evidence, must have been sitting on the chair occupied by Falk. The latter was so deeply touched by the general interest that he looked with anything but a friendly eye on Struve, who was entering the pigeon house, reserved, unembarrassed, dirty and a conservative.

The chief clerk read a petition, or a resolution, to grant the necessary money for the provision of new door mats and new brass numbers on the lockers destined for the reception of overshoes.

Granted!

"Where is the opposition?" asked the tyro.

"The devil knows!"

"But they say Yes to everything!"

"Wait a little and you'll see!"

"Haven't they come yet?"

"Here every one comes and goes as he pleases."

"But this is the Government Offices all over again!"

The conservative Struve, who had heard the frivolous words, thought it incumbent on him to take up the cudgels for the Government.

"What is this, little Falk is saying?" he asked. "He mustn't growl here."

It took Falk so long to find a suitable reply that the discussions down below had started in the meantime.

"Don't mind him," said the Red Cap, soothingly; "he's invariably a conservative when he has the price of a dinner in his pocket, and he's just borrowed a fiver from me."

The chief clerk was reading: 54. Report of the Committee on Ola Hipsson's motion to remove the fences.

Timber merchant Larsson from Norrland demanded acceptance as it stood. "What is to become of our forests?" he burst out. "I ask you, what is to become of our forests?" And he threw himself on his bench, puffing.

This racy eloquence had gone out of fashion during the last few years, and the words were received with hisses, after which the puffing on the Norrland bench ceased.

The representative for Oeland suggested sandstone walls; Scania's delegate preferred box; Norbotten's opined that fences were unnecessary where there were no fields, and a member on the Stockholm bench proposed that the matter should be referred to a Committee of experts: he laid stress on "experts." A violent scene followed. Death rather than a committee! The question was put to the vote. The motion was rejected; the fences would remain standing until they decayed.

The chief clerk was reading: 66. Report of the Committee on Carl Jönsson's proposition to intercept the moneys for the Bible Commission. At the sound of the venerable name of an institution a hundred years old, even the smiles died away and a respectful silence ensued. Who would dare to attack religion in its very foundation, who would dare to face universal contempt? The Bishop of Ystad asked permission to speak.

"Shall I write?" asked Falk.

"No, what he says doesn't concern us."

But the conservative Struve took down the following notes: Sacred. Int. Mother country. United names religion humanity 829, 1632. Unbelief. Mania for innovations. God's word. Man's word. Centen. Ansgar. Zeal. Honesty. Fairplay. Capac. Doctrine. Exist. Swed. Chch. Immemorial Swed. Honour. Gustavus I. Gustavus Adolphus. Hill Lûtzen. Eyes Europe. Verdict posterity. Mourning. Shame. Green fields. Wash my hands. They would not hear.

Carl Jönsson held the floor.

"Now it's our turn!" said the Red Cap.

And they wrote while Struve embroidered the Bishop's velvet.

Twaddle. Big words. Commission sat for a hundred years. Costs 100.000 Crowns. 9 archbishops. 30 Prof. Upsala. Together 500 years. Dietaries. Secretaries. Amanuenses. Done nothing. Proof sheet. Bad work. Money money money. Everything by its right name. Humbug. Official sucking-system.

No one else spoke but when the question was put to the vote, the motion was accepted.

While the Red Cap with practised hand smoothed Jönsson's stumbling speech, and provided it with a strong title, Falk took a rest. Accidentally scanning the strangers' gallery, his gaze fell on a well-known head, resting on the rail and belonging to Olle Montanus. At the moment he had the appearance of a dog, carefully watching a bone; and he was not there without a very definite reason, but Falk was in the dark. Olle was very secretive.

From the end of the bench, just below the right gallery, on the very spot where the abject individual's pencil chips had fluttered down, a man now arose. He wore a blue uniform, had a three-cornered hat tucked under his arm and held a roll of paper in his hand.

The hammer fell and an ironical, malicious silence followed.

"Write," said the Red Cap; "take down the figures, I'll do the rest."

"Who is it?"

"These are Royal propositions."

The man in blue was reading from the paper roll: "H.M. most gracious proposition; to increase the funds of the department assisting young men of birth in the study of foreign languages, under the heading of stationery and sundry expenses, from 50.000 crowns to 56.000 crowns 37 öre."

"What are sundry expenses?" asked Falk.

"Water bottles, umbrella stands, spittoons, Venetian blinds, dinners, tips and so on. Be quiet, there's more to come!"

The paper roll went on: "H.M. most gracious proposition to create sixty new commissions in the West-Gotic cavalry."

"Did he say sixty?" asked Falk, who was unfamiliar with public affairs.

"Sixty, yes; write it down."

The paper roll opened out and grew bigger and bigger. "H.M. most gracious proposition to create five new regular clerkships in the Board of Payment of Employés' Salaries."

Great excitement at the Preference tables; great excitement on Falk's chair.

Now the paper roll rolled itself up; the chairman rose and thanked the reader with a bow which plainly said: "Is there nothing else we can do?" The owner of the paper roll sat down on the bench and blew away the chips the man above him had allowed to fall down. His stiff, embroidered collar prevented him from committing the same offence which the president had perpetrated earlier in the morning.

The proceedings continued. The peasant Sven Svensson asked for permission to say a few words on the Poor Law. With one accord all the reporters arose, yawned and stretched themselves.

"We'll go to lunch now," explained the Red Cap. "We have an hour and ten minutes."

But Sven Svensson was speaking.

The delegates began to get up from their places; two or three of them went out. The president spoke to some of the good members and by doing so expressed in the name of the Government his disapproval of all Sven Svensson might be going to say. Two older members pointed him out to a newcomer as if he were a strange beast; they watched him for a few moments, found him ridiculous and turned their backs on him.

The Red Cap was under the impression that politeness required him to explain that the speaker was the "scourge" of the Chamber. He was neither hot nor cold, could be used by no party, be won for no interests, but he spoke—spoke. What he spoke about no one could tell, for no paper reported him, and nobody took the trouble to look up the records; but the clerks at the tables had sworn that if they ever came into power, they would amend the laws for his sake.

Falk, however, who had a certain weakness for all those who were overlooked remained behind and heard what he had not heard for many a day: a man of honour, who lived an irreproachable life, espousing the cause of the oppressed and the down-trodden while nobody listened to him.

Struve, at the sight of the peasant, had taken his own departure, and had gone to a restaurant; he was quickly followed by all the reporters and half the deputies.

After luncheon they returned and sat down on the narrow stairs; for a little longer they heard Sven Svensson speaking, or rather, saw him speaking, for now the conversation had become so lively that not a single word of the speech could be understood.

But the speaker was bound to come to an end; nobody had any objections to make; his speech had no result whatever; it was exactly as if it had never been made.

The chief clerk, who during this interval had had time to go to his offices, look at the official papers, and poke his fires, was again in his place, reading: "72. Memorial of the Royal Commission on Per Ilsson's motion to grant ten thousand crowns for the restoration of the old sculptures in the church of Träskola."

