Chapter 6. The Red Room

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_ 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. _

Read next: Chapter 7. The Imitation Of Christ

Read previous: Chapter 5. At The Publisher's

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