The dog's head on the rail of the strangers' gallery assumed a threatening aspect; he looked as if he were going to fight for his bone.

"Do you know the freak up there in the gallery?" asked the Red Cap.

"Olle Montanus, yes, I know him."

"Do you know that he and the church of Träskola are countrymen? He's a shrewd fellow! Look at the expression on his face now that Träskola's turn has come."

Per Ilsson was speaking.

Struve contemptuously turned his back on the speaker and cut himself a piece of tobacco. But Falk and the Red Cap trimmed their pencils for action.

"You take the flourishes, I'll take the facts," said the Red Cap.

After the lapse of a quarter of an hour Falk's paper was covered with the following notes.

Native Culture. Social Interests. Charge of materialism. Accord. Fichte material, Native Culture not mater. Ergo charge rejected. Venerable temple. In the radiance morning sun pointing heavenwards. From heath. times Philos. never dreamt. Sacred rights. Nation. Sacred Int. Native Cult. Literature. Academy. History. Antiquity.

The speech which had repeatedly called forth universal amusement especially at the exhumation of the deceased Fichte, provoked replies from the Metropolitan Bench and the bench of Upsala.

The delegate on the Metropolitan bench said that although he knew neither the church of Träskola nor Fichte and doubted whether the old plaster-boys were worth ten thousand crowns, yet he thought himself justified in urging the Chamber to encourage this beautiful undertaking as it was the first time the majority had asked for money for a purpose other than the building of bridges, fences, national schools, etc.

The delegate on the bench of Upsala held—according to Struve's notes—that the mover of the proposition was à priori right; that his premise, that native culture should be encouraged, was correct; that the conclusion that ten thousand crowns should be voted was binding; that the purpose, the aim, the tendency, was beautiful, praiseworthy, patriotic; but an error had certainly been committed. By whom? By the Mother country? The State? The church? No! By the proponent? The proponent was right according to common sense, and therefore the speaker—he begged the Chamber to pardon the repetition—could only praise the purpose, the aim, the tendency. The proposition had its warmest sympathies; he was calling on the Chamber in the name of the Mother country, in the name of art and civilization, to vote for it. But he himself felt bound to vote against it, because he was of the opinion that, conformable to the idea, it was erroneous, motiveless and figurative, as it subsumed the conception of the place under that of the State.

The head in the strangers' gallery rolled its eyes and moved its lips convulsively while the motion was put to the vote; but when the proceeding was over and the proposition had been accepted, the head disappeared in the discontented and jostling audience.

Falk did not fail to understand the connexion between Per Ilsson's proposition and Olle's presence and disappearance. Struve, who had become even more loud and conservative after lunch, talked unreservedly of many things. The Red Cap was calm and indifferent; he had ceased to be astonished at anything.

From the dark cloud of humanity which had been rent by Olle's exit, suddenly broke a face, clear, bright and radiant as the sun, and Arvid Falk, whose glances had strayed to the gallery, felt compelled to cast down his eyes and turn away his head—he had recognized his brother, the head of the family, the pride of the name, which he intended to make great and honourable. Behind Nicholas Falk's shoulder half of a black face could be seen, gentle and deceitful, which seemed to whisper secrets into the ear of the fair man. Falk had only time to be surprised at his brother's presence—he knew his resentment at the new form of administration—for the president had given Anders Andersson permission to state a proposition. Andersson availed himself of the permission with the greatest calm. "In view of certain events," he read, "move that a Bill should be passed making his Majesty jointly and severally liable for all joint-stock companies whose statutes he has sanctioned."

The sun on the strangers' gallery lost its brilliancy and a storm burst out in the Chamber.

Like a flash Count Splint was on his legs:

"Quosque tandem, Catilina! It has come to that! Members are forgetting themselves so far as to dare to criticize Government! Yes, gentlemen, criticize Government, or, what is even worse, make a joke of it; for this motion cannot be anything but a vulgar joke. Did I say joke? It is treason! Oh! My poor country! Your unworthy sons have forgotten the debt they owe you! But what else can we expect, now, that you have lost your knightly guard, your shield and your arms! I request the blackguard Per Andersson, or whatever his name may be, to withdraw his motion or, by Gad! he shall see that King and country still have loyal servants, able to pick up a stone and fling it at the head of the many-headed hydra of treason."

Applause from the strangers' gallery; indignation in the Chamber.

"Ha! Do you think I'm afraid?"

The speaker made a gesture as if he were throwing a stone, but on every one of the hydra's hundred faces lay a smile. Glaring round, in search of a hydra which did not smile, the speaker discovered it in the reporters' gallery.

"There! There!"

He pointed to the pigeon house and in his eyes lay an expression as if he saw all hell open.

"That's the crows' nest! I hear their croaking, but it doesn't frighten me! Arise, men of Sweden! Cut off the tree, saw through the boards, pull down the beams, kick the chairs to pieces, break the desks into fragments, small as my little finger—he held it up—and then burn the blackguards until nothing of them is left. Then the kingdom will flourish in peace and its institutions will thrive. Thus speaks a Swedish nobleman! Peasants, remember his words!"

This speech which three years ago would have been welcomed with acclamations, taken down verbatim and printed and circulated in national schools and other charitable institutions, was received with universal laughter. An amended version was placed on the record and, strange to say, it was only reported by the opposition papers which do not, as a rule, care to publish outbursts of this description.

The Upsala bench again craved permission to speak. The speaker quite agreed with the last speaker; his acute ear had caught something of the old rattling of swords. He would like to say a few words. He would like to speak of the idea of a joint-stock company as an idea, but begged to be allowed to explain to the Chamber that a joint-stock company was not an accumulation of funds, not a combination of people, but a moral personality, and as such not responsible....

Shouts of laughter and loud conversation prevented the reporters from hearing the remainder of the argument, which closed with the remark that the interests of the country were at stake, conformable to the idea, and that, if the motion were rejected the interests of the country would be neglected and the State in danger.

Six speakers filled up the interval until dinner-time by giving extracts from the official statistics of Sweden, Nauman's Fundamental Statutes, the Legal Textbook and the Göteberg Commercial Gazette: the conclusion invariably arrived at was that the country was in danger if his Majesty were to be jointly and severally liable for all joint-stock companies the statutes of which he had sanctioned; and that the interests of the whole country were at stake. One of the speakers was bold enough to say that the interests of the country stood on a throw of the dice; others were of the opinion that they stood on a card, others again that they hung on a thread; the last speaker said they hung on a hair.

At noon the proposition to go into Committee on the motion was rejected; that was to say, there was no need for the country to go through the Committee-mill, the office-sieve, the Imperial chaff-cutter, the club-winnower and the newspaper-hubbub. The country was saved. Poor country!

CHAPTER IX

BILLS OF EXCHANGE

Some time after Arvid Falk's first experience as a reporter Charles Nicholas Falk and his beloved wife were sitting at the breakfast table. He was, contrary to his custom, not in dressing-gown and slippers, and his wife was wearing an expensive morning-gown.

"Yes, they were all here yesterday," said Mrs. Falk, laughing gaily, "all five of them, and they were extremely sorry about the matter."

"I wish the deuce...."

"Nicholas, remember you are no longer standing behind the counter."

"What am I to say then if I lose my temper?"

"One doesn't lose one's temper, one gets annoyed! And it's permissible to say: 'It's very extraordinary!'"

"Very well, then, it's very extraordinary that you have always something unpleasant up your sleeve. Why can't you refrain from telling me things you know will irritate me?"

"Vex you, old man! You expect me to keep my vexations to myself; but you lie——"

"Lay, old girl!"

"I say lie your burdens on my shoulders too. Was that what you promised me when we got married?"

"Don't make a scene, and don't let's have any of your logic! Go on! They were all here, mamma and your five sisters?"

"Four sisters! You don't care much for your family!"

"No more do you!"

"No more do I!"

"And they came here to condole with you on account of my brother's discharge? Is that so?"

"Yes! And they were impertinent enough to say that I had no longer any reason to be stuck up...."

"Proud, old girl!"

"They said stuck up. Personally I should never have condescended to make use of such an expression."

"What did you say? I expect you gave them a piece of your mind?"

"You may depend on that! The old lady threatened never again to cross our threshold."

"Did she really? Do you think she meant it?"

"No, I don't! But I'm certain that the old man...."

"You shouldn't speak of your father in that tone! Supposing somebody heard you!"

"Do you think I should run that risk? However, the old man—between you and me—will never come here again."

Falk pondered; after a while he resumed the conversation.

"Is your mother proud? Is she easily hurt? I'm always so afraid of hurting people's feelings, as you know; you ought to tell me about her weak points, so that I can take care."

"You ask me whether she is proud? You know; she is, in her own way. Supposing, for instance, she was told that we had given a dinner-party without asking her and my sisters, she would never come here again."

"Wouldn't she really?"

"You may depend upon it."

"It's extraordinary that people of her class——"

"What's that?"

"Oh, nothing; women are so sensitive! How's your association getting on? What did you call it?"

"The Association for the Promotion of Women's Rights."

"What rights do you mean?"

"The wife shall have the right of disposing of her own property."

"Hasn't she got it already?"

"No, she hasn't."

"May I ask what your property is of which you are not allowed to dispose?"

"Half of your's, old man! My dowry."

"The devil! Who taught you such rubbish?"

"It's not rubbish; it's the spirit of the age, my dear. The new law should read like this: 'When a woman marries she becomes the owner of half her husband's property, and of this half she can dispose as she likes.'"

"And when she has run through it, the husband will have to keep her! I should take jolly good care not to."

"Under the new law you would be forced to do so, or go to the poor-house. This would be the penalty for a man who doesn't keep his wife."

"Take care! You are going too far! But, have you any meetings? Who were the women present? Tell me?"

"We are still busy with the statutes, with the preliminaries."

"But who are the women?"

"At present only Mrs. Homan, the controller's wife, and Lady Rehnhjelm."

"Rehnhjelm? A very good name! I think I've heard it before. But didn't you tell me you were going to float a Dorcas Society as well?"

"Found a Dorcas Society! Oh, yes, and what d'you think? Pastor Skore is coming one evening to read a paper."

"Pastor Skore is an excellent preacher and moves in good society. I'm glad that you're keeping away from the lower classes. There's nothing so fatal to man or woman as to form low connexions. My father always said that; it was one of his strictest principles."

Mrs. Falk picked up the bread-crumbs from the tablecloth and dropped them into her empty cup. Mr. Falk put his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a tooth-pick with which he removed some tiny atoms of coffee grounds lodged between his teeth.

Husband and wife felt self-conscious in each other's company. Each guessed the thoughts of the other, and both realized that the first who broke the silence would say something foolish and compromising. They cast about for fresh subjects of conversation, mentally examined them and found them unsuitable; every one of them had some connexion with what had been said, or could be brought into connexion with it. Falk would have liked to have reason for finding fault with the breakfast, so as to have an excuse for expressing indignation; Mrs. Falk looked out of the window, feebly hoping that there might be a change in the weather—in vain.

A maid-servant entered and saved the situation by offering them a tray with the newspapers, at the same time announcing Mr. Levin.

"Ask him to wait," said the master curtly.

For a few moments his boots squeaked up and down the room, preparing the visitor who was waiting in the corridor for his arrival.

The trembling Levin, greatly impressed by the newly invented waiting in the corridor, was ultimately conducted into the master's private room, where he was received like a petitioner.

"Have you brought the bill of exchange with you?" asked Falk.

"I think so," replied the crestfallen Levin, producing a bundle of guarantees and blank bills of various values. "Which bank do you prefer? I have bills on all with the exception of one."

In spite of the grave character of the situation Falk could not help smiling as he looked at the incomplete guarantees on which the name was missing; the bills fully filled up with the exception of an acceptor's name, and those completely filled up, which had not been accepted.

"Let's say the Ropemakers' Bank," he said.

"That's the one impossible one—I'm known there."

"Well, the Shoemakers' Bank, the Tailors' Bank, any one you like, only do be quick about it."

They finally accepted the Joiners' Bank.

"And now," said Falk, with a look as if he had bought the other's soul, "now you had better go and order a new suit; but I want you to order it at a military tailor's, so that they will supply you later on with a uniform on credit."

"Uniform? I don't want——"

"Hold your tongue, and do as you are told! It must be finished on Thursday next, when I'm going to give a big party. As you know, I've sold my shop and warehouse, and to-morrow I shall receive the freedom of the city as a wholesale merchant."

"Oh! I congratulate you!"

"Hold your tongue when I'm speaking! You must go and pay a call now. With your deceitful ways, your unrivalled capacity for talking nonsense, you have succeeded in winning the good graces of my mother-in-law. I want you to ask her what she thought of the party I gave on Sunday last."

"Did you...."

"Hold your tongue and do as I tell you! She'll be jealous and ask you whether you were present. Of course you weren't, for there was no party. You'll both express discontent, become good friends and slander me; I know you're an expert at it. But you must praise my wife. Do you understand?"

"No; not quite."

"Well, it's not necessary that you should; all you've got to do is to carry out my orders. Another thing—tell Nyström that I've grown so proud that I don't want to have anything more to do with him. Tell him that straight out; you'll be speaking the truth for once! No! Hold on! We'll postpone that! You'll go to him, speak of the importance of next Thursday; paint for him the great advantages, the many benefits, the brilliant prospects, and so on. You understand me!"

"I understand."

"Then you take the manuscript to the printers' and—then...."

"We'll kick him out!"

"If you like to call it that, I have no objection."

"And am I to read the verses to your guests and distribute them?"

"Hm—yes! And another thing! Try to meet my brother; find out all you can about his circumstances and friends! Make up to him, worm yourself into his confidence—the latter's an easy job—become his friend! Tell him that I've cheated him, tell him that I am proud, and ask him how much he'll take for changing his name."

A tinge of green, representing a blush, spread over Levin's pale face.

"That's ugly," he said.

"What? And besides—one thing more! I'm a business man and I like order in all my transactions. I guarantee such and such a sum; I must pay it—that's clear!"

"Oh, no!"

"Don't talk rubbish! I have no security in case of death. Just sign this bond made out to the holder and payable at sight. It's merely a formality."

At the word holder a slight tremor shook Levin's body, and he seized the pen hesitatingly, although he well knew that retreat was impossible. In imagination he saw a row of shabby, spectacled men, carrying canes in their hands, their breast-pockets bulging with stamped documents; he heard knocking at doors, running on stairs, summonses, threats, respite; he heard the clock on the town hall striking as the men shouldered their canes and led him—with clogged feet—to the place of execution, where he himself was finally released, but where his honour as a citizen fell under the executioner's axe amid the delighted shouts of the crowd. He signed. The audience was over.

CHAPTER X

THE NEWSPAPER SYNDICATE "GREY BONNET"

For forty years Sweden had worked for the right which every man obtains when he comes of age. Pamphlets had been written, newspapers founded, stones thrown, suppers eaten and speeches made; meetings had been held, petitions had been presented, the railways had been used, hands had been pressed, volunteer regiments had been formed; and so, in the end, with a great deal of noise, the desired object had been attained. Enthusiasm was great and justifiable. The old birchwood tables at the Opera Restaurant were transformed into political tribunes; the fumes of the reform-punch attracted many a politician, who, later on, became a great screamer; the smell of reform cigars excited many an ambitious dream which was never realized; the old dust was washed off with reform soap; it was generally believed that everything would be right now; and after the tremendous uproar the country lay down and fell asleep, confidently awaiting the brilliant results which were to be the outcome of all this fuss.

It slept for a few years, and when it awoke it was faced by a reality which suggested a miscalculation. There were murmurs here and there; the statesmen who had recently been lauded to the skies were now criticized. There were even, among the students, some who discovered that the whole movement had originated in a country which stood in very close relationship to the promoter of the Bill, and that the original could be found in a well-known handbook. But enough of it! Characteristic of these days was a certain embarrassment which soon took the form of universal discontent or, as it was called, opposition. But it was a new kind of opposition; it was not, as is generally the case, directed against the Government, but against Parliament. It was a Conservative opposition including Liberals as well as Conservatives, young men as well as old; there was much misery in the country.

Now it happened that the newspaper syndicate Grey Bonnet, born and grown up under Liberal auspices, fell asleep when it was called upon to defend unpopular views—if one may speak of the views of a syndicate. The directors proposed at the General Meeting that certain opinions should be changed, as they had the effect of decreasing the number of subscribers, necessary to the continuance of the enterprise. The General Meeting agreed to the proposition, and the Grey Bonnet became a Conservative paper. But there was a but, although it must be confessed that it did not greatly embarrass the syndicate; it was necessary to have a new chief editor to save the syndicate from ridicule; that no change need be made so far as the invisible editorial staff was concerned, went without saying. The chief editor, a man of honour, tendered his resignation. The editorial management, which had long been abused on account of its red colour, accepted it with pleasure, hoping thereby, without further trouble, to take rank as a better class paper. There only remained the necessity of finding a new chief editor. In accordance with the new programme of the syndicate, he would have to possess the following qualifications: he must be known as a perfectly trustworthy citizen; must belong to the official class; must possess a title, usurped or won, which could be elaborated if necessity arose. In addition to this he must be of good appearance, so that one could show him off at festivals and on other public occasions; he must be dependent; a little stupid, because true stupidity always goes hand in hand with Conservative leanings; he must be endowed with a certain amount of shrewdness, which would enable him to know intuitively the wishes of his chiefs and never let him forget that public and private welfare are, rightly understood, one and the same thing. At the same time he must not be too young, because an older man is more easily managed; and finally, he must be married, for the syndicate, which consisted of business men, knew perfectly well that married slaves are more amenable than unmarried ones.

The individual was discovered, and he was to a high degree endowed with all the characteristics enumerated. He was a strikingly handsome man with a fairly fine figure and a long, wavy beard, hiding all the weak points of his face, which otherwise would have given him away. His large, full, deceitful eyes caught the casual observer and inspired his confidence, which was then unscrupulously abused. His somewhat veiled voice, always speaking words of love, of peace, of honour and above all of patriotism, beguiled many a misguided listener, and brought him to the punch table where the excellent man spent his evenings, preaching straightforwardness and love of the Mother Country.

The influence which this man of honour exerted on his evil environment was marvellous; it could not be seen, but it could be heard. The whole pack, which for years had been let loose on everything time-honoured and venerable, which had not even let alone the higher things, was now restrained and full of love—not only for its old friends—was now—and not merely in its heart—moral and straightforward. They carried out in every detail the programme drawn up by the new editor on his accession, the cardinal points of which, expressed in a few words, were: to persecute all good ideas if they were new, to fight for and uphold all bad ones if they were old, to grovel before those in power, to extol all those on whom fortune was smiling, to push down all those who strove to rise, to adore success and abuse misfortune. Freely translated the programme read: to acknowledge and cheer only the tested and admittedly good, to work against the mania of innovation, and to persecute severely, but justly, everybody who was trying to get on by dishonest means, for honest work only should be crowned with success.

The secret of the last clause which the editorial staff had principally at heart was not difficult to discover. The staff consisted entirely of people whose hopes had been disappointed in one way or another; in most cases by their own fault—through drinking and recklessness. Some of them were "college geniuses," who in the past had enjoyed a great reputation as singers, speakers, poets or wits, and had then justly—or according to them unjustly—been forgotten. During a number of years it had been their business to praise and promote, frequently against their own inclination, everything that was new, all the enterprises started by reformers; it was, therefore, not strange that now they seized the opportunity to attack—under the most honourable pretexts—everything new, good or bad.

The chief editor in particular was great in tracking humbug and dishonesty. Whenever a delegate opposed a Bill which tended to injure the interests of the country for the sake of the party, he was immediately taken to task and called a humbug, trying to be original, longing for a ministerial dress-coat; he did not say portfolio, for he always thought of clothes first. Politics, however, was not his strong, or rather his weak point, but literature. In days long past, on the occasion of the Old Norse Festival at Upsala, he had proposed a toast in verse on woman, and thereby furnished an important contribution to the literature of the world; it was printed in as many provincial papers as the author considered necessary for his immortality. This had made him a poet, and when he had taken his degrees, he bought a second-class ticket to Stockholm, in order to make his début in the world and receive his due. Unfortunately the Stockholmers do not read provincial papers. The young man was unknown and his talent was not appreciated. As he was a shrewd man—his small brain had never been exuberantly imaginative—he concealed his wound and allowed it to become the secret of his life.

The bitterness engendered by the fact that his honest work, as he called it, remained unrewarded specially qualified him for the post of a literary censor; but he did not write himself: his position did not allow him to indulge in efforts of his own, and he preferred leaving it to the reviewer who criticized everybody's work justly and with inflexible severity. The reviewer had written poetry for the last sixteen years under a pseudonym. Nobody had ever read his verses and nobody had taken the trouble to discover the author's real name. But every Christmas his verses were exhumed and praised in the Grey Bonnet, by a third party, of course, who signed his article so that the public should not suspect that the author had written it himself—it was taken for granted that the author was known to the public. In the seventeenth year, the author considered it advisable to put his name to a new book—a new edition of an old one. As misfortune would have it, the Red Cap, the whole staff of which was composed of young people who had never heard the real name, treated the author as a beginner, and expressed astonishment, not only that a young writer should put his name to his first book, but also that a young man's book could be so monotonous and old-fashioned. This was a hard blow; the old "pseudonymus" fell ill with fever, but recovered after having been brilliantly rehabilitated by the Grey Bonnet; the latter went for the whole reading public in a lump, charging it with being immoral and dishonest, unable to appreciate an honest, sound, and moral book which could safely be put into the hands of a child. A comic paper made fun of the last point, so that the "pseudonymus" had a relapse, and, on his second recovery, vowed annihilation to all native literature which might appear in future; it did, however, not apply to quite all native literature, for a shrewd observer would have noticed that the Grey Bonnet frequently praised bad books; true, it was often done lamely and in terms which could be read in two ways. The same shrewd observer could have noticed that the miserable stuff in question was always published by the same firm; but this did not necessarily imply that the reviewer was influenced by extraneous circumstances, such as little lunches, for instance; he and the whole editorial staff were upright men who would surely not have dared to judge others with so much severity if they themselves had not been men of irreproachable character.

Another important member of the staff was the dramatic critic. He had received his education and qualified at a recruiting bureau in X-köping; had fallen in love with a "star" who was only a "star" in X-köping. As he was not sufficiently enlightened to differentiate between a private opinion and a universal verdict, it happened to him when he was for the first time let loose in the columns of the Grey Bonnet that he slated the greatest actress in Sweden, and maintained that she copied Miss——, whatever her name was. That it was done very clumsily goes without saying, and also that it happened before the Grey Bonnet had veered round. All this made his name detested and despised; but still, he had a name, and that compensated him for the indignation he excited. One of his cardinal points, although not at once appreciated, was his deafness. Several years went by before it was discovered, and even then nobody could tell whether or no it had any connexion with a certain encounter, caused by one of his notices, in the foyer of the Opera House, one evening after the lights had been turned down. After this encounter he tested the strength of his arm only on quite young people; and anybody familiar with the circumstances could tell by his critique when he had had an accident in the wings, for the conceited provincial had read somewhere the unreliable statement that Stockholm was another Paris, and had believed it.

The art critic was an old academician who had never held a brush in his hand, but was a member of the brilliant artists club "Minerva," a fact which enabled him to describe works of art in the columns of his paper before they were finished, thereby saving the reader the trouble of forming an opinion of his own. He was invariably kind to his acquaintances, and in criticizing an exhibition never forgot to mention every single one of them. His practice, of many years' standing, of saying something pretty about everybody—and how would he have dared to do otherwise—made it child's play to him to mention twenty names in half a column; in reading his reviews one could not help thinking of the popular game "pictures and devices." But the young artists he always conscientiously forgot, so that the public, which, for ten years had heard none but the old names, began to despair of the future of art. One exception, however, he had made, and made quite recently, in an unpropitious hour; and in consequence of this exception there was great excitement one morning in the editorial office of the Grey Bonnet.

What had occurred was this: Sellén—the reader may remember this insignificant name mentioned on a former, and not a particularly important occasion—had arrived with his picture at the exhibition at the very last moment. When it had been hung—in the worst possible place—for the artist was neither a member of the Academy nor did he possess the royal medal—the "professor of Charles IX" arrived; he had been given this nickname because he never painted anything but scenes from the life of Charles IX; the reason again for this was that a long time ago he had bought at an auction a wine glass, a tablecloth, a chair, and a parchment from the period of Charles IX; these objects he had painted for twenty years, sometimes with, sometimes without, the king. But he was a professor now and a knight of many orders, and so there was no help for it. He was with the academician when his eye fell on the silent man of the opposition and his picture.

"Here again, sir?" He put up his pince-nez. "And this, then, is the new style! Hm! Let me tell you, sir! Believe the word of an old man: take that picture away! Take it away! It makes me sick to look at it. You do yourself the greatest service if you take it away. What do you say, old fellow?"

The old fellow said that the exhibition of such a picture was an impertinence, and that if the gentleman would take his kindly meant advice, he would change his profession and become a sign-board painter.

Sellén replied mildly, but shrewdly, that there were so many able people in that profession, that he had chosen an artistic career where success could be obtained far more easily, as had been proved.

The professor was furious at this insolence; he turned his back on the contrite Sellén with a threat which the academician translated into a promise.

The enlightened Committee of Purchases had met—behind closed doors. When the doors were opened again, six pictures had been bought for the money subscribed by the public for the purpose of encouraging native artists. The excerpt from the minutes which found its way into the columns of the newspapers, was worded as follows:

"The Art Union yesterday bought the following pictures: (1) 'Water with Oxen,' landscape by the wholesale merchant K. (2) 'Gustavus Adolphus at the Fire of Magdeburg,' historical painting by the linen draper L. (3) 'A Child blowing its Nose,' genre-picture by lieutenant M. (4) 'S. S. Bore in the Harbour,' marine picture by the shipbroker N. (5) 'Sylvan Scene with Women,' landscape by the royal secretary O. (6) 'Chicken with Mushrooms,' still-life by the actor P."

These works of art, which cost a thousand pounds each on an average, were afterwards praised in the Grey Bonnet in two three-quarter columns at fifteen crowns each; that was nothing extraordinary, but the critic, partly in order to fill up the space, and partly in order to seize the right moment for suppressing a growing evil, attacked a bad custom which was beginning to creep in. He referred to the fact that young, unknown adventurers, who had run away from the academy without study, were trying to pervert the sound judgment of the public by a mere running after effect. And then Sellén was taken by the ears and flogged, so that even his enemies found that his treatment was unfair—and that means a great deal. Not only was he denied every trace of talent and his art called humbug; even his private circumstances were dragged before the public; the article hinted at cheap restaurants where he was obliged to dine; at the shabby clothes he was forced to wear; at his loose morals, his idleness; it concluded by prophesying in the name of religion and morality that he would end his days in a public institution unless he mended his ways while there was yet time.

It was a disgraceful act, committed in indifference and selfishness; and it was little less than a miracle that a soul was not lost on the night of the publication of that particular number of the Grey Bonnet.

Twenty-four hours later the Incorruptible appeared. It reflected on the way in which public moneys were administered by a certain clique, and mentioned the fact that at the last purchase of pictures, not a single one had been bought which had been painted by an artist, but that the perpetrators had been officials and tradesmen, impudent enough to compete with the artists, although the latter had no other market; it went on to say that these pirates lowered the standard and demoralized the artists, whose sole endeavour would have to be to paint as badly as they did if they did not want to starve. Then Sellén's name was mentioned. His picture was the first soulfully conceived work within the last ten years. For ten years art had been a mere affair of colours and brushes; Sellén's picture was an honest piece of work, full of inspiration and devotion, and entirely original; a picture which could only have been produced by an artist who had met the spirit of nature face to face. The critic enjoined the young artist to fight against the ancients, whom he had already left a long way behind, and exhorted him to have faith and hope, because he had a mission to fulfil, etc.

The Grey Bonnet foamed with rage.

"You'll see that that fellow will have success!" exclaimed the chief editor. "Why the devil did we slate him quite so much! Supposing he became a success now! We should cover ourselves with ridicule."

The academician vowed that he should not have any success, went home with a troubled heart, referred to his books and wrote an essay in which he proved that Sellén's art was humbug, and that the Incorruptible had been corrupted.

The Grey Bonnet drew a breath of relief, but immediately afterwards it received a fresh blow.

On the following day the morning papers announced the fact that his Majesty had bought Sellén's "masterly landscape which, for days, had drawn a large public to the Exhibition."

The Grey Bonnet received the full fury of the gale; it was tossed hither and thither, and fluttered like a rag on a pole. Should they veer round or steer ahead? Both paper and critic were involved. The chief editor decided, by order of the managing director, to sacrifice the critic and save the paper. But how was it to be done? In their extremity they remembered Struve. He was a man completely at home in the maze of publicity. He was sent for. The situation was clear to him in a moment, and he promised that in a very few days the barge should be able to tack.

To understand Struve's scheme, it is necessary to know the most important data of his biography. He was a "born student," driven to journalism by sheer poverty. He started his career as editor of the Socialist People's Flag. Next he belonged to the Conservative Peasants' Scourge, but when the latter removed to the provinces with inventory, printing plant and editor, the name was changed into Peasants' Friend, and its politics changed accordingly. Struve was sold to the Red Cap, where his knowledge of all the Conservative tricks stood him in good stead; in the same way his greatest merit in the eyes of the Grey Bonnet was his knowledge of all the secrets of their deadly foe, the Red Cap, and his readiness to abuse his knowledge of them.

Struve began the work of whitewashing by starting a correspondence in the People's Flag; a few lines of this, mentioning the rush of visitors to the Exhibition, were reprinted in the Grey Bonnet. Next there appeared in the Grey Bonnet an attack on the academician; this attack was followed by a few reassuring words signed "The Ed." which read as follows: "Although we never shared the opinion of our art critic with regard to Mr. Sellén's justly praised landscape, yet we cannot altogether agree with the judgment of our respected correspondent; but as, on principle, we open our columns to all opinions, we unhesitatingly printed the above article."

The ice was broken. Struve, who had the reputation of having written on every subject—except cufic coins—now wrote a brilliant critique of Sellén's picture and signed it very characteristically Dixi. The Grey Bonnet was saved; and so, of course, was Sellén; but the latter was of minor importance.

CHAPTER XI

HAPPY PEOPLE

It was seven o'clock in the evening. The band at Berns' was playing the Wedding March from "A Midsummer Night's Dream," when to the accompaniment of its inspiriting strains Olle Montanus made his entry into the Red Room. None of the members had yet arrived. Olle looked imposing. For the first time since his confirmation he was wearing a high hat. He was dressed in a new suit, and his boots were without holes; he had had a bath, had been newly shaved, and his hair was waved as if he were going to a wedding. A heavy brass chain ornamented his waistcoat, and his left waistcoat pocket bulged visibly. A sunny smile lit up his features; he radiated kindness; one might have thought that he wanted to help all the world with little loans. Taking off his overcoat, no longer cautiously buttoned up, he took the centre of the sofa in the background, opened his coat and tugged at his white shirt front so that it rose with a crackle and stood out like an arch; at every movement the lining of his waistcoat and trousers creaked. This seemed to give him as much pleasure as the knocking of his boot against the leg of the sofa. He pulled out his watch, his dear old turnip, which for a year and a month's grace had been in the pawnbroker's hands, and the two old friends both seemed to enjoy its liberty.

What had happened that this poor fellow should be so inexpressibly happy? We know that he had not drawn the winner in a lottery, that he had not inherited a fortune, that he had not been "honourably mentioned," that he had not won the sweet happiness which baffles description. What had happened then? Something very commonplace: he had found work.

Sellén was the next to arrive. He wore a velvet jacket and patent-leather boots; he carried a rug, a field-glass on a strap, and a cane; a yellow silk handkerchief was knotted round his throat; his hands were covered by flesh-coloured gloves and a flower blossomed in his buttonhole. He was, as usual, cheerful and calm; his lean, intelligent face betrayed no trace of the emotions undergone during the last few days.

Sellén was accompanied by Rehnhjelm; the lad was unusually subdued; he knew that his friend and patron was leaving him.

"Hallo! Sellén," said Olle, "you are happy at last, aren't you, old chap?"

"Happy? What nonsense you are talking! I've sold a piece of work! The first in five years! Is that so overwhelming?"

"But you must have read the papers! Your name's made!"

"Oh! I don't care the toss of a button for that! Don't imagine that I care for such trifles. I know exactly how much I still have to learn before I shall be anybody. Let's talk of it again in ten years' time, Olle."

Olle believed half of what Sellén said and doubted the rest; his shirt front crackled and the lining creaked so that Sellén's attention was aroused.

"By the Lord Harry!" he burst out, "you are magnificent!"

"Think so? You look like a lion."

Sellén rapped his patent-leather boots with his cane, shyly smelt the flower in his buttonhole, and looked indifferent. Olle pulled out his watch to see whether it was not yet time for Lundell to arrive, which gave Sellén an opportunity of sweeping the galleries with his field-glass. Olle was permitted to feel the soft texture of the velvet coat, while Sellén assured him that it was an exceptionally good quality at the price; Olle could not resist asking the cost. Sellén told him, and admired Olle's studs, which were made of shells.

Presently Lundell appeared; he, too, had been given a bone at the great banquet; he was commissioned to paint the altar-piece for the church of Träskola for a small sum; but this had not visibly affected his outward appearance, unless, indeed, his fat cheeks and beaming face hinted at a more generous diet.

Falk was with Lundell. He was grave, but he rejoiced, in the name of the whole world sincerely rejoiced, that merit had found its just reward.

"Congratulations, Sellén!" he said, "but it's no more than your due."

Sellén agreed.

"I have been painting just as well these last five years and all the world has jeered; they were still jeering the day before yesterday, but now! It's disgusting! Look at this letter which I received from the idiot, the professor of Charles IX!"

All eyes opened wide and became keen, for it is gratifying to examine the oppressor closely, have him—on paper at least—in one's hands, at one's mercy.

"'My dear Mr. Sellén,'—Fancy that!—'Let me welcome you among us'—he's afraid of me, the blackguard—'I have always appreciated your talent'—the liar!—let's tear up the rag and forget all about him."

Sellén invited his friends to drink; he drank to Falk, and hoped that his pen would soon bring him to the front. Falk became self-conscious, blushed and promised to do his best when his time came; but he was afraid that his apprenticeship would be a long one, and he begged his friends not to lose patience with him if he tarried; he thanked Sellén for his friendship, which had taught him endurance and renunciation. Sellén begged him not to talk nonsense; where was the merit of endurance when there was no other alternative? And where was the virtue in renouncing what one had no chance of obtaining?

But Olle smiled a kindly smile, and his shirt front swelled with pleasure, so that the red braces could be plainly seen; he drank to Lundell and implored him to take an example from Sellén, and not forget the Land of Promise in lingering over the fleshpots of Egypt. He assured him that his friend, Olle, believed in his talent, that was to say, when he was himself and painted according to his own light; but whenever he humbugged and painted to please others he was worse than the rest; therefore he should look upon the altar-piece as a pot boiler which would put him into a position to follow his own inspiration in art.

Falk tried to seize the opportunity of finding out what Olle thought of himself and his own art, a puzzle which he had long vainly attempted to solve, when Ygberg walked into the Red Room. Everybody eagerly invited him to be his guest, for he had been forgotten during the last hot days, and everyone was anxious to show him that it had not been out of selfishness. But Olle searched in his right waistcoat pocket, and with a movement which he was anxious to hide from all eyes he slipped a rolled-up banknote into Ygberg's coat pocket; the latter understood and acknowledged it by a grateful look.

Ygberg drank to Sellén; he said that one might consider, in one way, that Sellén's fortune was made; but, on the other hand, one might consider, with equal justification, that it was not so. Sellén was not sufficiently developed; he still wanted many years' study, for art was long, as he, Ygberg, had himself experienced. He had had nothing but ill-luck, therefore nobody could suspect him of envying a man of Sellén's reputation.

The envy which peered through Ygberg's words slightly clouded the sunny sky; but it was only for a moment, for everybody realized that the bitterness of a long, wasted life, must be held responsible for it.

All the more gladly Ygberg handed Falk a small newly printed essay, on the cover of which he beheld with consternation the black portrait of Ulrica Eleonora. Ygberg stated that he had delivered the manuscript on the day stipulated. Smith had taken Falk's refusal with the greatest calm, and was now printing Falk's poems.

To Falk's eyes the gas-jets lost their brilliancy; he sat plunged in deep thought; his heart was too full to find vent in words. His poems were to be printed at Smith's expense. This was proof that they were not without merit! The thought was sufficient food for the whole evening.

The evening passed quickly for the happy circle; the band ceased playing and the light was turned out; they were obliged to leave, but, finding the night far too young for breaking up, they strolled along the quays, amid endless conversation and philosophical discussions, until they were tired and thirsty. Lundell offered to take his friends to see Marie, where they could have some beer.

They turned towards the north and came to a street which gave on a fence; the fence enclosed a tobacco field, bordering on the open country. They stopped before a two-storied brick-house with a gable facing the street. From above the door grinned two sandstone faces whose ears and shins were lost in fantastic scrolls. Between the heads hung a sword and an axe. It was formerly the house of the executioner.

Lundell, apparently quite familiar with the neighbourhood, gave a signal before one of the windows on the ground floor; the blind was drawn up; the window opened, and a woman's head looked out; a voice asked whether the caller was Albert? No sooner had Lundell owned to this, his nom de guerre, than a girl opened the door and, on the promise of silence, admitted the party. As the promise was readily given, the Red Room was soon in her apartment, and introduced to her under fictitious names.

The room was not a large one; it had once been the kitchen, and the range was still standing in its place. The furniture consisted of a chest of drawers, of a pattern usually found in servants' rooms; on the drawers stood a looking-glass, swathed in a piece of white muslin; above the glass hung a coloured lithograph, representing the Saviour on the Cross. The chest was littered with small china figures, scent bottles, a prayer book, and an ash tray, and with its looking-glass and two lighted tallow candles seemed to form a little house altar. Charles XV, surrounded by newspaper cuttings, mostly representing police constables, those enemies of the Magdalenes, was riding on horseback on the wall above the folding sofa, which had not yet been converted into a bed. On the window-sill stood a stunted fuchsia, a geranium and a myrtle—the proud tree of Aphrodite in the poor dwelling. A photograph album lay on the work-table. On the first leaf was a picture of the King, on the second and third papa and mamma—poor country folk; on the fourth a student, the seducer; on the fifth, a baby; and on the sixth the fiancé, a journeyman. This was her history, so like the history of most of them. On a nail, close to the range, hung an elegant dress, a velvet cloak, and a hat with feathers—the fairy disguise in which she went out to catch young men. The fairy herself was a tall, ordinary looking young woman of twenty-four. Recklessness and vigils had given her face that white transparency which as a rule distinguishes the untoiling rich, but her hands still showed traces of hard work. In her pretty dressing-gown, with her flowing hair down her back, she was the picture of a Magdalene; her manner was comparatively shy, but she was merry and courteous and on her best behaviour.

The party split up into groups, continued the interrupted discussions and started fresh ones. Falk, who now looked upon himself as a poet and was determined to be interested in everything—be it ever so banal—began a sentimental conversation with Marie, which she greatly enjoyed, for she appreciated the honour of being treated like a human being. As usual the talk drifted to her story and the motives which had shaped her career. She did not lay stress on her first slip, "that was hardly worth speaking about"; but all the blacker was her account of the time she had spent as a servant, leading the life of a slave, made miserable by the whims and scoldings of an indolent mistress, a life of never-ending toil. No, the free life she was leading now was far preferable.

"But when you are tired of it?"

"Then I shall marry Vestergren."

"Does he want you?"

"He's looking forward to the day; moreover, I am going to open a little shop with the money I have saved. But so many have asked me that question: 'Have you got any cigars?'"

"Oh, yes; here you are! But do you mind my talking about it?"

He took the album and pointed out the student—it is always a student, with a white handkerchief round his neck, a white student's hat on his knees, and a gauche manner, who plays Mephisto.

"Who is this?"

"He was a nice fellow."

"The seducer? What?"

"Oh! let it alone! I was every bit as much to blame, and it is always so, my dear; both are to blame! Look, this is my baby. The Lord took it, and I dare say it was for the best. But now let's talk about something else. Who is that gay dog whom Albert has brought here to-night? The one closest to the stove, by the side of the tall one, whose head reaches up to the chimney?"

Olle, very much flattered by her attention, patted his wavy hair which, after the many libations, was beginning to stand up again.

"That is assistant preacher Monsson," said Lundell.

"Ugh! A clergyman! I might have known it from the cunning look in his eyes. Do you know that a clergyman came here last week? Come here, Monsson, and let me look at you!"

Olle descended from his seat where he and Ygberg had been criticizing Kant's Categorical Imperative. He was so accustomed to exciting the curiosity of the sex that he immediately felt younger; he lurched towards the lady whom he had already ogled and found charming. Twirling his moustache, he asked in an affected voice, with a bow which he had not learned at a dancing class:

"Do you really think, miss, that I look like a clergyman?"

"No, I see now that you have a moustache; your clothes are too clean for an artisan—may I see your hand—oh! you are a smith!"

Olle was deeply hurt.

"Am I so very ugly, miss?" he asked pathetically.

Marie examined him for a moment.

"You are very plain," she said, "but you look nice."

"Oh, dear lady, if you only knew how you are hurting me! I have never yet found a woman ready to love me, and yet I have met so many who found happiness although they were plainer than I am. But woman is a cursed riddle, which nobody can solve; I detest her."

"That's right, Olle," came a voice from the chimney, where Ygberg's head was; "that's all right."

Olle was going back to the stove, but he had touched on a topic which interested Marie too much to allow it to drop; he had played on a string the sound of which she knew. She sat down by his side and soon they were deep in a long-winded and grave discussion—on love and women.

Rehnhjelm, who during the whole evening had been more quiet and restrained than usual, and of whom nobody could make anything, suddenly revived and was now sitting in the corner of the sofa near Falk. Obviously something was troubling him, something which he could not make up his mind to mention. He seized his beer-glass, rapped on the table as if he wanted to make a speech, and when those nearest to him looked up ready to listen to him, he said in a tremulous and indifferent voice:

"Gentlemen, you think I am a beast, I know; Falk, I know you think me a fool, but you shall see, friends—the devil take me, you shall see!"

He raised his voice and put his beer-glass down with such determination that it broke in pieces, after which he sank back on the sofa and fell asleep.

This scene, although not an uncommon one, had attracted Marie's attention. She dropped the conversation with Olle, who, moreover, had begun to stray from the purely abstract point of the question and rose.

"Oh! what a pretty boy!" she exclaimed. "How does he come to be with you? Poor little chap! How sleepy he is! I hadn't seen him before."

She pushed a cushion under his head and covered him with a shawl.

"How small his hands are! Far smaller than yours, you country louts! And what a face! How innocent he looks! Albert, did you make him drink so much?"

Whether it had been Lundell or another was a matter of no importance now; the man was drunk. But it also was a fact that he did not need any urging to drink. He was consumed by a constant longing to still an inner restlessness which seemed to drive him away from his work.

The remarks made by his pretty friend had not perturbed Lundell; but now his increasing intoxication excited his religious feelings, which had been blunted by a luxurious supper. And as the intoxication began to be general, he felt it incumbent on him to remind his companions of the significance of the day and the impending leave-taking. He rose, filled his glass, steadied himself against the chest of drawers and claimed the attention of the party.

"Gentlemen,"—he remembered Magdalene's presence—"and ladies! We have eaten and drunk to-night with—to come to the point—an intent which, if we set aside the material which is nothing but the low, sensual animal component of our nature—that in a moment like this when the hour of parting is imminent—we have here a distressing example of the vice which we call drunkenness! Doubtless, it arouses all one's religious emotion if, after an evening spent in a circle of friends, one feels moved to propose a glass to him who has shown more than ordinary talent—I am speaking of Sellén—one should think that self-respect should to a certain extent prevail. Such an example, I maintain, has been manifested here, in higher potency, and therefore I am reminded of the beautiful words which will never cease ringing in my ears as long as I am able to think, and I am convinced they are now in the mind of each one of us, although this spot is anything but suitable. This young man, who has fallen a victim to the vice which we will call drunkenness, has unfortunately crept into our circle and—to cut my speech short—matured a sadder result than anybody could have expected. Your health, noble friend Sellén! I wish you all the happiness which your noble heart deserves! Your health, Olle Montanus! Falk, too, has a noble heart, and will come to the front when his religious sense has acquired the vigour which his character foreshadows. I won't mention Ygberg, for he has at last come to a decision, and we wish him luck in the career upon which he has so splendidly entered—the philosophical career. It is a difficult one, and I repeat the words of the psalmist: Who can tell? At the same time we have every reason to hope for the best in the future, and I believe that we can count on it as long as our sentiments are noble and our hearts are not striving for worldly gain; for, gentlemen, a man without religion is a beast. I therefore ask every gentleman here present to raise his glass and empty it to all that is noble, beautiful, and splendid, and for which we are striving. Your health, gentlemen!"

Religious emotion now overwhelmed Lundell to such a degree that it was thought best to break up the party.

Daylight had been shining through the window-blind for some time and the landscape with the castle and the maiden stood out brilliantly in the first radiance of the morning sun. When the blind was drawn up, day rushed in and illuminated the faces of those nearest the window; they were deadly pale. The red light of the tallow candles fell with magnificent effect on the face of Ygberg, who was sitting on the stove, clutching his glass. Olle was proposing toasts to women, the spring, the sun, the universe, throwing open the window, to give vent to his feelings. The sleepers were roused, the party took their leave of Marie, and filed through the front door.

When they had reached the street, Falk turned round. Magdalene was leaning out of the window; the rays of the sun fell on her pale face; her long, black hair, which shone deep red in the sunlight, seemed to trickle down her throat and over her shoulders and to be falling on the street in little streams. Above her head hung the sword and the axe and the two grinning faces; but in an apple tree on the other side of the road perched a black and white fly-catcher, and sang its frenzied song of joy that the night was over.

CHAPTER XII

MARINE INSURANCE SOCIETY "TRITON"

Levi was a young man born and educated for business and on the point of establishing himself with the assistance of his wealthy father, when the latter died, leaving nothing but a family totally unprovided for.

This was a great disappointment to the young man; he had reached an age when he considered that he might stop working altogether and let others toil for him. He was twenty-five and of good appearance. Broad-shouldered and lean in the flank, his body seemed specially adapted for wearing a frock-coat in the manner which he had much admired in certain foreign diplomatists. Nature had arched his chest in the most elegant fashion, so that he was capable of setting off to the fullest advantage a four-buttoned shirt front, even in the very act of sinking into an easy chair at the foot of a long Board-table occupied by the whole Administrative Committee. A beautiful beard, parted in the middle, gave his young face a sympathetic and trustworthy expression; his small feet were made for walking on the Brussels carpet of a Board-room, and his carefully manicured hands were particularly suitable for very light work, such as the signing of his name, preferably on a printed circular.

In the days which are now called the good days, although in reality they were very bad ones for a good many people, the greatest discovery of a great century was made, namely, that one could live more cheaply and better on other people's money than on the results of one's own efforts. Many, a great many, people had taken advantage of the discovery, and as no patent law protected it, it was not surprising that Levi should be anxious to profit by it, too, more particularly as he had no money himself and no inclination to work for a family which was not his own. He, therefore, put on his best suit one day and called on his uncle Smith.

"Oh, indeed! You have an idea," said Smith, "Let's hear it! It's a good thing to have ideas!"

"I have been thinking of floating a joint stock company."

"Very good. Aaron will be treasurer, Simon secretary, Isaac cashier, and the other boys book-keepers; it's a good idea! Go on! What sort of a company is it going to be?"

"I'm thinking of a marine insurance society."

"Indeed! So far so good; everybody has to insure his property when he goes on a voyage. But your idea?"

"This is my idea."

"I don't think much of it. We have the big society 'Neptune.' It's a good society. Yours would have to be better if you intend to compete with it. What would be the novelty in your society?"

"Oh! I understand! I should reduce the premiums and all the patrons of the 'Neptune' would come to me."